She normally found satisfaction in the process of decluttering. If she didn’t need it, she didn’t want it in the house. She wanted optimum use of her space. Decluttering was a sort of renewal. Out with the old and in with the new.
She looked at the pile of items scattered in front of her. In actual fact she didn’t know what to keep and what to get rid of. In the end her choices were arbitrary and then shoved into a plastic bag. Reflected in the full length mirror it was still her kneeling there, her dark brown hair with its healthy sheen. But she only registered what sagged, what was unattractive and irreversible. Whatever she was meant to feel, she felt nothing. The midwife had said it could be like this.
‘Are you ready?’ Michael called from downstairs. His voice was from another world, one that she used to inhabit with him. She eased herself up and took the bag destined for the charity shop.
‘Do you need a hand?’
‘I’m OK. I’m just coming.’
She trod carefully on each step, still feeling sore.
Michael already had the pushchair outside. He helped her into her coat, then held her arm over the threshold; an unnecessary gesture.
‘OK?’
‘Yes, Michael. I’m OK.’
She looked down at the bundle in the pushchair and still could not believe it. Carefully she put the plastic bag in the space under the pushchair. All she could see was his woolly hat, sticking out of the top, the hat her mum had knitted, ahead of the game as always. She was so excited about becoming a grandma.
They walked through Endcliffe Park. The early signs of spring were starting to show. Michael had his hands firmly on the ergonomically curved handles of the pushchair. It was built for comfort. They were passed by joggers; some exhaling in a controlled manner, wholly committed to a rigorous routine; some puffing and panting, desperate to simply feel a little bit more alive. A dog came bounding and chasing back and forth around the pushchair, as the owner ran up, calling off the animal and apologising.
‘Are you OK?’ asked Michael.
She didn’t answer. It was striking how often he asked her that question. She didn’t doubt that he cared for her, at least for her physical state. It was her emotional state he did not fully engage with. She wished it was the other way round.
Michael was concerned about her returning to work, which was due to happen in a few weeks. But if he thought it wasn’t wise, he would have to do much more to persuade her. Not that she disagreed with him on this occasion, but it was her perverse way of testing him; to see if he would make good on his silent convictions; to see if he would try and save her. She reflected on this twisted logic. Michael had his work cut out, she admitted that.
They came to the entrance of the park, at the roundabout at Hunter’s Bar, and crossed to the side where the charity shop was. The Bluebell raised money for children in a hospice of the same name.
Across the road a cyclist swerved around a bus as it pulled away from the stop. The bus’s horn bellowed loudly, the rider taking a risk as he danced and weaved between cars, seemingly invigorated by the experience. They made their way along the pavement, amidst the noise and the fumes of the traffic.
Outside the shop, Michael kissed her on the cheek.
‘I’ll be at the bank. See you back here in five.’ She watched him walk away.
‘Let me get that for you.’ An older gentleman, smiling, held the door open and she rocked the pushchair carefully over the step. The shop had a muted stillness. It made her feel like she was somewhere she was not supposed to be.
‘Where do I leave donations?’ she asked the pristine lady behind the counter.
‘Thank you, we do appreciate it. By the door, over there.’
She left all she had brought where the lady said. Then she moved away and stood by a rack of trousers and looked at the abandoned items. An empty pushchair and two bags of baby clothes. She didn’t need any of it. They were just cluttering the house. Her donation would take its place in the store room that she could see through the open door, stacked floor to ceiling. A sign by the door read ‘Staff Only’. Out with the old, but there it stopped. The new had barely materialised before it came to an abrupt and devastating end. Donating the hat was too much. She picked it up and walked towards the exit.
‘Thank you again,’ said the lady at the counter. ‘They grow up fast, don’t they.’
She didn’t look at the lady. She left the shop quickly with the tiny hat scrunched up in her hand. Michael found her leaning against the wall outside. He looked at the hat.
‘You OK?’
‘Let’s go,’ she said.
