Chapter 23
CHAPTER 23
‘ Y ou look like shit. What’s up?’ Robyn asked as I battled the evening traffic on the way to her antenatal class.
‘Nothing. I mean late night. Birthday drinks.’ I exhaled. ‘Lexi. Mum.’
‘Backtrack. Late night?’ Robyn caressed her stomach. ‘Please don’t tell me you were hanging out with Graeme Grafton.’
‘No. Well, yes, but with loads of other people from the company. Anyway, I had one too many drinks. Feel like death.’
Robyn nodded. ‘Stay away from him.’
I turned to look at her. ‘Because?’
‘Keep your eyes on the road. He’s a jerk.’
‘True. Anyway, I’m more worried about Lexi.’ I told Robyn about Lexi’s misadventures the previous night, then, ‘She looks different. It’s not just her hair. It’s obvious her brand-new body parts are influencing her – and her boyfriend. It’s all happening so quickly.’
‘What does Matthew say?’
‘You think I’d talk to Matthew about this? Are you crazy?’
‘Sometimes. ’
‘I’m serious. I don’t think it’d be wise to tell Matthew. Besides, he’d blame me.’
‘He wouldn’t blame you. It’s not your fault. Lexi’s different to you.’
‘You can say that again. She and her friends know how to whip a condom onto a banana. Imagine doing those things when you were thirteen!’
‘Me, sure, but you? Never.’
‘Everything’s changed, Rob. I’m falling behind. I wasn’t even at the head of the pack to start with. Lex can learn the finer points about foreplay and sexual intercourse within three seconds on the internet.’
‘She’ll find out anyway. I got a lesson on anal sex last week thanks to Sex and the City repeats.’
At the hospital, Robyn and I sat with eight other couples in the conference room waiting for our session to begin. Tonight’s focus? Breasts.
In previous sessions, we’d visited waiting rooms, labour rooms, maternity rooms, bathrooms and nurseries. We’d seen stirrups and rubber boots. Robyn had stuffed plastic babies through plastic pelvic bones and almost fainted. We’d watched birthing videos where she had fainted. We’d done breathing exercises, back massages, squatted, flopped into beanbags, crawled about like dogs and learned about alternative pain relief. And that’s where I drew the line.
‘My advice is drugs. Take lots of drugs,’ I told her.
But Robyn hadn’t been a fan of the drug option. Right up until she caught sight of the vacuum cleaner with the toilet-plunger attachment in class four. Afterwards, she was close to agreeing with me. It took most of the two hours in class five, however, to convince her when push came to shove, so to speak, a little epidural probably never hurt anyone. Which was nothing compared to Robyn’s reaction when she saw the forceps.
‘I’m going to be ripped apart!’
‘Most probably.’
Robyn and I had bonded early on with the group, most of them cornering one or both of us over shortbread and herbal tea sessions, telling us the ups and downs of their relationships. Mostly downs.
‘Sometimes I think it might be easier being a lesbian,’ Adele had confided conspiratorially.
‘I guess,’ I’d replied blithely.
‘Because you get it, don’t you? The mood swings, the cravings. It must be so much easier.’
What? ‘Pardon?’
‘You and Robyn, the two of you together.’
‘What? No!’ I shuddered. ‘We’re sisters.’
After that, we weren’t treated any differently. We were run-of-the-mill members of the group. That is until they found out about Robyn and her Insta fame.
‘Group photo,’ she was squealing now. ‘Come on, Nurse Julie, you too.’ Robyn pulled our facilitator in beside her.
I positioned the squad before a backdrop of stock pregnancy and toddler care posters. All expectant mothers sat obediently in almost comfortable pale-blue armchairs (cushions positioned behind their backs for maximum relief) holding various props including plastic newborns, forceps, and a stethoscope. Birth partners stood at the side or sat on the floor in front of the chairs.
‘Katie,’ Robyn boomed. ‘Stop fussing. Hurry up and take the photos. One of us is going to drop any minute.’
At home, Angus and Lexi were asleep and Mum was in a hurry to get back to her own house. I didn’t ask why.
After perfecting Robyn’s group photo for Insta and sending it to her, I took myself off for a long hot bath and immersed myself in bubbles. It was several minutes before I realised there were tears streaming down my face due to the Graeme fiasco, my marriage… and Lexi and the venom in her voice.
Lexi was three years old the first time she told me she hated me. It was the middle of the night, and she’d staggered into our bed half asleep, warm and smelling of strawberry shampoo. She crawled in under the blankets and as I reached out to pull her close, she pushed me away, yelling, ‘ Get away, Mummy, I hate you. ’ She kicked her legs into my stomach and threw herself on top of Matthew. He didn’t stir, but I’ll never forget that night.
I had to face facts. I was getting older. My little girl was no longer little. She stood at one hundred and sixty-four centimetres, only two centimetres shorter than me… okay, we were the same height.
She was no longer mine. Not saying I ever owned her, but she used to look at me with a modicum of love and respect; now there was only distaste, distrust and anger. What happened to the girl in pink leotards with pigtails and pink ribbons?
Then there was Matthew. What used to be a slow creeping distance between us was fast becoming a gaping chasm.
I lay in the bath wondering what I could do to leave everything behind and escape. If I lived to be eighty – and I was optimistic enough, on a good day, to believe I would – then I had already lived half of my life. If I was ever to win awards for my photography, publish said award-winning photos, trek the Himalayas, or own a fabulous gallery full of my award-winning photos, I needed to get on with it.
Instead, I was still dreaming the dreams I had long ago. They weren’t coming true, and I doubted they ever would. They were the dreams of a young idealistic woman who imagined living her life in a perfect bubble of happiness with her husband and children, pursuing her creative ambitions, cocooned from life’s harsh realities and disappointments.
Fifteen minutes later, in bed, teeth cleaned and body sufficiently moisturised, I checked Robyn’s Instagram feed. She’d posted the pic.
#antenatalclass #mytribe #pregnant #34weeks #blessed #lovinglife #babybump
My first thought was that I hoped Robyn had permission from everyone to post it. My second was that there were plenty of wackos trolling her.
We lost our baby at 34 weeks. Thanks for the reminder, bitch Chill86
You’re huge. Ready to split. Sure it’s not triplets?
I can see your back acne from here (That one made no sense.)
Get over yourself husbandless whore