Waiting for Charlotte Rose

His palms were sweaty. That was what she noticed. They left a trail of thin residue over the taught swell of her stomach as she turned away from him in the bed, hoping to ease the ache in her lower back against his own abdomen. “She’s on the move again…” he murmured and splayed his fingers to better feel. “She’s a wriggler,” she responded, and arched her back the better to get some respite from the gnawing sensation of dulled, aching pain. “She’s constantly on the move – just like her daddy.”

“Ahh… sorry for that. Genetics are a bitch…” He lifted his hand and moved them to her breasts, cradling their fullness with a touch that was both possessive and tentative at the same time. “…and a blessing.” She’s asking for it, like a bitch in heat. Stupid, stupid cow. There’s no baby, it’s a lie…

“Hey…” She said softly, turning so that she faced him, pulling the sheets with her and displacing his hands as she went, eyes tear bright as she stared at him in the shadows of the bedroom. “Don’t let me dwell, okay?” She raised her palm palm to palm as holy palmers kiss and pressed it against his, lying limp where it had fallen. “You can feel her, right?”

“Of course I can feel her… are you-I mean, are they-“

“Ssh… Ssh. It’ll be alright, they’re just… there. Just there, waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For happiness… for those moments in between. For… the everythings and the nothings. Just… there.” Stupid, lazy cow. You’re lucky you won’t be a motherwhatkindofmotherwouldyoube… There’s nothing there… She squeezed, gently, sweat-click hand sliding in her own hand, strangely dry. “But it’s okay. I do know better, I do…”. I do know better. They’re just voices. “Don’t worry, babe. We’re all good for tonight.” She turned back around, drawing the sheets up and around them as she did so. And waited, breath held, for him to turn away also. He did so, slowly, but not before running one hand along her side in a slow, gentle caress.

“If you say so, sweetheart.” I do.

Liar.

When they got too bad, she’d attempt to drown them out. Through music, headphones plugged in against the deluge, listening to mindless drivel and be-bopping along until even that became just another cacophony. Placebo played and she took a vicious pleasure in chopping carrots each chop of the knife giving a resounding thunk into the wood of the chopping board.

It doesn't hurt me

Do you wanna feel how it feels?

Do you wanna know, know that it doesn't hurt me?

Chop. Making dinner, she’s making dinner, she’s chopping them all wrong, this will be terrible…

Chop.

And if I only could

I'd make a deal with God

And I'd get him to swap our places…

Chop. All done, now for the onions. Onions make her cry. Cry, little girl. Go ahead and just cry.

Absent-mindedly she went to knuckle at her eyes before realising just in time and wiping them on a tea towel instead. Her daughter kicked – it was sharp and caused her to draw in her breath, one earbud falling out to dangle uselessly by her right breast. “Active, aren’t you baby?” she murmured, and tucked the earbud back in. Just another night, no different from the rest. A vignette, one of many in the ever-decreasing countdown to her daughter’s birth. She thought that her baby maybe had the hiccups – her stomach was jumping in time with rhythmic little leaps, just as Van Halen’s ‘Jump’ came into the mix. She smiled despite herself. No jumping for me, not yet, anyways… The little pulses of her daughter’s hiccups were distracting her, and she paused for a moment, watching steam rise from the heating wok on the stovetop. You can’t jump – too fat, too heavy, too cumbersome – so very fat … Frying. Frying is a good distraction. She emptied the veggies into the wok and listened to the loudness of the sizzle as they hit the heated oil. Distractions. Distractions from the Voices. She felt as her gaze began to shimmer and dilute, the salt of a teardrop as it made its way down her cheek. Stupid onions… it’s not the onions, you’re crying like a little girl. Just a little girl lost. What kind of mother will you be? She turned up the volume on the ipod.

Her breasts felt heavy, pendulous with pregnancy and sensitive to the touch. The water had risen to almost completely cover her stomach and sweat from the steam rising pooled in the hollow of her throat and the tips of her shoulders. Her husband’s arms encompassed her, hands resting gently on the swell of her stomach, idly drawing intricate patterns on the damp flesh. The water of the bath was warm, but not overly so, making her feel vaguely somnolent – the feeling was pleasant, and relaxing. Her head lolled back against Dave’s chest, and she closed her eyes and inhaled the moist, fragrant air.

