Etched on Me Page 19

  In one swift move, I flung the fluted vase across the room. It slammed into my wardrobe and crashed onto the laminate floor, shattering into dozens of shards that looked like chunkier versions of Gloria’s earring collection. Subdued yet shocked, I hugged myself until the thrumming stopped, then grabbed the blue dish towel and a dustpan and shuffled over, dazed, to kneel before the mess of bruised petals and broken glass.

  With shaky hands, I swept all the splinters I could find into the pan and sopped up the puddle of water with the towel. When I leaned back on my heels and wadded the soaked cotton up in a ball to squeeze it out, a needle of pain shot into my right hand. I dropped the towel by reflex, and spied a few tiny studs of glass stuck in it.

  I knew it’d do me in to look, but I had to. I took several deep breaths. Forced my gaze to shift to my hand.

  At first, it was like looking at a medical drawing of an injury, clinical and disembodied. I turned my hand to and fro, observing it from all angles: the tiny droplets of red like inkblots on my palm, the thin diagonal slash across the top. Then, like air rushing into a bottle as its cork pops, the pain whooshed back into me, began to pulse with a childlike rhythm: Hand. Bleeding. Hurts.

  “Oh my God,” I whimpered. “Oh my God.”

  I told myself that the cuts were shallow; I reminded myself that they were accidental. Still the panic drenched me like a somatic wave.

  I crawled back to the kitchenette. Reached up to yank open a drawer. Pulled out a new towel. It was white and soft and clean, and streaked pink when I wrapped it around my hand.

  Pink. See? Little streaks. That’s all.

  Eyes screwed shut, I rocked back and forth, fighting to ground myself in the motion, my free hand resting against my belly, my lips silently babbling the old familiar string: nononononono, don’t, scared.

  And then, beneath my undamaged hand, a burble, a jump.

  My eyes flew open. Surely I was just imagining, but—

  No. There it came a second time. Flutter-flicker. Not weird and sinister, like I’d expected it to feel, but gentle and delicate and sweet.

  “Oh my God,” I said again, my voice lilting in wonder.

  According to my Your Miraculous Pregnancy, Week by Week book, such gymnastics wouldn’t happen for another month, but my girl was obviously a prodigy. Either that or horribly stressed. After all, if adrenaline was pounding throughout me, then it was surely surging doubly so through such a little bean of a thing.

  “Shh, shh,” I murmured, stroking the contours of my bump. “I’m right here, lovey. Don’t be afraid.”

  • • •

  Minor though my wound had been, its gappy edges refused to close, so off I went to Accident and Emergency—reluctantly, and with Gloria in tow for moral support—to see about a glue-up. This time, the doctor assigned to my cubicle was a young, amiable trainee who made sympathetic noises and offered me anesthetic without my even having to ask. (Of course, I kept silent about my infamous “history,” so he hadn’t any reason to doubt me or refuse to make with the painkiller.)

  Figured I was scot-free, and was just about to apologize to Gloria for interrupting her dinner with my drama, when a nurse with an I’m so not messing look on her face came in to give me my (preggo-safe; I checked) tetanus booster jab.

  “Roll up your sleeve to the shoulder for me, love?” she asked.

  By instinct I reached for my right cuff, just above my bandaged hand, but the nurse stopped me.

  “Sorry, left side.”

  I swallowed. Gave her a questioning glance.

  “Your right’s had enough trauma for tonight, don’t you think?”

  Now, in hindsight, I can concoct a million deflecting responses to give her. Got my sleeve turned up already, I’m not keen on needles. Please, let’s just do it before I faint. But back then? I was tongue-tied and defaulting to dutiful, offering up my flesh-knot like a scrabbled-for sacrifice, making my second biggest life mistake.

  “Oh, my,” the nurse said, soon as she saw. “How’d you manage this?”

  Think fast. Think fast. Broken glass? No, won’t work, already here for that.

  “When I was younger,” I said, slow and halting, “I had a . . .”

  Bicycle accident. Come on, you stupid shit. Just say it.

  My voice broke. “A really hard time,” I said.

