Becky wanted to love her baby. She really did. For nine months, she’d fantasized about the perfect little sprite who’d easily slip out of her and charm the world. That was the plan following an A+ textbook pregnancy. Becky knew how lucky she’d been. No morning sickness, apart from one embarrassing moment at the grocery store when the sight and smell of bloody hamburger at the meat counter made her hurl into her tote bag. Thankfully, it was plastic lined, and nobody witnessed her plight. She was able to duck into the washroom and get herself sorted.

By the second trimester, boundless energy replaced Becky’s few weeks of fatigue so minor she’d hardly noticed. She revelled in her socially acceptable blooming belly, and was especially fond of perching her coffee cup there instead of what it had been pre-pregnancy, a tormenting midriff bulge that she’d never successfully shed or easily sucked in.

Another pregnancy bonus was her suddenly raging libido, to the delight of the ever-attentive Ian, a solid and kind husband who couldn’t wait to be a dad. Becky was certain she’d love him even more when they became a family. That she’d finally stop thinking about Josh and the heady days they’d shared as roommates in New York City the year her grandmother left her money to follow her dream. There had been no romance with Josh, it was all in her head. She knew it the moment he rebuffed her that mortifying day in the kitchen they shared when she’d hit on him. Still, part of her heart had never wavered. Even after all this time, more than five years later, she thought about him. A lot.

And now the baby. It arrived, incredibly, on its due date, the eighteenth of May just as lilac was slowly blooming after a soggy, cold Toronto spring. Labour had been intense but remarkably efficient, with Ian buzzing around rubbing Becky’s back and offering ice chips. “Leave me alone,” she’d hissed mid-contraction, wild-eyed and panting, swallowing screams ready to blow her apart. She felt like she was being turned inside out. Was the baby okay? Becky pictured it torn apart, coming out in bloody clumps as the horror continued.

“Okay, Hon,” soothed Ian, backing away; “But I’m here. I’m still here.” A nurse patted him on the back as though he were the one needing to be soothed.

A cry, a cheer. Finally! A baby. Miraculously, a perfect baby. A girl. Becky reached out eagerly when they put it – her! – in her arms. Ian wept on Becky’s shoulder and kissed her and the baby, dazzled. In that moment, Becky relaxed: My life can really begin now.

Sophie Adele. They named her after their grandmothers: Sophie was Ian’s, a feisty seventy-year-old who was away hiking the East Coast trail that week; Adele, dead for almost seven years, had been Becky’s. How Becky needed her now, the one person she’d always counted on for support. Even when support had been Adele’s sharp reminder to wise up honey bunch, you’ve got this! Well, Becky sure didn’t have it now, terrified as she was looking at the alien creature she’d pushed out.

The first week at home, Sophie was post-partum sleepy. Ian had taken time off work and looked after daily life as Becky fussed over her own sore and spurting body and tried to get Sophie to nurse. Finally, finally the baby latched on perfectly and Ian went back to his tech job at the downtown YMCA.

Home alone, Becky robotically fed, bathed, changed and rocked Sophie. She cared for her distractedly, as though she were watching a movie with a real mother tending to her newborn. She was even more aloof, repelled, when she looked at Sophie’s scrawny chicken legs and drying, scabby stub of umbilical cord. Had they really been attached all those months? It was a distant dream that had morphed into a grinding nightmare. Becky looked away when the baby squirmed in sleep. She started rubbing her own wrist bone to keep her hands busy. Day after day, she rubbed it raw until the skin broke and oozed. The sting reminded her she was alive.

And now Megan and Sam, who’d recently moved back to Toronto from Brooklyn, had sent a sweet card with a basket of pink onesies and sturdy little board books. They wanted to visit. Can’t wait to meet the babe; just say when! Megan had written on the card. PS: Josh will be in town for July 1 weekend. Reunion???

Becky tried to picture Ian and Josh meeting each other. Her two worlds colliding: Love imagined; love found. The baby would be the immediate star of the show, of course, the parents’ anxious understudies; the friends waiting in the wings for speedy deliverance from obligatory oohing and aahing. Waiting for the relief of drinks and reminiscing.

“Let’s just invite them for an hour,” said Ian when Becky tearfully insisted she couldn’t possibly cope with visitors yet. “You can escape with Sophie after ten minutes if you want. Just say it’s time to feed her and disappear. Who wouldn’t understand that?” His eternal reasonableness swayed her; just as it had swayed her to marry him after all. She felt safe with him. Settled.

Ever helpful, Ian picked up snacks and drinks and combed Dollarama for goofy Canada Day stuff – red-and-white deely boppers, flag-shaped sunglasses, balloons. His silliness eased her anxiety, apart from wondering why he was always just so darned nice to her. Guileless. She’d fallen in love with nice but still craved … what?

“You don’t know how good you’ve got it girl,” Megan had told her resolutely the day before Ian and Becky got married.

