We bottleneck at the back door. The girls are wearing their best dresses, little white socks, and brand-new shiny, red shoes. Compared to them, everything else seems shabby all of a sudden: the door with its patina of sea salt and a rusty nail ready for a decade’s worth of Christmas wreaths, the dirt and dried leaves that appear after Ruby kicks the “Welcome” mat askew, and the cobwebs over our heads that have accumulated in corners and all around the bulb-less light over the summer months. I would wash the spiders away, but like every other chore, it would need doing again. And again. And again. And again.
“Come on, Mummy. I need the toilet.” Ruby jigs, holding her crotch.
“Hold it in. I can’t get the key. Hang on.”
“Quickly!”
I can’t get the key because the strap of my bag has caught on Henrietta’s leg, who is sitting on my hip with her little arms around my neck, squashing her cheek against mine. She screams whenever I try to put her down.
I am deliberately not looking through the window of the utility room while I struggle with the lock. The laundry mountain looms in there. Every time I imagine that I am finally on top of it, the baskets are overflowing again, the dryer needs emptying again, and shit needs folding and putting away, preferably before it gets worn, again. But more often than not, the pile next to the dryer just gets rummaged through when we’re rushing around in the mornings, and most of our clothes never see the inside of a wardrobe or a drawer. Is that okay? Is that normal?
Their father, married this morning, was excellent at laundry. Meticulous. I ironed three of his work shirts once. He got them out of his side of the walk-in and pressed them all again. His clothes were hung carefully according to colour on his side; all of my clothes were crammed in any-old-how on mine.
Just as I fumble, one-handed, to get the key in the lock, Ruby lets go of her crotch.
“Mummy!” She glowers at me with her father’s eyes as her new shoes and socks are drenched. “That’s your fault!”
Once I have us all fed, bathed, and settled, I unscrew a bottle of cold Chardonnay. I pour a glass – one of my new glasses with the black stems – and I close my eyes as I listen to the glug glug sound. That sound is the first part of drinking that my body reacts to. My shoulders drop as soon as I hear it. The anticipation of sedative. I down half of it in one, then top it up before looking into the lounge at the girls. They’re fine. They’re curled up amongst cushions on the sofa watching Hercules.
I reach for my phone and begin to compose a text. To him. Not their dad; that was dead a long time ago. Before Henrietta really. She was a last ditch effort to keep it together. I’m glad she happened, but it was foolish.
I thumb: Thanks for today. It would have been a real struggle without you. I never use abbreviations – could be construed as incompetence. I’m incompetent at enough aspects of life without people thinking I can’t spell.
I know I will have to wait for a response. I’ve been making a fool of myself over Chris for about a year. Tall, artistic, charismatic, sexy – I thought I’d fallen in love with him on our first date at The Dowse Art Museum, but the truth is more complicated than that. I don’t really know what I feel. Desire, for sure. I certainly feel desire. But love? Is this love, or just me wanting something I can’t have?
Imagine, if you will, a cliff. A little one, though, about as big as a table. Okay, imagine a table. The table is called “Falling in Love with Chris”. I am standing on the table. My arms are stretched out and my toes are nudging over the edge, and I’m about to fall. I want to fall. I want to be the one who loves him. But standing underneath me, in front of the table, is Chris, wearing jeans and his sexy black shirt, arms outstretched, holding me off. He’s the one stopping me from falling. He doesn’t want me to. He doesn’t want me, too.
Chris is uncharacteristically quick with a reply: No problem. You did well :)
He’d gone with me to the wedding. He even squeezed my hand at one point. We didn’t stay for the reception; the ceremony was uncomfortable enough. It was a little bit like watching two cars heading off on the motorway at full speed, and you know it’s going to end with a fatal pile-up, but you can’t do anything to prevent it. The girls loved it though, and that’s the main thing. They fluffed about the flowered chapel in their pretty dresses getting cuddles. It wore them out, and now they both stare at the television in their pyjamas. It is bedtime soon. Blessed quiet.
Patricia rings. It makes me jump as I’m holding the phone. I let it ring for a minute, listening to my new Back in Blackringtone. It doesn’t take her long to get to the point.
“Darling! I’ve found the perfect fella for you.”
“Oh God.”
“He’s perfect, honestly. Just the loveliest man.”
“I’ve kinda sorta got one already.”
“Exactly. Kinda sorta isn’t good enough, is it?’
