Odd Socks (23 page)

I yawn tiredly, automatically glance at the clock on the microwave and get a real shock when I register that it's past eleven. I can't believe the entire evening has whizzed by and I haven't even had a chance to relax. I've been running up and down the stairs, putting away baby paraphernalia, setting up baby barricades and tending to baby needs. I suppose that at least it's kept my mind busily away from mystery men, and mystery meetings, and mystery mental meanderings. But still, how do parents cope with this stuff, day after day after day? How did
I
do it? I feel so exhausted that even my bones ache.

Boy, am I going to sleep like the dead tonight.

Handy Household Hint No XIV:

For a severe headache: take a large coconut and split it open. Discard contents and fill with 1 cup Bailey's Irish Cream and 1 tablespoon low-fat milk. Use concoction to wash down two painkillers.

I'm sitting on an old wooden swing in the corner park, being pushed by my father and screaming with delight. Up and down, higher and higher – my blonde plaits streaming forwards as I descend and then trailing behind like the tails of a kite as I shoot towards the cloudless blue sky. I'm going
so
high that I think there's a chance, a
very
good chance, I'll be able to duplicate the incredible feat performed by Sebastiana Poxleitner of Grade 3B, and go all the way over.

I pump my legs furiously, tucking them underneath as I approach the ground and flinging them out at the apex of the lift. I shriek at my father to push harder, faster, higher – and suddenly someone else starts shrieking with me. I look around in confusion and immediately lose my momentum, my speed rapidly decreasing until any hopes of equalling Sebastiana Poxleitner of Grade 3B remain exactly what they've always been – a dream.

But even as I stop screaming, the other person continues. Over and over – shrill, penetrating infantile bleats that echo
around the park and send the birds flocking up into the sky. As the cries continue, a misty fog drifts in and slowly encroaches on the park, the swing, and my father. I watch wide-eyed as its hazy tendrils reach me and then find myself having to fight through the murkiness in order to surface. When I finally do, I open my eyes and stare groggily around my bedroom.

Same room, same bed, same shadowy grey outlines of furniture. But different noises. I reach out, flick on my bedside lamp and sit up, rubbing the remains of the mist from my eyes. Of course – it's the baby screaming, but why hasn't Bronte answered her yet? I glance across at the time and grimace before burrowing back down under the doona, waiting for Bronte to do something.

Unfortunately, this takes several minutes and by the time I hear Bronte murmuring to the baby, I'm wide awake. But at least the screaming has stopped. I fling back the doona and, grateful that I decided to leave the pyjamas on for sleeping, pad softly downstairs to get a drink of water. When I get back, I pay the ensuite a brief visit and then crawl thankfully into the warmth of my bed. All is quiet next door so I turn off my light and curl up, trying to will myself back to the swing in the park with my father.

But it's long gone.

This time I recognise the screams the instant they infiltrate my consciousness. Mainly because it took me quite some time to get back to sleep and I don't think I had even got close to that soul-deep level where you wake feeling all groggy and
confused. Instead I reach out, flick on the light and check the time. Bugger.

Fortunately, Bronte appears to respond a little quicker on this occasion and the screams subsist within minutes. And I don't even hear any murmuring happening so I'm guessing the baby has gone straight back to sleep.

It's all right for some.

She is crying once more. Physically, mentally and emotionally, I drag myself into a sitting position and glare at the wall separating Bronte's room from mine. I don't bother turning on the light but, unfortunately, I can still make out the time which just depresses me even further. I groan and then flop back down and stare at the darkened ceiling, waiting for the crying to stop. And it's a long wait.

I think
I'm
going to cry. And then that would make two of us. I lie in bed listening to Sherry's wailing and find myself temporarily unable to summon the motivation even to curse. Each cry stretches forever and then, as it fades, becomes a shuddering reverberation that sends shock waves through the marrow of my bones. My head is thumping and my eyes feel like somebody has lifted each eyelid and poured in a teaspoon of sand.

Instead of crying, I pull the doona over my head and push my face into the pillow. But it doesn't matter what I do, I can still hear the shrill, mewling wails coming from what was, just yesterday, the love of my life. At the moment she is simply the bane of my existence.