“I do. I really do. But I always miss you know. New York,” said Becky. You know. Code for Josh. They both knew it but carried on, determined not to go down the slippery slope of letting this guy come between them again. It had been tough for Becky to move on when she’d realized Megan had had an affair with Josh. She was furious that Megan had listened to her gush about Josh like a demented teen groupie with a lethal crush that entire year without so much as a hint at the truth. Embarrassed. Betrayed.

“That was then, and this is now. Fun while it lasted. But hey, we grew up. Had to,” said Megan. “And now look at you. Great guy, salt of the earth and all that. You’re allowed to be happy you know.”

Happy. Becky was determined to try even though she felt like a train had left the station with her running fast to catch up. Breathing hard and searching for signposts always slightly out of reach.

On Canada Day, Sophie was unrelentingly fussy. Ian and Becky passed her back and forth, bouncing and pacing, exasperated. Becky strapped her into the baby carrier and slapped together avocado toast for lunch. Ian grabbed two bottles of cold craft beer, and they toasted each other ruefully as sweat pooled between Becky’s breasts.

“Maybe she’s teething,” said Ian.

“She. Is. Only. Six. Weeks. Old,” Becky hissed. Ian backed away palms held up in supplication.

Still Becky bounced and paced. Sophie mewling: tears and sweat pooling. She was convinced she had a defective child. That no one deserved this misery.

Finally, finally, Sophie drifted into fitful sleep.

“They’ll be here in an hour,” Ian tentatively reminded Becky after he’d organized the silly Canada Day stuff and snacks on the dining room table, now ablaze in a red-and-white tablecloth and bobbing maple leaf balloons tied to the faux chandelier.

“Why don’t you put her down and rest for awhile?” he asked, still wary.

“Think I’ll take her for a walk. I need some air,” said Becky. She held her breath as she carefully extracted Sophie from the carrier and gently put her in the stroller.

“Do you want me to come?”

“No, no I’m okay. Just need to be alone for a few. Really. I’ll be back before they get here.” Becky saw his shoulders relax; that he believed her, unflinchingly optimistic as he was that this dreadful phase of early, anxious parenthood would soon end.

Despite the insufferable heat, Becky was grateful to be outside looking like a normal mother enjoying a fine summer’s day, contentedly pushing her sleeping baby. That is what she craved to be, if only she could squelch the constant dread in her head that she was unfit, a failure.

After a walk in High Park and stopping for an ice cream bar at the concession stand near the pool, Becky realized she’d better grab the subway home as Megan, Sam and Josh would be there any minute. Thanks to Ian, all was in order, and she’d so carefully dressed Sophie in a pink onesie with ruffles on the bum that had been in Megan’s and Sam’s gift basket. Becky knew she was expected to show off her perfect pink baby.

As they waited on the eastbound platform, Sophie started howling and flailing her arms. Despite the heat, Becky tucked a light blanket around her in a pseudo-swaddle, praying it would calm her. She hummed soft and low as she continued to mindlessly push the stroller back and forth. On the opposite track, the westbound train thundered into the station churning up puffs of gritty dust and the sour smell of hot steel.

Becky watched the rush of passengers race off and on the train. She recognized the tall, skinny dishevelled guy she’d seen panhandling near the station entrance many times. He was always smiling. Now he rushed out of the last car, paper cup in hand, and pushed his way onto the next before chimes signalled the doors were closing. Push! The dreaded voice came back to her, that bullying nurse in the labour room exhorting her to push push push when she was so frantically exhausted she could scarcely breathe. Legs trembling, feet cramping in the stirrups, straining, panting. A whorl of confusion. Terror.

She had been convinced they would let her die on that unforgiving narrow slab of a bed. Sometimes, when this nightmare recurred as it frequently did in the limbo of half sleep, she dreamt she was dead until Sophie’s cries startled her awake. To have this dream stalk her at midday panicked her. She was wildly dizzy and clutched her abdomen with her left hand to steady herself as she pushed the stroller, perilously close to the platform edge. Push … push … push. That’s all it would take. One more big push and it could all be over.

Becky half spun, gasping, and edged a step closer. The right front wheel tottered over the yellow strip bordering the platform. She felt the sharp sting of her raw wrist as a strong hand grasped it. “How old’s your beautiful baby?” A calm, soft voice, an arm gathering her in and smoothly pulling her back.

Becky leaned into the woman as the train thundered into the station. The woman guided them on board. “Six weeks,” stammered Becky.

“It’s the hardest part,” said the woman as she gently pushed Becky further inside and quickly backed onto the platform as the doors began to close and disappeared.

Becky looked down at her raw wrist, a throbbing pulse. The sting was gone. The oozing had stopped. Her terror eased as the train gathered speed. She would hold that stranger’s touch close when she got home. It was the unexpected salve to ease the dread of a visit with Josh, Megan and Sam. A blip she would also survive.

 

Jane Finlayson’s stories and creative nonfiction are published in The Fiddlehead (Fiction Contest winner 1999; Honourable Mention 2007; finalist 2023), The Malahat Review, The New Quarterly, Prairie Fire, Room, Event (Non-Fiction Contest winner 2010), The Penmen Review and The Raven’s Perch (US), and STORGY (UK). She lives in Toronto, Canada.