  Gloria leaned over and draped her arm around me.

  “Lesley used to self-harm as a teenager,” she said, hugging my shoulders, “but she hasn’t done it in—God, how many years has it been, sweetie?”

  “Four years and five days,” I whispered.

  No Good on you, no hurried half-smile. Just a muted sigh, a skeptical glance at my bandage, and then: “Who’s your midwife, dear?”

  I stared down at the cover of the parenting magazine I’d been reading during the long wait, reaching out my good hand to stroke the cheek of a hazel-eyed baby sporting a lacy headband on her fuzzy head.

  “Tasmin O’Shea,” I said softly, my ears ringing with the tap, tap, tap of a thousand cascading dominoes knocking my pride all the way down.

  19

  Once the fax detailing my hospital visit landed on Tasmin and Sophie’s desks, it was all over. No more coy mentions of extra health visitor appointments; now my case was a “Section 47” investigation—Section 47 being the (sorry, it’s about to get technical) paragraph of the Children Act of 1989, which sets forth social services’ right and duty to ascertain whether or not “there is reasonable cause to suspect that a child is suffering, or likely to suffer, significant harm.”

  Sophie never told me this straight-up, of course, but it wasn’t hard to figure out once she started interviewing the Kremskys and Dr. P. and Immi. I mean, sure, she could have been sitting down with them over a cup of tea chatting about how fabulous I was, but let’s face it: fairly or unfairly, I’d, by virtue of an impulsive, furious vase-fling, given the child protection powers-that-be the impression that I’d already dove off the deep end and wasn’t coming up for air any time soon.

  Still, I clung doggedly to the belief that I could prove myself. After all, I had stellar references: Gloria said in her interview that she trusted me completely with Sveta, and Dr. P. referred to me as the “most successfully recovered patient she’d ever treated.”

  Looking back, I’m tempted to chalk up my denial to hubris or complacency, but honestly I think it was a survival mechanism, same as escaping to the ceiling or self-harming had once been. I didn’t know anything about how the Section 47 machinations worked, but I bloody well knew I had to hold myself together, even if it meant locking up every last vague but ominous possibility inside my PTSD containment safe.

  And please understand: My stubborn refusal to entertain the thought of any outcome except triumph, my fragile-but-not-unfounded confidence, didn’t mean I acted like a defensive, intractable adolescent in front of Sophie or anyone else from Children’s Services. If anything, I went overboard trying to appease them.

  They asked me to:

  Book appointments with the mental health consultant who worked with Tasmin. (Done, regardless of the fact that Dr. P. could have served the same role much more efficiently.)

  Go on anxiety medication, as per the consultant’s recommendation. (Done, even though I was scared to death of how it might affect Squidlet.)

  Attend expectant mums’ groups. (Done, despite the fact that nibbling at lemon cake while listening to magazine editors twice my age complain about their stretch marks felt like hell on earth.)

  Agree to the prospect of going inpatient on a mother-baby psychiatric ward after the birth. (Done—and I even gave them the contact details of a unit one floor down from the Phoenix.)

  This eager-retriever action didn’t go unnoticed, either. All through the rest of November and into December, Sophie talked up how well we’d forged a “productive alliance” (shades of Kath and her lofty visions of the therapeutic milieu, not that I noticed, or wanted to notice, then). There were still “concerns,” of course, b
ut she was certain we could work out a “solution” that was “mutually agreeable”—and quick to reassure me that, despite the tabloids’ alarmist squawkings, the “vast, vast majority” of investigations never resulted in losing custody of your kid. Worst case, I’d do the mother-baby unit to get over the six-week postnatal hump, then stay on my meds and check in regularly.

  Immi said that was firm evidence of socialism gone awry, but it seemed fair enough to me. After a two-year stint in hospital, six weeks sounded like a flipping spa day. Nothing we couldn’t breeze through, Squidlet and I. Little bit of mandala coloring, couple support groups, stroll in the garden (far away from the smoke, of course), cozy curl-up together on that hard single bed. Hell, even the thought of a blinky eye in the ceiling corner didn’t faze me. I’d show it what resilient motherhood looked like.