“Well, I just don’t want anyone else.” There is silence for a moment, and I know what’s coming: The Chris Lecture.
“You deserve better, blah blah, he’s a jerk, blah blah, messing you around, blah blah, his blow-up doll, blah blah, narcissistic twat, blah.”
“Okay, okay. Who’s the perfect fella then?”
“I’ve told him to send you a friend request on Facebook. His name is Dick…”
“…Oh my God!”
“His name is Dick, and he is lovely. Dick Morris. He’s an accountant.”
“An accountant!”
“Yes. Single dad. 49. Taurus, so perfect for you, Darling. Nice and steady. Not much hair, but he’s got a lovely smile. Very fit – still plays soccer at the weekend.”
“Okay. I’ll add him on Facebook. See what I think.”
Patricia’s right. Dick Morris is no looker, not like Chris anyway, but he does have a nice smile. There’s something relaxed and warm about the way he’s smiling in his profile picture and, as I find as I scroll through his Facebook past, in most of the pictures he’s in. He isn’t posing, no annoying selfies, just smiling with friends and his son, open and friendly. I’m at my desk in my bedroom, where the girls can’t get to me. He messages me about 10 minutes after I confirm his friend request.
We arrange to meet on Friday week at Mojo. I like Mojo – the coffee is great and it’s near the station. We even exchange cell numbers. I agree to meet him mainly because I like some of his responses in the messages we’d exchanged. He said he didn’t mind making a special trip into town to meet me. I liked that. “Special”. That was nice. And when I said something like, I’m afraid I look a little bit like a guinea pig, he’d said nonsense. He said I was beautiful. How long has it been since someone said I was beautiful?
I begin to look forward to Friday. I book Henrietta into daycare for the whole day and get a thorough wax. Don’t know why. A coffee date is pretty safe sex-wise, so there’s nothing “just in case” about the wax. It just makes me feel more confident, like wearing matching knickers and bra and a new lippy (I get those too). If I could have afforded it, I’d have had a few Botox injections and a tummy tuck too, but the new lippy and a good Brazilian will have to do.
On Thursday night, Patricia rings. I’ve changed the ringtone to All You Need is Love. It makes me smile. I stop smiling as soon as she speaks.
“Darling! You can’t go.”
“Why not? Oh God, he’s married, isn’t he? He’s changed his mind?”
“No. Have you seen the date tomorrow?”
“Er… no.”
“It’s Black Friday,” says Patricia.
“What the heck is that?”
“The 13th. Friday the 13th. You cannot go on a date on Friday the 13th.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “That’s just nonsense.” Which it is, but it preys on my mind long after the phone call has finished.
Friday morning begins like most others. At about 6am, Henrietta wakes and starts to cry. She shouts, “Mummy”, in that long drawn out way of small children: “Maaarrmmmeee”. I roll over and say, “For fuck’s sake”, in that long drawn out way of parents of small children: “For fuuuuuuck’s sake”. Henrietta has a perfectly good pair of legs; they are strong and chunky and bloody fast when they want to be, like when I’m chasing her in the supermarket. Henrietta, however, chooses not to use them in the morning. I can hear the girls as I lay bleary-eyed and still exhausted in bed. I stare at the clock and wonder when I will ever get a lie-in again.
Ruby, six now, therefore braver, comes to the rescue.
“You want to go to Mummy’s bed?” I hear her say.
“Yes. Mummy’s bed.”
“Come on, then. Let’s go.”
I lean over and put on the light so that they don’t fall over the clothes I left on the floor when I shed them last night. They appear in the doorway, my daughters, hand-in-hand, both wearing blue pyjamas with a cartoon cat pattern that are just slightly too big for them. They both waddle into the room holding various objects in their arms. The objects on which they bestow their love varies daily. For Ruby, it is her teddy, a rare constant, and a My Little Pony called Rarity. Henrietta is a little less traditional. Her objects of love are a toy dustpan and brush and a plastic yellow jewel. She refused to part with these at bedtime last night, and they remain clutched to her chest as if someone may try to steal them.
“Morning, my darlings.”
“Morning, Mummy,” says Ruby. “I brought Henrietta. She was crying.”
“Yes. I heard. Well done, you.” They crawl onto the bed and tuck themselves in on either side of me. I put my arms around them, and I am so happy. Warm little bodies and puppy breath. This is when it’s wonderful, even if I do have a dustpan and brush digging into my ribs. This is what it’s all for. This.
