Nightshift

Her scream was silent.

But her body thrashed violently against tangled sheets.

Eyes wide, she tumbled from the bed with a muffled thud.

He is aroused first by the movement, then the empty space in the bed, the retreat of warmth.

He sits up. Eyes still half closed as he feels for her body. She’s not there and he panics.

It’s happening again.

He frowns, and tears catch in his throat before materialising.

He should have been more vigilant, he should have been alert to the signs…mea culpa, mea culpa for the rest of my life.

Awake now, he struggles to find his pants in the strained moonlight of the bedroom. He stops and listens for her next move.

The sounds from the kitchen are unmistakable. Cupboards are opened, the tap is running.

A wave of relief, maybe she is just getting a drink of water.

But then it starts. The squeak of the floorboards on repeat, up and down. She is pacing, back and forth, back, and forth.

He creeps down the passageway and the need for subterfuge feels like some kind of betrayal.

She is getting into a rhythm. Like driving around the block. The thrum of the engine, indicate to turn left, all clear, make the turn, accelerate, indicate to turn right. Slow, check the traffic, turn right. Drive around, and back. Around and back.

He approaches the kitchen door softly, as if huddling into his own body can make him smaller.

His height had always given him an authority he was uncomfortable with, he didn’t want the burden of other people’s accountability.

He watches her tiny frame as she paces, her mechanical movements, her ashen face, an automated angel.

It is all he can do to stop himself from reaching out and gathering her in his arms to stop her relentless march across the floor. But he knows how this goes, comfort can only come at the end of it all.

******

On another night in another world, her baby is crying. She’s tired. She is so tired that everything feels ethereal, a world seen through tracing paper.

She untangles the sheets and steps into the cold, pulls on her hoody, registering its smell of baby sick and steamed carrots with a small gag.

She looks over at him and smiles, incredulous that he can be so thoroughly asleep.

In the nursery she picks up the little girl – a reddened, snotty weight in her arms, bawling her discomfort for all the world to hear.

She goes through the motions. Nappy change, a warm soothing face washer to clear the nasal passages, but the crying is a constant, as relentless as cicadas on a hot night.

She warms a bottle and it’s rejected by sticky little fists. Nestled on her shoulder the child cries in the crook of her neck as she paces the kitchen floor.

She finds their beanies and a bunny rug and fumbles for the car keys. And then, cocooned in the car, they drive around the familiar neighbourhood streets, lulled by the quiet starlit night and the hum of the engine.

******

It’s 4 am when the rap at his door rouses his sleep. He understands not much more than car crash, fatality, admitted to hospital, and he can only think of her angel face as they drive him to the hospital past the scene of crumpled metal and bent light posts. Neighbours glide by, clutching dressing gowns hovering wide-eyed and whispering on footpaths and doorsteps, and he feels stuck in a slow-moving claustrophobic tube heading to an unwanted destiny.

******

Now he watches her face as she criss-crosses the kitchen. He sees her soothing cherub mouth form sounds that never move beyond her lips.

Steam from the kettle whisps up to the ceiling, a baby bottle stands ready for heating.

Her arms move like a swing.

He wipes his eyes, knowing she will wake soon and tomorrow she’ll again grieve those empty, useless arms.