Chapter 22
CHAPTER 22
Maura
Bernie and I fritter away hours, chatting like a pair of lifelong friends. Long enough for Elizabeth’s clothes to dry, the baby to feed and nap, and the children to enjoy some fun and games in the back garden.
“They’ll sleep tonight,” Bernie says, watching her daughters play through the window.
I worry about their little legs growing tired on the walk home but Bernie assures me they’re used to walking all over town. I call the girls inside and split the last slice of apple tart between them. I’ll have to make another before Christy gets home or he won’t be pleased. But baking anew is a small price to pay for the loveliest afternoon I’ve had in a long time.
“Fuel for the road,” I say, and they rub their full tummies with satisfaction.
I help Bernie navigate the pram through the front door and back onto the street. And then I take my coat from the newel post at the bottom of the stairs and offer it to her.
She looks at me with curious eyes, but she doesn’t take it. I noticed there’s a hole under the arm of her coat and the material in the back is threadbare from years of repeated wear.
“This would look so much better on you,” I say, edging my coat toward her. “I’m too tall. It does me no favors.”
Bernie’s eyes glass over and neither of us addresses the fact that I’m lying.
“I couldn’t possibly,” she says.
“Please. For all the meat your husband gave me. This way neither of us is getting something for nothing.”
“So an exchange,” Bernie says.
“Exactly.”
Bernie takes the coat. She strokes the fur and her face lights up. She slips off her old coat and folds it into the tray under the pram, taking care not to squash her scrapbook, and then she slides her arms into my coat.
“Just as I thought. It suits you,” I say.
Bernie twirls on the spot and giggles like a schoolgirl. “I love it. I really, really love it. Thank you.”
“You’ll come visit, won’t you?” I say when Bernie stops twirling and grips the handle of the pram.
“I’m tired,” Elizabeth complains.
“Me too,” Marie adds.
“Today was a good day,” Bernie says.
“The best,” I say.
We share some mutual nodding and I watch as Bernie and her daughters walk away. And I wonder if I’ll see them again.
I watch until they turn the corner at the end of the road and I’m about to close the door when Christy’s car comes into view around the same corner. He’s early. Panic rises in me in the shape of an acidy bubble that bursts in the back of my throat. I’ve no dinner on and with the apple tart all gone, I’ve nothing to offer him.
He parks his car under the old oak tree just down from our front gate. Most of our neighbors have cars and there is a silent understanding among residents about who parks where. Mr. O’Toole across the road parks next to the tall, green post box. Mrs. Sweeny in number 18 parks behind him. Her husband died recently and she’s started driving his car. It’s the talk of the road, and no one has a good word to say about a middle-aged woman finding independence behind the wheel.
Christy steps out and slams the car door behind him. He has a face like thunder and I think about charging inside and locking myself in the bathroom. I could pretend to have an upset stomach, but I used that excuse last week. Or I could lie down with a headache, but again, that excuse is worn thin. Bedsides, Christy left me medication to take to ease them.
Just last week he passed me a packet of round white pills. “To keep you on your feet,” he said, making it clear that an afternoon of skipped chores was unacceptable, migraine or not.
At the door, Christy gathers me into his arms and kisses my cheek. His stubble is coming in and I want to pull away, but I don’t.
“What a day,” he huffs, and cigar breath hits me. “At least something smells good.”
“You’re early,” I say, easing myself out of his grip. “I wasn’t expecting you home for another hour or so.”
“I’m tired. And hungry,” he says. “Mrs. Cartwright had twins this afternoon and she screamed the bloody place down. Where are those headache pills?”
I search my brain trying to remember where I put them. I draw a blank.
“Why don’t I run you a bath, eh?” I say.
Christy’s tense shoulders relax. He kicks off his shoes inside the door and drags himself up the stairs without another word. I hurry into the bathroom and begin to fill the tub; then I race downstairs to make sure I have enough cooking apples for another tart. The relief when I find I have plenty is intense.
“Bring up the paper,” Christy calls out.
