Chapter 6 #2
‘Yeah, I’m fine. I got about two hours’ sleep, between the jet lag and Maeve. I’m not ready to face a whole new day just yet,’ she replies, more settled again.
‘Yikes, that’s rough. I can get Maeve changed if you like? Give you a bit of alone time. You could shower or whatever.’
Olivia looks at me, eyes wide. Surely it is not so surprising that I can be kind sometimes.
‘That would be incredible, thank you,’ she replies. ‘Please put her in something cute – Mum fusses about her outfits and I don’t have the energy to deal right now.’
‘Anything would be cute on her,’ I reply, picking Maeve up off the floor and putting her on my hip.
Maeve lays her head on my shoulder, and I feel my nervous system relax. It is a calmness that arrives so quickly it feels pharmaceutical. She might be the only good thing that exists. And here she is in my arms.
‘You know what I mean. Something that matches.’
I nod, taking Maeve to Olivia’s room and sitting us both on the bed.
She flops back and when I copy her and do the same, she erupts in squeals of laughter.
Of course I do it five more times. Her giggles flood my veins; I am hooked.
When this display of physical comedy seems to have run its course, I look in the cupboard for something appropriate to dress her in.
Her tiny clothes are folded in two piles on the lowest shelf.
The gingham overalls and white top with the Peter Pan collar call to me, and I ask Maeve what she thinks, holding the tiny pieces up against my chest.
‘How about this one? Is it comfortable?’
She shakes her head. I suggest a few more, until the sage terry towelling jumpsuit elicits the most positive response.
‘Dat one,’ she replies.
‘Okayyyy . . . It does look cosy,’ I reply, running my hand across the fabric.
Zipping her out of her sleep suit and finding a clean nappy, I think about how Olivia does this multiple times a day, every day.
She has more than doubled her load, without any additional help, because Maeve’s father prefers to spend weekends at the pub, which is where they met and where they broke up, and she just has to absorb it, as if it is fine.
That is her experience. And she is not even that much older than me.
Unfathomable. She was running around England doing book signings and festivals and events, in luscious clothes with always perfect hair and makeup, while adjusting to motherhood and parenting a new baby.
How? I can barely change my own clothes every day.
My moving home signifies my need to be cared for as much as Maeve.
Olivia has performed a miracle, daily, for almost two years, and deserves recognition for the magic in front of me.
‘You look beautiful,’ I say, standing Maeve back up on the bed.
She looks down at her outfit and pats it flat, aware of herself. I panic about body image and what I am prioritising and whether caring too much about clothes will damage her in some way.
‘You are also so kind and clever and funny,’ I quickly add.
‘No-No, big hug.’
She holds her arms out to me and I lift her into mine.
I hope she has not internalised the message that this is something she owes me.
I do not know how to voice that in a way she will understand, so I try to let the thought exist without voicing it.
Her warm body presses against mine and I try to communicate everything through this exchange.
‘Should we go and see Grandma?’
‘Pa,’ she says.
Dad, who speaks about ten words a day to the rest of us, collectively, has somehow managed to become Maeve’s favourite person in less than twenty-four hours.
She is obsessed with him. And I get it – he has never once raised his voice or gotten upset or even really exhibited any emotional state other than ‘fine’.
That was comforting to me as a child, too.
We head into the garden to see if he is still sorting out the foliage situation.
There is a clanking coming from the tool shed, so that is where we go.
‘Dad?’ I call, not keen to venture into the spider and snake grotto of my childhood nightmares.
‘Yeah, honey, I’m in here.’
We peek through the doorway and spy Dad hammering a piece of metal with a bend in it.
‘Oh, hey bunny,’ he says, eyes on Maeve.
‘She wanted to see you.’
Maeve wiggles in my arms and leans forward with a lurch, as though she knows Dad will catch her and she no longer has any need for my grip. He puts down his hammer and takes her with a swoosh.
‘What are you doing in here?’ I ask, as Dad gives Maeve a tour of his tools.
‘The latch for the back gate wasn’t holding, I was getting it back in shape,’ he says.