In an attempt to ensnare Chris in a dark and sticky web of (slightly rusty but enthusiastic) sexual hanky-panky, I purchased a little red satin and black lace number about six months ago. It’s a “control slip”, designed to be worn as underwear that pulls everything in, and then thrusts it out again in all the right places. It takes me a full 15 minutes to squeeze into it. It won’t go over both of my boobs at the same time, so I have to scoop one boob into a cup, pull the whole garment down a bit, and then scoop the other boob into its cup. Needless to say, I never wore it when there was any real prospect of sexual hanky-panky with Chris; it takes twice as long to get the bloody thing off again.
I have no idea what to wear over the top of it. I eventually Google “what to wear on a coffee date”. Answer: skirt and boots. I have one daytime skirt and one pair of boots. Decision made. I rummage through the laundry mountain for my skirt and a nice blouse.
The girls are dressed for school and are polishing off their Coco Pops at the dinner table. I strut into the lounge, donning my denim jacket, and ask them how I look.
“Mummy. You look so pretty,” says Ruby. She’s a good girl.
“Fat or thin?”
“Thin – definitely thin. Can’t see your big fat tummy at all. Well done, Mummy.”
“Thank you, darling. You brush your teeth? Come then, skit-skat. Let’s finish getting you ready.”
I drop Ruby off at the school gates first. She won’t let me kiss her. I whisper: “I’m kissing you in my mind.” She laughs and runs across the school field towards the classrooms, long chestnut hair flying like a mane over her My Little Pony backpack, as her long legs power along. I stand and watch until she’s out of sight. I find myself just staring at her sometimes; I can’t help it. It’s this endless energy she has, and beauty. She has a high Botticelli forehead, and dark brown, almost black, eyes, and perfect heart-shaped lips. Instead of watching television or reading my book, I find myself watching her instead. I am amazed by Ruby.
When she was pushing to be born, she got stuck. I lay in the birthing room with the epidural gubbins (not the technical term) hanging out of my back. Me and her dad messed around with the gas and air and giggled like children, high as kites. I could still feel her pushing though. I thought any minute now she’s going to come out in a rush. Nobody knew that my pelvis was thoroughly fused, and her head was wedged tight in it. They had us both hooked up to machines to make sure she wasn’t distressed, because of the length of the labour so far and the fact I hadn’t dilated much (a paltry four centimetres after 20 hours of contractions). Then the midwives nipped off to eat their dinner. Just as her dad was having a sit down in the corner because he’d gotten so high, fluid gushed from between my legs.
“Have I weed myself?” I asked. I couldn’t see over my massive bump.
He looked. “Is that water breaking? Is that what it’s called?”
“Don’t know. Is it wee?”
He looked closer. Sniffed. “I don’t think so. It’s clear.”
“Then my water broke. Better get the midwife.”
Meanwhile, Ruby was really pushing. It bloody hurt, despite the epidural.
When the midwives came in, three of them still chewing, my one looked at the monitor. Then she slammed the top of it with her hand, and it burst into life.
“Shit. Let’s get her to theatre. Now. Phone ahead.”
Turns out we nearly lost her. Turns out she’d been in distress for some time. Fucking monitor.
The birth of my first child became an episode of a medical drama. I found myself living that cliché camera angle: point of view of patient on trolley. The long overhead lights of hospital corridors passing by, like cars on a highway; nurses smiling down, cracking jokes trying to stop me from worrying; their dad in blue scrubs and a ridiculous hairnet holding my hand (we were like that once). I was terrified. I’ve never been so terrified, not before nor since.
The operating theatre. The surgeon and their disposable gloves. A blue curtain stopping me from seeing them cutting me open and rummaging around inside me like I was the laundry mountain to get to her.
And then she was out. Held above my head for a fleeting second and then whisked away. My heart broke when they took her away. I remember I couldn’t breathe. Truly – not just because of the emotion; they had to give me oxygen. The epidural was too high and heavy because of a spinal thing I have and had numbed my lungs. Nearly lost me, too.
Their dad told me afterwards that Ruby was so stuck in my bones that it took two of them to yank her out. She had a ridge, an imprint of bone, along her forehead. It only lasted a week or so, thankfully. When she was born, I thought she looked like an elderly business man, with shrewd squinting eyes and a dark comb-over, but the nurses from all over the hospital would pop in just to have a look at the particularly beautiful baby in room 11.