I fetch the paper from the kitchen countertop and make my way upstairs again. Christy is half undressed when he takes the paper and reads the header.
“That’s this morning’s paper. What would I want with stale news?” He rolls his eyes. “Where’s the evening press?”
“I didn’t get a chance to pick up the paper today.”
Christy’s eyes narrow. He has one leg in his pants and one leg out, and if his eyes weren’t thin like commas his appearance might be comical. Instead, it’s a little scary.
“All right,” he says, slipping the other leg off. He folds his trousers and places them neatly on the bed.
“I… eh… I got delayed in town,” I say, beginning to stutter.
Christy laughs. “What is it with women and fine china? How many hours did you waste picking out delft?” He is soft-spoken. Relaxed, almost. But I’ve learned he is always most calm before a storm. My palms begin to sweat. The damn delft .
“I hope you didn’t spare any pennies,” he says. “My parents are coming for Christmas dinner and my mother will know if we’re trying to be cheap.”
Christy’s family joining us for Christmas dinner is news to me, but it’s the least of my concerns right now. I need to get his mind away from the delft I didn’t buy. I step back, keeping the door in easy-to-reach distance.
“I popped into the butcher’s on Talbot Street today.”
Christy looks at me, wholly uninterested.
“Dan McCarthy insisted on giving me a bag of free meat and—”
“Dan?” he says, his attention suddenly piqued. “Since when are you on first-name terms with McCarthy’s butcher’s?”
“He asked me to call him Dan and I just—”
“You were just so busy obliging a stranger that you forgot to pick up the damn newspaper for your husband.”
“I’m sorry, Christy. But he gave me this big bag of free meat and it was heavy and—”
“Free? What are we? Some sort of charity? We don’t need free anything from anyone.”
I take another step back. “I know. I know. But he said you look after his wife and I think he was just trying to show his gratitude.”
“Money is the best way to say thank you. Money. You should have told him that. I should be paid double listening to that woman drone on and on about her swollen ankles and sick stomach. You’d swear she’d never had a baby before. It’s her fourth, for pity’s sake. Just get on with it.”
“I think she’s finding this pregnancy harder than the others,” I say.
Christy folds his arms and stares at me as if I’m something he scraped off his shoe. “Are you a nurse now, Maura?”
“No, but—”
“Then how the hell would you know?” Christy laughs as if my stupidity amuses him. “I’m getting in the bath now. I’ll have dinner in one hour, when I’m done.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to hide my relief that I have time to cook something up as I walk toward the door.
“Oh, and Maura…”
My chest tightens. The door feels so close and yet so far.
“Mm-hmm,” I say, turning back.
“I’ll have a slice of apple tart in the meantime. It smells good.”
I swallow hard.
“I burned it,” I say, blurting the first excuse that tumbles into my head.
“You burned it?”
I nod. Christy steps forward and begins sniffing like a dog. He’s still a foot away from me, maybe two, and yet the heat from his body seems to fill the space between us until it feels as if it might singe me.
“It doesn’t smell of burning,” he says.
“I opened all the windows.”
My palms begin to sweat as I back through the door and onto the landing.
“Really?” Christy follows me through the door. His strides are twice their usual size.
“I can make another tart. I have more apples, I checked.”
It happens so suddenly that I don’t remember seeing him raise his arm, or even feeling the punch as it comes crashing down against my skull. But I do remember the fear, the split second of horror that whips around inside like a whirlwind.
I find myself in darkness at the bottom of the stairs. It takes me a moment to realize my eyes are shut, and once I do, I decide not to open them. I’m too afraid of what I’ll see. My legs are crumpled underneath me, like those of a rag doll. Christy is standing over me, I can tell. I hear his heavy breathing, feel his hot breaths against the top of my head. Seconds or minutes pass, I’m not sure.
“Maura, oh my God, my darling.” Christy’s voice carries toward me as if I’m under water. “Are you all right? Are you hurt? Talk to me, darling. Talk to me, please?” Each word pulls me closer to the surface until, finally, I am brave enough to open my eyes and look at the man crouched over me. The man who is supposed to love me more than anything else in the world. The man to whom I gave my heart. The father of my baby.