‘Done with the agapanthus, then?’
I watch as Dad’s eyebrows crease and then uncrease.
‘Yes, they’re all done,’ he says.
‘Are you going to have to pluck all the brown leaves off the trees next?’
‘Go easy, it’s a tricky time of year,’ he says. ‘If this place is looking its best for the holidays, that’s alright by me.’
Dad says some version of this each year. He will not partake in the much-loved family tradition of complaining; that must have come from Mum’s side. I watch him with Maeve in his arms and see myself, see why I gravitated to that same place. Not every human connection has to come in verbal form.
‘Noraaa!’ Elsie calls from the deck.
‘Can I leave Maeve with you?’
Dad and Maeve grin at each other and both nod. Perhaps some facts about tools will counterbalance the image focus, and everything will be okay. Back in the kitchen, Mum is scrubbing the sink.
‘Your brother will be here soon; would you mind wiping down the windowsills?’
She nods at a cloth and spray on the counter.
I swallow the indignation and remind myself that it is completely fair to be asked to help.
I am a grown adult who has moved back home to sort my head and my life out; it is the very least that could be expected of me right now.
But something about being asked removes my motivation to ever want to do a thing, and I have to reprogram my brain like a hacker to allow myself to follow through.
This involves reimagining the scenario so the cleaning becomes my idea.
It would be a nice thing to do for my mother, and I want to do a nice thing for my mother.
And if it is my idea, then of course I will do an incredible job.
When the windowsills are sparkling, I take leave before I can be asked to do anything else.
It is not that I do not want to be helpful, only that my energy must be preserved.
The main bathroom is unchanged, tiny green floor tiles and perfectly clean grout.
My reflection in the mirror looks tired of me, but at least I can recognise it as myself.
This is new, and worth pausing to appreciate.
Despite already having showered downstairs this morning, I strip off and let the water warm up, then turn the tap to make it colder once it does.
My ensuite does not feel the same. It is soulless and new – all grey tiles and prefabricated cabinets, made to appeal to the largest number of people while reflecting the personality of no one.
Not like our cavernous nineties main shower, three out of four walls are tiled rather than glass so it almost feels as though you are closing yourself into a coffin or stepping into a cave.
I have spent countless hours in here. No shower has ever had pressure as good as this one.
What Luke needs, really, is someone who cares enough, while simultaneously not caring at all, to see him for who he is without any of the attachments he has added, chin and otherwise.
The same thing I need, the same thing everyone needs.
When we meet today, I will hold his gaze, I will get a sense of what I can say and be to try and connect on a level of genuine emotion.
I will not let our predetermined roles carve an unsuitable path.
And I will love Laura, because he loves her.
I will find a way to get to know this person who was once that boy with the skinned leg and the real tears. We can be close, if I try hard enough.
When I finally emerge from my steamy sensory-deprivation cubicle, the front door slams. Dad took the stopper off the screen door because he did not like the way it bounced when it caught, and now instead of slowly finding its way shut, it slams. People sound angry before they even enter the room.
‘I’m home!’ I hear Luke declare, as though this is a sitcom or a holiday movie and he is the protagonist with a big personality and an even bigger heart.
Mum and Olivia and Dad and Maeve must all be there with him in the living room.
I don’t hear Laura, although perhaps that is because I can only hear Luke.
His voice has always been the loudest in the room.
Mum says Laura is more reserved, classy, understated.
I get slowly back into my leggings and giant T-shirt.
There is a need for me to make an appearance, but too much of my company seems to bring the mood down, so I moderate myself, for everyone’s sake.
Luke is waiting for me by the time I enter the room, but there is no Laura.
‘Nora,’ Luke says, in an exaggerated kind of way, as though I am the next contestant on his game show.
I must stop imagining this is anything other than real life. Similes are naught but a defence mechanism. I must associate. Reassociate? Hyperssociate?
‘Hey.’
‘You look wrecked – did you have a big one last night?’
Luke’s teeth and chin are staring at me and I guess for now I have to follow the script.
‘Nope, just my face.’
‘Well, how are you? Am I going to get a hug?’