I'm hit by the deathly quiet of the house the instant I open my eyes. An unnatural, eerie stillness that is strangely at odds with the daylight filtering through the curtains. Instead of indulging in my customary spread-eagled stretch, I fling the doona back and, pulling my fluffy socks on, pad next door to Bronte's room. The door is open and there is nobody inside.

I hurry downstairs and, by the time I reach the foyer, can hear a muffled but relatively calm voice coming from the kitchen area. I slow down with relief although I'm not quite sure what I was worried about – perhaps that Bronte had posted her perpetually wailing daughter down the laundry chute in the early hours of the morning? As I cross the lounge-room, I note that the curtains have all been drawn back and the heat switched on. Then I turn the corner towards the kitchen and the first thing I see is the capsule, balanced on the island bench.

‘So today we'll practise how to be a good girl for Mummy, all right?' Bronte, dressed in yesterday's jeans and windcheater, has her back to me and is washing dishes in the sink. ‘And then tonight, if you sleep
all
night, I'll let you watch MTV in the morning.'

‘If she sleeps all night, I'll let her do anything she likes,'
I comment dryly as I peer inside the capsule. Sherry, dressed in a pink and lime-green striped romper set with a matching hair-band, blinks up at me and blows a rather impressive saliva bubble.

‘Mum! Good morning!' says Bronte brightly, wiping her hands on a tea-towel. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?'

‘Love one,' I reply, yawning.

‘Oh, Mum, did we keep you up last night?'

‘Well–' I run my finger over Sherry's little hand. ‘No, no– I'm fine.'

‘Good. Because Sherry did play up a bit and I was, like, really worried she'd wake you up.' Bronte puts the kettle on and gets my coffee plunger ready. ‘But obviously she didn't, so that's cool.'

‘Yeah, cool,' I reply as I stroke the baby's head gently. ‘Bronte, what on
earth
is up with all these hair-bands?'

‘Aren't they great?' says Bronte happily. ‘Like,
so
cute.'

I refrain from answering while I tickle Sherry on the stomach. She immediately scrunches up her face and goes an unbecoming shade of red.

‘Look, Bronte!' I point at the baby's face. ‘Take the bloody thing off! She's embarrassed!'

‘No she's not.' Bronte glances at her daughter and sighs. ‘She's filling her nappy again. And I've only
just
changed her!'

‘Ah,' I say wisely, as the accuracy of Bronte's guess is evidenced by the infiltration of a certain aroma. ‘Yech!'

‘I'll take her out in the lounge and change her.' Bronte hefts the capsule off the bench. ‘You'll have to finish making your coffee. I'll have one too.'

I watch her leave the room and absentmindedly wonder whether Sherry's contribution will be the same colour as the shorts Richard was wearing on Tuesday. Then, with a jolt, I register what I'm wondering about and shake my head in
disgust. Sick, sick, sick. I rechannel my thought processes towards coffee and concentrate on the kettle instead. And while I'm waiting for the water to boil, I put myself through a few stretches to loosen up my muscles. Because I'm
definitely
feeling the effects of yesterday's gym routine. I spare a thought for Cam who, I'm willing to bet, woke up this morning barely able to move. The thought turns into a chuckle when I remember her face as she floundered around on the end of the treadmill.

‘What's so funny?' calls Bronte from the lounge-room.

‘Nothing.' I pour boiling water into the plunger and assemble a couple of mugs. ‘Hey, how many sugars do you have?'

‘Two!'

‘Milk?'

‘Just a tad!'

I make the coffees and take them over to the table with a couple of coasters. Then I settle myself down contentedly, ignoring the complaints coming from my thighs. Through the French doors and beyond the enclosed courtyard, I can see that the sky is heavy with low-hanging grey clouds that promise heavy rain in the not-too-distant future. It's the sort of day that you should spend curled up on the couch in front of an open fire with a good book in one hand, a block of chocolate in the other and a blanket across your lap. Maybe today's the day to accompany Rhett and Scarlett through the pages of
Gone with the Wind
.

I lace my fingers around my mug and yawn. That last solid four-hour sleep has done wonders, and I feel twice the person I did just before six this morning. But I'm also pretty amazed that I slept in for so long – I
never
sleep in!

‘Toast?' asks Bronte, putting the capsule down by the table and going back into the kitchen.

‘Mmm, yes please.'

‘Hey, Mum, what's with the stain in front of the couch?' Bronte glances at me as she pops some bread into the toaster. ‘Did you spill something?'

