A Mother's Goodbye

I ring the doorbell and try not to peer through the diamond-shaped window at the top of the door, knowing I’ll look nosy and anxious. Then a girl opens the door, hard and fast, and stands there with her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowed.

‘You must be Grace Thomas.’ She sounds accusing.

‘And you must be… Emma.’

‘No,’ she said in a well-duh voice. ‘I’m Amy.’

‘Oh, right—’ She’s already flounced away. I stand there uncertainly, feeling like a teenager on a first date.

Then Heather appears, looking flushed and flustered. Her hair is back in a ponytail, secured by a big pink scrunchie. She’s wearing the maternity jeans and t-shirt I bought her on our shopping trip, and her belly has really popped. I stare at it, amazed by its fecund roundness. My baby.

‘Grace, hi. Come in, come in.’

‘I brought some things. Chocolate, wine—’

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have.’ I can’t tell if she means it or not. I hand her the bottle, which she holds by the neck, like it’s a dead chicken.

‘Wow, fancy chocolates. The girls will love those.’

I have the individual presents for the girls in my bag, but now I’m not sure if I should break them out. Maybe it will seem like overkill, like I’m bragging with my generosity, bribing them somehow.

I follow Heather into the living room. A heavy smell of stale cigarette smoke, old beer, and the overlying scent of synthetic floral air freshener permeates the room, which is dominated by a large flat-screen TV and a sectional sofa upholstered in fake suede. There is also a La-z-Boy placed prominently in front of the TV, and Heather’s husband Kevin is sitting in it.

I think I’ve been most nervous about meeting Kevin, and yet looking at him now I think how small he is. He’s a slight man, with thinning brown hair and muddy eyes. He looks like he’s been beaten down by life and he’s not getting up anytime soon. He doesn’t get up from the La-z-Boy when I come into the room. He doesn’t even mute the television.

‘Kev, this is Grace.’ Heather stands there, looking between us, twisting her hands together. Kev nods at me.

‘Hi,’ he says, and turns back to the TV.

Well, he’s rude. I expected that. But I was also expecting some beefy tattooed guy who’d crack his knuckles and grunt. Put Kevin McCleary in a suit and a pair of glasses and he’d look like a mediocre accountant.

‘Nice to meet you, Kevin,’ I say, and I can’t help it, I sound like a schoolteacher. Then I let out a startled ‘oof’ as a small, solid body barrels into my legs. I step back instinctively, but grubby little hands clutch at my thighs and a chubby, snot-nosed face looks up at me, blinking.

‘This is Lucy,’ Heather says, and her voice is full of affection. I try to smile.

‘Hey, Lucy. I’ve got a little present for you.’ I fumble in my bag for the plush toy, a little white seal. Kevin shifts in his chair, maybe mutters something. I hand the seal to Lucy, who coos over it for approximately three seconds and then throws it to the floor.

‘Lucy,’ Heather says, so half-heartedly I grit my teeth. I’m being touchy about everything, but only because I feel so insecure. Lucy runs off and Heather turns toward the kitchen.

‘Thanks for having me over,’ I say to no one in particular. ‘It was so kind of you.’

I follow Heather through a dark little dining room crowded with furniture and junk to a tiny kitchen with ancient linoleum and even older appliances. She bends down to peer into the oven.

‘I think it’ll be ready soon.’

‘Great. It smells delicious.’

Heather straightens and gives me a nervous smile.

‘How are you doing, Heather?’ I ask. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Oh, you know. Good.’ She pats her bump self-consciously. ‘I’m thirty-two weeks now. Not too much longer.’

‘I know, I’m so excited. I can’t wait to meet her.’ The words feel forced, even though I mean them utterly. But this crazy dance we’re doing together makes me so dizzy. We’re dodging minefields at every moment, the awkwardness of a relationship that really isn’t there even though we’re trying to act like it is, and sometimes it has felt like it’s real. But it’s not going to last. In about eight weeks I’m hoping never to see Heather or her family again.

‘Have you started getting ready?’ she asks brightly, her voice a little too loud. ‘You know, clothes, a nursery…?’

‘Well, yes.’ Suddenly I feel shy, almost embarrassed. ‘I’ve decorated the nursery. I’m doing an elephant theme.’ Does it sound silly? I can’t tell. ‘I used to love elephants when I was a little girl.’