Page 79 of Close to You
It’s not that. As soon as I unfold the flaps at the top, the contents of the box are clear.
Baby clothes.
Thirty-Eight
There is a pale blue onesie with ‘Daddy’s little boy’ printed on the front, plus a pink one that reads ‘Daddy’s little girl’. As well as those, the box contains matching hats for the outfits, plus small white socks and tiny booties that look like they would be too big for a doll.
Everything smells fresh and new. The labels read Marks & Spencer and I can imagine this being the type of thing a grandmother-to-be might buy in anticipation of a birth.
Other than me, only two people knew about my pregnancy: David and Jane. It was literally the last thing David and I talked about, or, I supposearguedabout. It’s impossible to resist the pull to look down at the spot in the kitchen where he hit his head. Sometimes I think I can still see the pool of blood, even though it was cleared years ago.
It’s not as if the package was left by accident, or that it could be someone else’s. My name was on the front. It was meant for me. It’s not exactly upsetting, more of a jolt to times gone by.
Daddy’s little boy.
Daddy’s little girl.
I find myself rubbing the scar at the base of my neck again. In the days after David slashed me with the kitchen knife, I feared the mark would end up being far darker than it ever became. The narrow line is only a little muddier than my actual skintone and, unless a person is standing close to me – and actually looking – I doubt anyone would notice.
I spend much of the morning doing little other than pacing my flat, looking for answers where there are none. I find the clothes online. They’re part of Marks & Spencer’s current season, so would be available at any of their stores. Whoever bought the clothes did so recently.
It has always felt like a cliché that someone can jump when they’re surprised. It’s a figure of speech – and yet, when my doorbell sounds, I yelp like a dog whose tail has been stepped on. I leap high enough that I have to cling onto the counter to stop myself from tumbling. I quickly sweep the baby clothes into the drawer in which I usually keep tea towels and then crush the empty box into the bin under the sink.
The doorbell sounds a second time, though I’m ready for it now. When I answer, I’m not sure why I was surprised at all. It’s two minutes to one and Jane is there with Norah strapped into a buggy.
She blusters into my flat buggy-first and then places a couple of bags onto the counter.
‘Norah’s slept on and off all morning,’ Jane says, by way of a greeting. ‘She’ll probably be awake most of the afternoon.’
‘No worries,’ I reply, while thinking,thanks for that.
Jane seems flustered as she checks her coat pockets and then reaches under the pram to check on something.
She speaks quickly: ‘If you do take her to the park, then she likes being strapped into the buggy most of the time. But it might tire her out enough for her to sleep if you take her out, so that could be the best idea.’
There is little subtlety there – and I guess this means I’m definitely taking Norah to the park.
Jane indicates to the space under the buggy: ‘There are two changes of clothes just in case, plus blankets, her monkey and a bottle of milk for the fridge.’
Presumably because she’s about to have it removed and it’s on her mind, Jane starts to scratch the mole next to her bra strap. There are a rapid couple of scritches, but she stops when she realises what she’s doing.
‘Are you worried about it?’ I ask, nodding to her shoulder.
‘They say it doesn’t hurt, but who knows?’
The mole is the type of thing I wouldn’t have noticed until Jane pointed it out a year or so ago. The doctors said it wasn’t tumorous, but she wanted it removed anyway.
‘You look terrified,’ Jane says, looking from me to the buggy.
Norah is awake, though happily sitting and staring. I’m not sure if all infants do the same, but she will sometimes stare at something seemingly innocuous like a lamp as if it’s a wonder of the world. I suppose there’s a part of everyone that wishes the world could still be viewed in such a way. Norah seems to be interested in the skirt I have drying over the radiator.
‘I think I can handle a sixteen-month-old,’ I reply, although not particularly confidently.
‘I have to get going,’ Jane says, checking her phone. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back.’
She crouches and says goodbye to Norah and then heads out to her car.
I stare at Norah, who stares back at me. I undo the straps to release her from the buggy, but she doesn’t move.