They walked home in silence. She wanted to talk all about what they were going through, to share their pain. Get everything out in the open. Move forward. Michael had his hands deep in his pockets, watching the floor, lost in his unshared thoughts. Maybe he can’t share them. That that was a possibility struck her. They were nearly at the other end of the park when she stopped in the middle of the path. Those brief, precious moments. The wonderfully kind hospital staff. It was already a fading memory. What did he look like? They had barely had time to give him a name. A baby. He looked like a baby. Around them life went on, people and cars and trees in motion, as if there had never been any tragic loss. Luke. Little Luke.
Everything was going so slowly. There was too much to comprehend. She had lost her way. They had lost their way. She was trying to reimagine their future but it was the last thing she felt able to do. For better, for worse, in sickness and in health. Those vows that anticipated the uncertainties of what their life together might throw up.
‘I’m not OK.’
Michael stopped and looked back, only now realising she was no longer walking next to him. He came back a few steps and stood in front of her.
‘You look tired,’ he said.
He took her hand and she allowed herself to be led to a bench.
‘I’m not OK,’ she said again.
Michael sat and looked directly ahead. His sigh was just audible over the sound of the stream which flowed through the park.
‘Ruth, neither am I,’ he said.
She withered under his words and lay her head in his lap. He sat rigidly but one hand ran gently along her hair, which had spread itself over his legs. She was there for hours, it seemed, looking into the darkness behind her closed eyes.
When she sat back up Michael was exactly as she had left him.
‘Why did it have to happen?’
His eyes narrowed as if he were considering how to present her with some obvious rationale. He said nothing.
‘What are we going to do?’
There was a pause. She wondered if this was the end, for her, for them, for everything. She had failed to start the family they both wanted. What did that leave him with? She imagined him drifting away into his work and weekends spent separately; then another woman, and she was left on her own with nothing.
‘We’re going to live with it,’ Michael replied, helping her up from the bench.
She rubbed her face, trying to bring it to life. He put his arm gently round her shoulder and they walked on together. She wanted to cry, but couldn’t. They passed someone they knew, a neighbour. Michael took responsibility for the brief interaction, nothing more than mere pleasantries.
She was only half aware of the exchange. She managed to put on a smile, to deflect unwanted attention. She thought about the rest of the baby clothes that still needed sorting. She thought about walking again into the nursery room that they had painted together. We’re going to live with it. She allowed herself to be led home, her head resting against him, this man who might yet be able to save her.
She looked at the pile of items scattered in front of her. In actual fact she didn’t know what to keep and what to get rid of. In the end her choices were arbitrary and then shoved into a plastic bag. Reflected in the full length mirror it was still her kneeling there, her dark brown hair with its healthy sheen. But she only registered what sagged, what was unattractive and irreversible. Whatever she was meant to feel, she felt nothing. The midwife had said it could be like this.
‘Are you ready?’ Michael called from downstairs. His voice was from another world, one that she used to inhabit with him. She eased herself up and took the bag destined for the charity shop.
‘Do you need a hand?’
‘I’m OK. I’m just coming.’
She trod carefully on each step, still feeling sore.
Michael already had the pushchair outside. He helped her into her coat, then held her arm over the threshold; an unnecessary gesture.
‘OK?’
‘Yes, Michael. I’m OK.’
She looked down at the bundle in the pushchair and still could not believe it. Carefully she put the plastic bag in the space under the pushchair. All she could see was his woolly hat, sticking out of the top, the hat her mum had knitted, ahead of the game as always. She was so excited about becoming a grandma.
They walked through Endcliffe Park. The early signs of spring were starting to show. Michael had his hands firmly on the ergonomically curved handles of the pushchair. It was built for comfort. They were passed by joggers; some exhaling in a controlled manner, wholly committed to a rigorous routine; some puffing and panting, desperate to simply feel a little bit more alive. A dog came bounding and chasing back and forth around the pushchair, as the owner ran up, calling off the animal and apologising.
‘Are you OK?’ asked Michael.
She didn’t answer. It was striking how often he asked her that question. She didn’t doubt that he cared for her, at least for her physical state. It was her emotional state he did not fully engage with. She wished it was the other way round.
Michael was concerned about her returning to work, which was due to happen in a few weeks. But if he thought it wasn’t wise, he would have to do much more to persuade her. Not that she disagreed with him on this occasion, but it was her perverse way of testing him; to see if he would make good on his silent convictions; to see if he would try and save her. She reflected on this twisted logic. Michael had his work cut out, she admitted that.
