Jangle of Mirrors

Five o’clock, she’ll be here any minute.

I run a finger along the film of dust on the once pristine chrome and glass coffee table. Cupboards bulge and gifts stack in corners. Every surface used up - even the ferns hang lifeless. The decluttering queen of the office will not be impressed.I open the front door and Lydia stands there, all blow-dried hair and flawless make-up.

“Phoebe, darling,” she says, leaning forward and kissing my cheek. “Lovely to see you, I can’t wait to see him. Where is he?”

She bounces over the threshold and wriggles out of her coat. I inhale its texture – shop-fresh and pressed, self-care and sanity. I nudge open the door to the lounge and she takes two long strides to the pushchair and gathers him up in her arms. He startles awake.

“What a gorgeous little man, you are,” she says, making cooing noises.

“I suppose.”

“He’s adorable. If he was mine, I‘d be cuddling him all the time. You don’t know how lucky you are.”

“Look at me, I’m a wreck.”

She casts me over with a critical eye “You’ll soon lose the baby weight. I guess you’re not getting much sleep.”

I snatch the baby from her cradling arms and drop him into the pushchair. He crash-lands on his back, like an inexpertly flown kite. Pudgy face crumples into a handkerchief of creases; eyes squeeze tight shut; mouth stretches like a cervix in labour. Siren wails.

“Now look what you’ve done!”

Lydia flaps her hands and pulls her mouth into a grimace. Her red nails gleam.

“Sorry, I don’t think I’m being much help.”

“I didn’t mean to snap. I’m not sure I’m cut out for this baby lark.”

Lydia gathers up her bags and hurries on her coat, shrugging out her hair.

“Please, don’t go, not yet.”

She puts on a wide-eyed apologetic face.

“Sorry, darling. Got to dash, I’m meeting some of the crew after work. They send their love.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re doing fine, by the way. Keep it up.”

Lipstick smile. She moves to embrace me, but recoils. 'Do I smell? Baby vomit?' I imagine what she’ll say to the others. ‘Poor Phoebe. She’s in a bad way. And her clothes, oh my god, if that’s motherhood, don’t sign me up.’ And they will all laugh. I catch sight of the sad lump in the mirror. Rolls and tumbles of flesh, folding over and over. Huge breasts, pendules of soft sag. Disgusting. I jerk open the door and release her back into her bright world. And sink further into the darkness of mine.

***

Two painful feeds later, Wayne slips through the door and holds out his arms. His tall frame fills the doorway and I lean into his shoulder, baby squashed between us. It feels safe.

“How’s my lovely wife? And my beautiful boy?” Wayne sweeps the baby out of my grasp and holds him aloft.
“ Proper chip off the old block, eh? We’re going to have such fun together.”

A green-eyed snake wriggles in my rib cage and slicks venom into my heart.

“Wayne …” The words won’t come out. “Wayne, I’m scared … I’m not cut out for this.. he’s coming between us, already.”

Wayne takes his eyes off the baby for a tiny second. “You’re doing great, don’t be silly.”

I grab his hand and wrench up my jumper, pressing it into what I found in the bathroom mirror, rolls of flesh, razored with barbed wire gashes.

Gentle hands ease my jumper down.

“I love you just the same as I always did.” He puts the baby in the cot and pulls me towards him. That way he can’t see me.

***

Three weeks, two days and a jangle of mirrors later, I am on my way. My feet are encased in concrete blocks and I shuffle along the pavement, hugging the hedges with the buggy. Passers-by lean in and point. I can hear their jibes. ‘Look at her, she’s not fit to be a mother.’ ‘Poor thing, he’s half starved.’ ‘It’s her husband I feel sorry for.’ I fix my eyes on the ground, where there are no taunts or raised eyebrows. My march to the scaffold.

I trudge on. Past the supermarket, through the park, and along the quiet path that leads to the swan’s nesting pond. Reeds wave at the edges where mud seeps and oozes. I shake out the picnic blanket and lay out sandwiches. The sun is a hot shimmer of dazzle. Dragonflies swoop and dive in arcs of blue and green. The water on the pond glints as shards of light bounce off its grey silence. A breath of wind whispers in the reeds. 'Go on, it’s you or him.'

I lift him out of the pushchair and place him on the blanket, arms and legs spreadeagled. He squints in the bright light and rocks his head from side to side. I hurry now and pull the sandwiches apart. The cling film is pliable. I position it and hold him close, neatly twisting the four corners together behind his head, a tourniquet. The plastic knot slides between my hands, but I hold on and keep turning. The warmth of the sun caresses my eyelids and dances on my cheek. 'I can do it, I’m going to do it.' My heart races. The cling film stretches across his face, glistening on his skin. His mouth stretches into an 0 as he sucks in all pockets of air. His arms flail. 'Not long.' Time elongates. Soundless sky. Airless world.

Something is tugging. And nuzzling. The mother swan unfolds her wings and flaps furiously, thrusting her neck and hissing at me. At us. I scramble to my feet, and whip off the cling film. Coughing, spluttering, red-faced baby. 'My baby. Threatened.' I’m running now, stumbling over the tussocks, pushchair in one hand, baby in the other. 'Please, let him live. I’m sorry.'

As the jangle of mirrors falls silent, I encase him in my arms as if for the first time. And feel his wonderful baby warmth.