‘Did
I
spill something?' I ask, astounded.

‘Yeah, I looked under that new rug.' Bronte gets the butter out of the fridge. ‘Because I don't like it. Big pinkish stain, right in front of the couch.'

‘Yes, I
know
where it is.'

‘So, what did you do?'

‘I didn't
do
anything! It was . . .' I peter out, looking at her face, and then go on slowly:‘. . . me. Yes. Red wine, you know.'

‘Mum! You should know better!'

‘Yeah, I suppose I should.' I take a sip of coffee and watch Bronte deftly catch the toast as it shoots enthusiastically out of the slots in the toaster. Then she proceeds to spread each slice liberally with butter and, putting mine on a plate, brings it over to me.

‘Here you go!'

‘Thanks,' I take a big bite and then dab up the hot melted butter as it dribbles down my chin. ‘Delicious!'

Bronte puts her own plate next to her coffee and sits down. ‘Do you know, Mum, I'd forgotten what weird slept-in hair you have in the morning.'

‘Thanks,' I say sarcastically, running my fingers through my hair in an attempt to straighten it. ‘And I'd forgotten how great you are for my self-confidence, too.'

‘And now you've got butter in it,' says Bronte, watching with interest. ‘You look like that Mary chick in
There's Something About Mary
.'

‘Haven't seen it,' I comment while I attempt to clean
and
straighten my hair. ‘Did she have butter in her hair too?'

‘Yeah, Mum. That's right – butter.'

‘But why?'

‘
I
don't know. A fetish, I suppose.'

We lapse into silence as we devour our toast. I'm beginning to think I'm really going to enjoy this week. I'll buy earplugs today, which should take care of the nights, and then all I've got to look forward to is coffee and breakfast each morning, and the sight of Sherry whenever I wish. I push my plate away and pick up the mug.

‘Just tell me if we get in your way,' says Bronte, obviously thinking along similar lines. ‘Like, I don't want to be a nuisance.'

‘Far from it!' I look her in the eye to emphasise my point. ‘It'll be a pleasant change for a while. And, in fact, I've decided to take next week off work while you're here as well. I'm going to ring the library later – perhaps it'll qualify as carer's leave or something.'

‘Great,' says Bronte, without quite the level of enthusiasm I was expecting.

‘Hey, whatever happened to that weird woman who was in the bed next to you?' I ask curiously. ‘You know, the one who talks like Eeyore from Winnie-the-Pooh.'

‘Oh, you mean Mrs Cobb.' Bronte rolls her eyes and leans closer. ‘You wouldn't
believe
it, Mum. She left the day before me and her husband came in to pick her up and, like, he was even worse than her! So, there they are, getting all her stuff together and not saying anything and that baby is just, like, crying nonstop. He did that, you know –
all
the time. Anyway, so I'm reading a magazine and I think that baby's been crying forever! So I look across, and you wouldn't believe it!'

‘Try me,' I say encouragingly.

‘Well, they'd left!'

‘And . . . ?' I ask, a trifle confused because that doesn't seem all that unbelievable.

‘
And
they'd left the baby there!' Bronte grins at me. ‘I'm serious. They'd taken her bags and just walked out. So there
I am with two babies! So I press the nurse's buzzer and, when she comes in, I go, like, “Hey, they've left without the baby”, and she goes, like, “No
ooo
”, and I go, “Yes, they have”, and she goes –'

‘Come on, Bronte,' I interrupt impatiently, ‘cut to the bloody chase!'

‘Okay, well she goes – the nurse, that is – she grabs the capsule and goes running after them and I can hear her going: “Mrs Cobb! Mrs Cobb!” all the way down the corridor. And I asked her later if she found them and she, like, goes, “Yeah–in the car park”. Can you
believe
that? All the way to the car park!'

‘Hell,' I say, with a sneaking sympathy for Mrs Cobb.

‘Yeah.' Bronte nods and then takes a sip of her coffee and stares down at her own capsule, lost in thought.

‘Hey, Bronte.' I follow her gaze, peering into the capsule where Sherry has drifted off to sleep. ‘I didn't think you were supposed to use those things for non-car use. I thought they were bad for their backs or something.'

‘Really?' Bronte looks at me with astonishment. ‘I didn't know that!'