They came to the entrance of the park, at the roundabout at Hunter’s Bar, and crossed to the side where the charity shop was. The Bluebell raised money for children in a hospice of the same name.
Across the road a cyclist swerved around a bus as it pulled away from the stop. The bus’s horn bellowed loudly, the rider taking a risk as he danced and weaved between cars, seemingly invigorated by the experience. They made their way along the pavement, amidst the noise and the fumes of the traffic.
Outside the shop, Michael kissed her on the cheek.
‘I’ll be at the bank. See you back here in five.’ She watched him walk away.
‘Let me get that for you.’ An older gentleman, smiling, held the door open and she rocked the pushchair carefully over the step. The shop had a muted stillness. It made her feel like she was somewhere she was not supposed to be.
‘Where do I leave donations?’ she asked the pristine lady behind the counter.
‘Thank you, we do appreciate it. By the door, over there.’
She left all she had brought where the lady said. Then she moved away and stood by a rack of trousers and looked at the abandoned items. An empty pushchair and two bags of baby clothes. She didn’t need any of it. They were just cluttering the house. Her donation would take its place in the store room that she could see through the open door, stacked floor to ceiling. A sign by the door read ‘Staff Only’. Out with the old, but there it stopped. The new had barely materialised before it came to an abrupt and devastating end. Donating the hat was too much. She picked it up and walked towards the exit.
‘Thank you again,’ said the lady at the counter. ‘They grow up fast, don’t they.’
She didn’t look at the lady. She left the shop quickly with the tiny hat scrunched up in her hand. Michael found her leaning against the wall outside. He looked at the hat.
‘You OK?’
‘Let’s go,’ she said.
They walked home in silence. She wanted to talk all about what they were going through, to share their pain. Get everything out in the open. Move forward. Michael had his hands deep in his pockets, watching the floor, lost in his unshared thoughts. Maybe he can’t share them. That that was a possibility struck her. They were nearly at the other end of the park when she stopped in the middle of the path. Those brief, precious moments. The wonderfully kind hospital staff. It was already a fading memory. What did he look like? They had barely had time to give him a name. A baby. He looked like a baby. Around them life went on, people and cars and trees in motion, as if there had never been any tragic loss. Luke. Little Luke.
Everything was going so slowly. There was too much to comprehend. She had lost her way. They had lost their way. She was trying to reimagine their future but it was the last thing she felt able to do. For better, for worse, in sickness and in health. Those vows that anticipated the uncertainties of what their life together might throw up.
‘I’m not OK.’
Michael stopped and looked back, only now realising she was no longer walking next to him. He came back a few steps and stood in front of her.
‘You look tired,’ he said.
He took her hand and she allowed herself to be led to a bench.
‘I’m not OK,’ she said again.
Michael sat and looked directly ahead. His sigh was just audible over the sound of the stream which flowed through the park.
‘Ruth, neither am I,’ he said.
She withered under his words and lay her head in his lap. He sat rigidly but one hand ran gently along her hair, which had spread itself over his legs. She was there for hours, it seemed, looking into the darkness behind her closed eyes.
When she sat back up Michael was exactly as she had left him.
‘Why did it have to happen?’
His eyes narrowed as if he were considering how to present her with some obvious rationale. He said nothing.
‘What are we going to do?’
There was a pause. She wondered if this was the end, for her, for them, for everything. She had failed to start the family they both wanted. What did that leave him with? She imagined him drifting away into his work and weekends spent separately; then another woman, and she was left on her own with nothing.
‘We’re going to live with it,’ Michael replied, helping her up from the bench.
She rubbed her face, trying to bring it to life. He put his arm gently round her shoulder and they walked on together. She wanted to cry, but couldn’t. They passed someone they knew, a neighbour. Michael took responsibility for the brief interaction, nothing more than mere pleasantries.
She was only half aware of the exchange. She managed to put on a smile, to deflect unwanted attention. She thought about the rest of the baby clothes that still needed sorting. She thought about walking again into the nursery room that they had painted together. We’re going to live with it. She allowed herself to be led home, her head resting against him, this man who might yet be able to save her.