“This is nice.”

“Mmhmm…” He drew one hand up and pushed her hair back off her neck, dropping a kiss to the curve of her shoulder. “How are the Voices?” She paused in the act of running a face-washer over her leg and considered. “They’re just… there. The Man is louder today.” We’re right here, always here… “They narrate. It’s difficult to describe, but they hate me. Always haranguing, always speaking with each other. Sometimes… it’s difficult to focus. Sometimes they’re louder than at other times.

“And right now?” Right now we’re watching you laze about you fat cow. You should be doing the dishes, you’ve let them pile up.”

“Right now, they’re… manageable. I can hear myself think, sort of.” She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “God, I feel fat. Fat and… cumbersome.”

“You’re not fat – you’re my own personal fertility goddess. And I think you look beautiful.” She turned her head to kiss him then, and it was clumsy, all tongue and teeth clacking together. It was wonderful. “Fertility goddess? I certainly feel fertile, fecund. Fertile with foetus.”

“Our baby girl. She’ll grow up to be as brilliant as her mummy”. He took the face-washer from her and wrung it out over her breasts, the droplets falling carelessly across them. “And now, Mrs Prune-y, it’s time to get out.” They both got carefully to their feet and she watched their joined reflections in the mirror above the sink. Despite her husband’s words, the feeling of being grotesquely swollen wouldn’t quite leave, and she cupped her belly uncertainly. Almost as if from a distance she could feel her baby move, perhaps turning to a more comfortable position. It felt as though she’d swallowed a bucket of butterflies until a sharp jab just above the groin reminded her that she was, in fact, growing a tiny person in there, and one with flailing fists and feet. She took the towel that was passed to her and began to dry herself slowly and methodically. Dave had wandered out to the kitchen and she could hear dishes being stacked beside the sink. Supposed to be you doing the dishes you lazy cow, get out there and do some work! Determinedly she padded naked to the bedroom and located her robe which she promptly wrapped around herself, knotting the belt below her stomach. Only two more weeks, now. Just two little, insignificant weeks and her life would change forever – in more ways than one. Just two more weeks and I can start the medication…

As if in agreement, her daughter kicked again. And I can finally meet you, little kickboxer. It won’t work, drugs won’t work, you’re stuck with us… She reached over to the bedside table and snagged her ipod from amidst the debris, putting in the earbuds and cranking up the volume before going to join her husband in the kitchen. Just two. More. Weeks.

“And here comes the head – just one more push – there we go, one more and here’s the shoulders and there we go!” Her head fell back to the pillows, exhausted. The epidural had done its work and all she felt now was a sort of numb aching with just a hint of a sting at the end. Sweat dripped into her eyes and she lifted a limp hand to wipe it away. Dimly she registered that Dave was being asked to cut the cord, but the sound she was waiting to hear didn’t come – the voices surrounding her melded in to one another as she waited to hear her baby’s first cries. And waited. Didn’t all newborns come out screaming? She was sure that that’s what it showed in all the films and television shows – her baby should be crying. She started to pull her legs back and sit up further but helpful arms appeared to hold her back. “Just a few stitches, sweetie – don’t worry, it’ll be over in a moment…” and she lay back down, waiting for the doctor to finish her work. And then, there it was. There she was – a tiny, bloodied scrap of humanity placed oh so carefully into her arms. And she still hadn’t made a peep. The Voices, muted through all the pain and pushing, flared to life. Your baby’s defective. Shut up! She snapped back internally before she realised what she was doing and focussed instead on the child that was nestled in her arms.

“She’s beautiful…” Her husband murmured and watched as one tiny hand curled spasmodically around the finger he held out. “And so small!”

“She’s petite… and she didn’t feel that way coming out.” Just then she heard it – not a cry but hiccups, beautiful, delicate little hiccups. “Just like in utero! There’s my little kickboxer!” She moved the baby up so that she was lying, skin to skin, directly against her heart. She should have felt empty, but instead she felt whole as her entire centre of being coalesced and wrapped itself firmly, inexorably around her daughter. At that moment, medication was the furthest thing from her mind.

“Her name is Charlotte Rose.” She said firmly, and proudly. “And she’s perfect.” And, just for then, the Voices were silent.