  • • •

  That Christmas was the best ever. I made Mum’s epic pudding from memory and took it to the Kremskys’ (along with Imogen, who’d over the years grown to be an honorary member of their family, too). No silent, awkward dinners there; the place was all riotous laughter as Sveta careened through the kitchen on her new roller skates, and Gloria collapsed with delight into Jascha’s lap after opening the rare edition of Finnegans Wake he’d bought her. (Immi’s verdict upon viewing her reaction: “Mr. K.’s getting some tonight, for sure!”)

  All day long the doorbell kept ringing with visitors: Curran’s girlfriend, ladies from Vera’s bingo hall, neighbors from across the road. Everyone raved about the pudding and cooed over my heftier-by-the-minute bump, which Sveta had insisted upon decorating with a red bow and tinsel.

  By midafternoon, I was crashed out on the couch from food coma and third-trimester aches. I woke from my nap to the sounds of a crackling fire and holiday specials on the telly. Next to me, Vera sat polishing off the last of the pudding.

  “Here, Leslyochka,” she said, and passed me the plate. “Is one last token inside, I think.”

  I’d stirred them all into the mixing bowl three weeks earlier, but there was no telling which one I’d get now. I forced down the first bite, then eagerly took another. Damn, I’m good, I thought, just as my teeth hit metal.

  This time, I got the ship’s anchor. A symbol of safe harbor.

  I felt my eyes well up. In the other room, I could hear Gloria on the phone with her mum in America. “I miss you, too, Mom. Next year for sure, okay?”

  Next year. I pictured Squidlet crawling around wearing the tinsel, pulling the dogs’ tails, charming the entire room just like Sveta had that first day at the orphanage. She’d never know her real granddad and nan, my girl, but she’d have a whole chosen family adoring her, surrounding her.

  Safe harbor, I thought. For both of us.

  The grateful tears started trickling.

  “Oh, krasavitsa,” Vera said, and draped her arm around me, gathering me against her bosom. “Hush. Don’t cry.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, grinning. “I’m good.”

  She patted my hair. “Wish I could say same for her.” She gestured towards the pop star on the screen. “Needs less plastic surgery, more singing lessons, da?”

  • • •

  There was even more celebrating a week later when the Kremskys held their annual New Year’s Eve party—though “party” seems like much too mannered a word to describe the cumulative impact of the entire Soviet diaspora crammed into one dining room with enough Stoli on the sideboard to stock an entire off-license.

  By one a.m., the place was a wreck of “Happy 2010” streamers and salad plates. Vera had taken up my snoring post on the couch, and Imogen looked ready to repeat my university vodka-spewing stunt.

  “Come on, girlie,” Gloria said, draping an arm around Im’s shoulder to steady her. “I’m taking you home.”

  After they’d left, I went to check on Sveta, who’d been feeling poorly thanks to Vera’s geriatric posse incessantly plying her with sweets. She lay curled up in her blankets now, long eyelashes fluttering in fitful sleep, both fists tucked under her chin. I bent down, best as I could, and kissed her on the forehead. As I stood back up, Squidlet gave me a nudge.

  When I returned to the dining room, I found Jascha sitting at the table before a small rectangular box wrapped in Christmas paper.

  He slid it across to me. My brows furrowed. “What—”

  “Russian moment,” he said, giving me a small smile.

  “Aww, bless,” I said, fingering the ribbon. “You guys were generous enough to me last week. Really.”

  His smile deepened. “It’s . . . it’s not for you.”

  I peeked at the attached tag. To Squidlet, it read, in his angular print.

  “Didn’t want to jinx it,” he said. “You know, buying her anything before she’s born. But—”

  “No, no, that’s great,” I said, tearing open the wrapping.

  When I glimpsed brown cardboard printed with the black-and-yellow Doc Martens logo, my face broke into a grin. I undid the top of the box to find a tiny pair of hot-pink lace-up boots.

  “Oh,” I breathed, entranced as I’d been when I’d gotten the guitar for my seventeenth birthday. “Too awesome.” I caressed the shiny leather, the miniature laces. “Gloria pick them out?”

