Page 161 of Unspoken Words
Thanks to our parents and Chris, we were sitting in a pink wonderland of fairies in a magical garden. There was even a teeny tiny fairy door at the base of a tree mural, painted on the wall.
Sitting there, taking in the enchantment they’d created, I wanted nothing more than to be like Alice in Wonderland and shrink so that I could open the door and experience the magic inside.
Connor relaxed on the floor at my feet. “They definitely outdid themselves.”
And they had. They’d painted and decorated while I was in hospital, a surprise for when I was released.
Christina kicked her approval.
“Yep, she’s definitely happy today.”
“How about you? Are you very happy today?”
I was about to answer ‘yes’ when my stomach gurgled and reminded me that I wasn’t. “No.” My smile morphed to a frown.
“Why not?”
“Because my diet is drastically lacking in the pizza department.”
The newly formed tension in Connor’s shoulders eased. “Ellie, you know we have to keep an eye on how much high fat foods you consume. Dr Goodman and Dr Webb said—”
“BUT I’M PREGNANT, GODDAMN IT! A woman with a human being inside her uterus should be able to eat whatever the hell she likes.”
“Ell—”
“No!” My finger shot out and nearly poked him in the eye. “You shut your pie hole, Mr Privileged Sperm Donator. And while we’re on the topic of pies, my stomach is lacking those too. Meat pies. Apple pies. Chocolate pies. Mag-freakin’-pies.”
He chuckled. “You want to eat a magpie?”
“Yes! If it were on a bloody pizza, I would.”
Christina Karate Kid booted me again, so I glared at Connor and gently caressed my tummy. “Yes, I know, baby girl. We both want pizza and Daddy won’t let us have it. He’s a big Meany McDiet Head.”
Connor stood up and placed his hands on his hips as if he were in blue tights, red jocks, and wore a giant S on his chest. “I know what my girls need,” he announced, swivelling before soaring out of the room.
I shook my head and went back to jotting my diary notes for Christina:‘Sometimes Daddy will pretend to be Superman. Believe him, because he is’.
Smiling, I flicked back through the pages I’d written already. Tears welled in my eyes, and my heart pinched. I rubbed my chest, offering hushed words of reassurance that everything was fine, that everything would be fine, but that I had to write these things … just in case.
Connor returned to the room moments later, holding his guitar and a plate of carrot sticks, Vegemite, and sour cream. It wasn’t a greasy, cheesy, Meatlovers pizza, but it was my second favourite thing to eat in my current food-scoffing state.
“Am I still Meany McDiet Head?” he asked, placing the plate on my lap and then kissing my forehead.
“Yes. No. Maybe a little.” I picked up a carrot stick, dunked it in my jar of vegemite, then rolled it in sour cream before shovelling it into my mouth, crunching and licking my fingers like a greedy goblin.
Connor dry-retched, lifted his guitar in place, and settled his arse on the arm of my rocking chair, his fingers strumming a light, sweet rift—the beginning of “My Girls”, a song he’d been playing around with since learning Marshmallow head was his daughter.
Strawberry hair, sweet kisses
Breathe in and count my wishes
I reach out, touch your skin.
It’s not a dream
This is real
It’s not a dream