Henrietta is so quiet in the child seat behind me that I drive straight past Little Bugs Daycare Centre. I get to the roundabout before I remember her.
Her C-section was scheduled. No dramatic dashes across the hospital to save any lives. I got ready, walked into theatre, and lay down. Solo by then, I had no idea what I was going to do with this baby. I didn’t want her. It was only when they spread a blanket out and readied the little pink hat I’d brought along that she became real to me. Their dad was there. We’d set aside arms for the day so that he could bond with the new one; be there for her birth and look after Ruby while I recovered in hospital.
Then there she was. So easy this time. This little dark-eyed baby, a bald facsimile of her sister. Soon after the birth, I sent their father out to look after Ruby while I was wheeled into recovery. A nurse made me a cup of tea, and Henrietta latched immediately. In the cubicle next to ours, a young couple were recovering from a natural labour with their first baby. They phoned their parents and step-parents and siblings, all excited and making a fuss, while Henrietta and I lay quietly in our cubicle, feeding and falling hopelessly in love.
“Mummy. My tummy.” I park outside her daycare and turn to look at her. She does look pale. Then her stomach starts to audibly churn, and she vomits Coco Pops and chunks of fermented milk down her Minnie Mouse sweatshirt.
“It was the roundabout. You’ll be alright.” I want to meet Dick Morris the accountant. I really really really want to meet Dick Morris the accountant. I wipe her down with wet wipes that I keep in the glove compartment, and get her changed from the earthquake emergency bag in the boot of the car. I take her into daycare as if nothing has happened. It was the roundabout; she’ll be alright. Except she’s grizzly and pale. I say to her teacher, “I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She seems a bit off this morning. I think she’ll be fine. I’ll be in Wellington, so I’ll be an hour away. But do call if she’s not alright.”
Her teacher gives her cuddle, and I feel like crap as I walk out. I am the worst mother in New Zealand. But I really really really want to meet Dick Morris the accountant, and anyway, it was the roundabout; she’ll be all right.
I am sitting in Mojo waiting for my flat white and Dick Morris the accountant, feeling like my old self for the first time in a long time. I’ve reapplied my new lippy in the ladies, and I am definitely getting eyed up by a couple of suits. Or are they just wondering what on earth a guinea pig in boots is doing sitting in Mojo?
I get a text: What can I order you? I scan the counter. He’s not there. My flat white turns up and I text back: Already got one. Where you?
My phone rings. This time I don’t let it ring just to listen to my latest ringtone; it’s Little Bugs Daycare Centre.
“Yes?”
“Hi, it’s Shirley from Little Bugs.”
“Yes?”
“It’s Henrietta.”
“Yes?”
“She’s got a really high temperature – 39.6. We’re a bit worried. She’s just sitting there…”
“Okay. I’m in Wellington, so I’ll be an hour, but I’m on my way.”
Dammit. I really am the worst mother in New Zealand and I’m not going to meet Dick Morris the accountant today.
I ring him as I make my way to my car. I’ve got a fantastic parking space, too. Dammit.
“Hi,” he says. “It seems we are in different Mojos.”
“Yes… Where are you?”
“At the Mojo near the station, as arranged.”
“But I’m at the Mojo near the station,” I say.
“No – I suspect you’re at the Mojo near the waterfront.”
“Yes. But that’s near the station. Is there one nearer?”
“Yes. Just opposite. And I’m sitting in it.”
“Oh,” I say. “Sorry.”
“No worries. I’ll just come along and…”
“No. Wait. My daughter’s daycare has just rung. She’s got a really high temperature. It’s 39 something.”
“Oh God. That’s really high.”
“Yeah it is, so…”
“You’ve got to go and get her.”
“Yes I do,” I sigh.
“I’d phone the doctor if I were you; get her in so you can take her straight there.”
“Good idea. I will. Hey, thanks for understanding!”
“There’s no need to thank me. I’m a parent – I know how it goes. I better let you go. Drive safe.”
I do call the doctor and they tell me to bring her in as soon as possible. I try my hardest to keep to the speed limit.
When I walk into the classroom, Henrietta is lying asleep on a mat, with wet flannels on her wrists and forehead. She’s just in a T-shirt and knickers. Her hair is soaked and the room seems stifling hot and is full of children playing at full throttle. I walk in, pick her up, and walk out.