The man who someday, I worry, might kill me.
“Maura, Jesus,” he says.
His face is blurry, hovering above me. I blink, but I can’t focus. There’s a pain in my chest and for a moment I think his foot might be stomping on me, crushing me into the floor. It’s not. My focus sharpens and I notice he has tears in his eyes.
“You fell. Oh, Maura, you fell. You’re so clumsy, my darling. But you’re all right. That’s all that matters. You’re all right.”
I search my brain for words. None come. Not even when I open my mouth and try to force something out. There’s a wet patch beneath me, I realize. It’s warm and collected in my underwear and on my skirt. At first I worry that I’ve wet myself with fear. Heat creeps into my cheeks thinking about it. But when cramping in my stomach starts, the slow realization that I’m losing the baby hits me harder than any punch from my husband.
“Maura, talk to me,” Christy says. He’s concerned and soft-spoken again, like the gentleman I thought I married. “Are you all right?”
I see him clearly now, standing in slightly off-white Y-fronts and navy socks with a brown polka dot. He looks ridiculous, and silently laughing at him inside my head gives me a guilty pleasure.
He reaches his hand out to me and I take it and allow him to help me to my shaky feet.
“There now,” he says, almost whispering. “See, you’re fine.”
Blood begins to trickle down my leg and I wonder if he’ll notice it spilled on the carpet.
“Why don’t you get yourself into bed, eh? That was a nasty tumble. There’s no need to worry about dinner for now. A sandwich will be fine later when you’re feeling up to it.”
I hate him in this moment. I really, truly despise him.
Christy helps me up the stairs and I let him tuck me into bed as if I were a small child.
“I’ll fetch you some water,” he says.
“No. No, thank you. I just need to sleep.”
I’m desperate for him to leave me alone so I can check on the bleeding. Christy nods and closes the heavy curtains, instantly turning our bedroom dusk.
“I love you, darling,” he says, and then he breezes out the door and closes it behind him.
I lie still and listen for his footsteps on the creaky stairs. I count each step, and when I’m confident that he’s downstairs and in the sitting room or kitchen, I peel back the bedspread and stand up. To my relief, blood hasn’t made its way onto the bed linen. I open the door slowly, concentrating so as not to make a sound, and hurry into the bathroom.
The bright red blood takes my breath away. There’s more of it than I was expecting. Memories of my first period—when I thought I might die—rush back. Pain stabs my lower abdomen and bends me in the middle like a question mark as I yield to it. I hold the sink and try to catch my breath. In a moment of panic, I think about calling out to Christy. Not as a supportive husband, but as a doctor. I don’t want to die. But I am not one of Christy’s patients. I am his wife. He would find some way of making this my fault. He would blame me for losing our baby. His baby. I couldn’t cope with another hit. Not now, of all times. I decide to take my chances with life and death. I made it through my first period on my own. So, too, I will make it through this. I hope.
A sudden knock on the door makes me yelp like a puppy.
“You all right in there?” Christy’s voice calls through the door.
“Yes. Yes. I’m fine.” My voice is strange as I push it out through gritted teeth when another cramp grips me.
“I thought you were going to rest.”
There’s a spark of irritation in his voice. I can tell he’s furious to find me out of bed.
“I’m feeling much better,” I call back.
“Good. Good. Listen, I’m going to the White Arms for a pint or two. I won’t be more than an hour. We’ll have the dinner when I get back.”
I don’t remind him that he suggested a sandwich. Clearly, some bread and ham is no longer going to satisfy him.
“There’s steak in the fridge. The ones from McCarthy’s,” he says.
“All right.”
The cramps ease and I stand up straight and catch my reflection in the mirror. My right eye is swollen and purple and the color is already attempting to drain down my cheek. By tomorrow the whole right side of my face will be black and blue. Just as it has been before.
“Right. I’m off,” Christy says, and then I hear the stairs creak again and the front door open and close.
I slide to the floor, tuck my knees into my chest, and cry.