  Jascha’s smile went sheepish. He shook his head. “All me.”

  I pictured Squidlet stomping her clumsy-footed, brazen way along Upper Street like a member of Enya’s cinematic dwarf army, her little hand in his big one.

  My throat went lumpy. I jumped up from the table and ran round to the other side to hug him.

  “Aren’t too girly with the fuchsia, are they?” he whispered onto the top of my head, as I rested my cheek against his shoulder.

  “Not a bit,” I whispered back. “They’re perfect.”

  • • •

  When Immi rang me while I was doing the last of the party washing-up the next morning, I figured it was to moan about her hangover, but her taut, lowered voice was grave.

  “Les,” she said quietly. “You’re in deep shit.”

  “Why?” I said. “Sophie’s not made any plans to—”

  “She will now.”

  “Im, please. Last way I need to start the new year is stressing out over your—”

  “Ainsley MacIntyre,” Imogen said firmly. “Look her up.”

  I knew I had to humor her, so I grabbed Gloria’s laptop and sat down at the kitchen table, squinting at the screen, preparing myself for an amused head-shake.

  What I found were mug shot photos of a stringy-haired, haunted-looking woman not much older than me, her exhausted eyes staring into the camera with an expression equal parts blank and feral, just below headlines howling NEW MUM’S A MURDERER.

  • • •

  Soon as she heard, Dr. P. sent Sophie a letter listing what we hoped were reassuring statistics about the rarity of postnatal psychosis, along with a statement that read: In my opinion, Lesley is at no more risk of this disorder than any other pregnant member of the general population.

  You’d think that’d have been sufficient to smooth over any worries, but once the Ainsley MacIntyre case’s details got released and the headlines switched to screams of SOCIAL WORKER MISSED CRUCIAL WARNING SIGNS, the slim, subtly phrased piece of paper turned worthless, and only an “independent” evaluation of my current mental state would do. So off I went to the office of some big-shot called Dr. Orton.

  Must have had a full schedule of nutters, ’cause he could only spare a whopping fifteen minutes. Brusque handshake, harried sit-down. Me perched on the chair edge in my ill-fitting maternity work trousers, fingers twisted in my lap.

  No messing about for Dr. O.; he went straight to the trauma work. “You’re an incest victim, correct?”

  “Survivor,” I said. Sharper than I meant to.

  “How many times have you attempted suicide?”

  I paused.

  “Once,” I said.

  “You don’t consider a severed artery indicative of a desire to end your l
ife, then.”

  “I didn’t sever it.” Hairsplitting, but I clung to those fine threads.

  “And you’ve been inpatient in”—swooping neck-crane at my records—“three separate hospitals?”

  Nottingham ICU had to count, didn’t it? Crap. “Four.”

  His eyes lingered on the still-healing scar atop my right hand. “I’m curious what strengths you think you bring to motherhood, given your significant mental health challenges.”

  Crack! went the containment safe. Pop! squealed its fifteen locks. Down the cavern in your spelunking gear you go, dearie.

  (Fists held fast to the hall closet’s back wall. My tongue struggling to resist his. Sneer-snicker, stale breath. Who do you think you are, little girl?)

  A woman who reclaimed that hall closet. A mother. Stable. Alive.

  “Well,” I said, “I’m not Mary Poppins or anything, but I certainly know what not to do.”

  I ended my answer with a small smile, trying to catch Dr. O.’s eye, keep the mood light.

  Big mistake. His own lips turned down, not up. “And you’re adamant about raising your daughter on your own.”

  “Wouldn’t use those words, exactly,” I said, “but yeah, I’d consider myself a pretty independent person.”

  “And your sexual orientation, what words would you use to describe that?”

  Try none of your flipping business, fuckface.

  “Queer,” I said.

  One last sentence-scrawl. “Thank you, Miss Holloway. I think I’ve all the information I need.”

  • • •

  At that point, mid-January, I was seven months along. Registering for birthing classes. Phoning nurseries about child care openings.