I am angry, but even as I let the door slam behind me, I know my anger is completely unreasonable. Who am I angry with? Questions go through my mind: Why didn’t they take her to the doctor? Why didn’t they have her somewhere cool and quiet? Why did her mother leave her at daycare while she swanned off on a blind date?
We have to wait ages at the doctor’s after all that. Henrietta lies on the waiting room couch, whimpering, poor thing. She is still in just a T-shirt and knickers, and she now has goose bumps on those strong little legs. I take off my jacket and put it over her. I stroke her head. Then she crawls on to my lap and vomits water and bile over my legs. Her brown eyes are watery and sad. I rub her back and try to catch her vomit in my hand. “Get it out, baby. Good girl. Get it out.” I quip with an elderly lady sitting nearby: “I wonder how many times I’ve been vomited on since becoming a mum.”
She laughs and says, “I’m getting it again when I look after my grandkids when their mum’s at work.” She adds: “And peed on. I bet you’ve been peed on a few times, too.”
I laugh and nod. “Pooed on once. Just the once. I didn’t make that mistake again.”
A nurse finally leads us through to a treatment room where Henrietta can lie comfortably and vomit in peace. They give me a towel to clean us both, and a plastic vomit cup. They take her temperature and she’s at 40. They give her paracetamol and wet towels, and she starts to perk up a little. A little.
“We’re just waiting for the doctor. He’ll be here as fast as he can.”
“That’s fine,” I say, even though it’s not.
“You two wait here.”
And I’m alone with Henrietta who rolls over and closes her eyes. That’s when the tears come. Mine, not hers. I face the wall so she can’t see, and I’m careful not to make a sound.
I know I’m there for her, and I’ll hold her and look after her. I’ll stroke her head and give her as many cuddles as she needs. But I could do with a hug too right now. It’s times like this when I feel most alone with this parenting lark. I would love to have someone to phone and say, “Henrietta’s ill. Can you knock off work a bit early?” Someone to talk to about it. But there’s no one – just me and the girls. This is when I’m lonely. Evenings are bad enough, nobody to turn to and talk about the news, or the kids, or my day, but I’m used to that. It’s when they’re ill, or doing really well, that being a single parent is so much worse.
I think of their dad who’s too far away to be of any use, and Chris who couldn’t care less (Or maybe he does? No, he’d be with me, wouldn’t he?), and Dick Morris the accountant who seems so keen. None of it quite cuts the mustard.
“Mummy?” I turn and lean over to kiss her. “I’m poorly, Mummy.”
“Yes, baby. Mummy’s here. I got you.” I give her a cuddle.
That scene in Superman comes to mind. That scene where Lois Lane is falling from a tall building and Superman catches her. He says, “I got you.” She looks and says, “You’ve got me! Who’s got you?” But I’m no Superman.
By the time the doctor comes, Henrietta has started to chat in her garbled two-year-old language and thoroughly enjoys the examination. She turns her ears on cue and says “ahhh” with enough efficiency to make the doctor grin. She is recovering as fast as she fell ill. As they do.
Her temperature has dropped to 38.
“It’s probably a virus, but she does look very red in the throat, so I think a course of antibiotics is a good idea considering how hot she got. Keep an eye on her temperature, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Lots of water, lots of rest – you know the drill.”
“Yep. We’ve been here before, eh?”
“We have.”
I know the doctor’s number by heart. The only number I do know, apart from my own.
The evening goes peacefully enough. I feed us, bathe us, get us all into our pyjamas. Ruby goes to bed, good as gold. The rule in our house is: if you’re sick, you sleep in Mummy’s bed; Ruby knows the score. By the time bedtime comes, I feel freezing. It seems I have a temperature myself. I’m also exhausted. After putting Ruby to bed, I pick up Henrietta, who’s getting a bit hot again. I take her pyjamas off, get some flannels ready to go, and then I fall into bed alongside her. My head has that fogginess of the onset of flu, and I’m already close to sleep. I recall the date: Friday the 13th. I must phone Patricia tomorrow and tell her she was right.
I can feel Henrietta’s hot legs against my tummy – she is the best hot water bottle a person could have. Her little hand strokes my cheek, and she gives me a wet sloppy, snotty kiss. Every muscle in my body melts. I am completely hers.
My text alert sounds. It is Dick Morris the accountant: All good?
That’s nice. I’ll text him back in the morning.