17

Lisa

11 December 2018

I turn over in bed and watch as the sky outside the window changes from charcoal to violet to a pale, sickly blue. I spent the night lying in one position, curled up round Joe’s warm body, my head tucked next to his. Now my legs feel numb and stiff, and my eyes sting from lack of sleep. Mark. The name churns round my stomach like a piece of undigested food. Could it have been him at the window last night? I think about what I heard. I’m sure it was a car engine. But if it had been Mark at the window and he’d seen Joe then surely he would have tried to get in?

Without thinking, I reach down and grab my phone from my bag on the floor, forgetting that the battery is dead. I look at the black screen and realize the futility of the phone. What use is it, fully charged or not? I have no one to call, no one to help me.

Beside me, Joe stirs then sits bolt upright in the bed. His hair is matted with sweat. I gently rub his head, glad that he is waking, that I’m no longer alone with my dark thoughts.

‘Good morning, angel,’ I whisper, kissing his forehead. ‘Did you sleep well?’

He looks at me and his face darkens.

‘You go away,’ he snaps, his voice croaky with sleep. ‘I want my daddy.’

He pushes the heavy blankets back, jumps down from the bed and heads for the door.

‘Where are you going?’ I cry, stumbling after him. My legs feel like lead.

‘Want Daddy,’ he calls out from the darkness of the passageway.

‘Daddy’s not there,’ I say, lowering my voice as I reach the hallway, half expecting someone to jump out at me.

Then I hear a noise, a low, persistent thud. I look up and see him. He’s standing at the front door, smacking his head against the frame.

‘Joe, don’t do that,’ I say, rushing to him. ‘You’ll hurt yourself.’

I try to prise him from the door but he elbows me away.

‘Joe, please stop it, darling,’ I say, terrified that he’s going to seriously injure himself.

‘Want Daddy,’ he says as he stops abruptly and slumps on the floor. He looks worn out, defeated somehow.

I crouch down next to him on the floor and stroke his cheek. His skin is soft and warm, just like it was the day he was born. I will never forget the heat that emanated from him as they placed him on my chest. It burned through my skin and in doing so brought back to life something that had been slumbering inside me for so many years. Happiness. Pure, unconditional happiness. The kind I’d had as a child, when I’d sneak into my parents’ bed and curl up behind my mother’s sleeping form. There was no safer or warmer place, as far as I was concerned. I knew that happiness had stayed inside me, waiting to be reclaimed, and as I held my newborn son in my arms that morning I could feel it flooding through my body, nourishing it from within. The rest of that day is a blur to me now, though I vaguely remember Mark telling me to ‘be careful with the baby’s head’ and his bullish mother warning me that I might find breastfeeding an awful bind so ‘it might be best to ask for a couple of bottles of formula just to be safe’. Neither of them trusted me to make my own decisions. But I was so exhausted I didn’t care. And, anyway, I knew I wouldn’t need their advice. Joe was my baby. I knew instinctively what to do. Feed him, change him, comfort him, love him. Now, looking at him with his angry face and folded arms, I feel so removed from him he might as well be a stranger. How has it come to this, that my child, my flesh and blood, is pushing me away?