In Her Mothers' Shoes (21 page)

‘You’ll have to take the car through there to the parking area, Mum.’

‘But I can’t drive.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, of course you can.’

‘No, I never got my licence, remember?’

‘Christ, don’t tell me you never finished those driving lessons with Dad?’

‘No, never. He got so cross with me I gave up on them.’

‘Oh, God, that’s all I need.’ Jessie put her head down on her hands, which were resting on the steering wheel. ‘I can’t leave it here. They don’t have valet parking at public hospitals, you know.’

Liz was furious with herself for not persevering with the lessons. If only Steven hadn’t been so rude whenever she made a mistake. It wasn’t her fault she’d broken the axle. Jessie had to get into the hospital, and that meant doing something with the damn car.

‘I suppose I could get the car as far as the car-park if I tried. It’s been a while since I drove, but it can’t be that hard to remember.’

‘Oh, Mum, would you?’ Jessie looked up, relieved.

‘I’ll give it a try. We can’t leave it here.’

‘Thanks Mum.’ Jessie was out of the car before Liz could change her mind, grabbed her overnight bag out of the back seat and took off, disappearing moments later through the main door of the hospital.

Liz got out, walked round to the driver’s door and sat in the seat, terrified. What did you do? There was no clutch. Just a gear stick running in a straight line. She knew how they worked, she’d watched others often enough, but they’d never had an automatic at home. Steven preferred the manual; it gave you more control, he said.

Putting her foot on the brake, she slid the lever forward to the ‘D’ and slowly let go on the brake, like she’d seen Jessie do. The car jolted forward and stopped. Now she’d messed it up. She’d be stuck here forever.

She took it out of drive, turned the key in the ignition and tried again, a little more gently this time. Miraculously, the car edged forward, nice and slowly, and she steered towards the back of the building, round the corner to where the Parking sign pointed. It was all starting to come back to her, and it so was much easier without having to mess around with the clutch and gear stick all the time. The parking area was quite some way back but luckily you could just drive straight into the park. She’d never been able to master parallel parking on the street, especially not with Steven telling her she was doing it wrong all the time.

She even remembered to turn the headlights off.

Feeling extremely pleased with herself, she picked up her bag, locked the car and almost danced her way to the hospital entrance. Steven would never believe she’d done it. Nobody would. She could hardly believe it herself.

Her new-found confidence deserted her soon afterwards when Jessie asked if she’d like to watch the birth.

That was the last thing she wanted. ‘I’m sure Michael will be here any minute, dear. I’m happy to hold your hand ‘til then.’

‘It could be a while, Mum. My waters haven’t even broken yet.’

Jessie was sitting on the bed in a homely little room on the first floor. The pale lemon walls were hung with colourful framed botanical prints and the pale green curtains, drawn against the dark, had similarly flower-themed patterns. It was all very tasteful and bland.

‘Maternity hospitals have changed a lot since my day,’ she said, opening a side door and inspecting the ensuite. ‘You had to walk down a corridor to the bathroom and there was no privacy like this.’ It had been basic enough in Wellington; but it had been ten times worse in the Christchurch maternity hospital, where she’d been treated as some sort of pariah, one of the naughty girls having a baby out of wedlock. The naughty girls were kept away from the real mothers, the ones with husbands who waited nervously in the corridor outside, chain-smoking.

The door opened and Michael burst in, his jacket and tie askew. ‘It was packed on the tube, I only just got on,’ he said as he made a beeline for his wife and gave her a kiss. ‘How are you? Does it hurt much?’

‘Yes. But only every eight minutes. I’ve got a way to go yet.’

‘Where’s the midwife? The doctor?’

‘She’s on her way. A nurse checked me as soon as I came in and said they’ll let my doctor know I’m in labour. Don’t worry, Michael, everything’s fine. It’s all going to plan, so far.’

The plan went slightly awry when the baby still hadn’t come by midnight, but soon after one, the contractions speeded up and Jessie was wheeled into the birthing room. Liz stayed behind.

‘I’d rather stay here,’ she insisted. ‘This time is for you and Michael to share.’

She made herself a cup of tea and helped herself to a biscuit from the kitchen along the corridor then settled down in Jessie’s room to wait in the big comfy chair next to the bed. The next thing she knew, she was being gently shaken awake by Michael.

‘She’s here,’ he said.

‘Who, Jessie?’

‘Yes, Jessie, and …’ He stood back so Liz could see the bed. ‘… Your granddaughter. Meet Emily Elizabeth Pearson.’

‘Emily Elizabeth?’

‘Yes, we wanted her to have your name too,’ Jessie said, smiling beatifically from the pillows.

‘Six pounds eight ounces,’ Michael said proudly.

Liz stumbled to her feet, still half asleep, and approached the bed, narrowing her focus from Jessie to the tiny bundle in her arms. Wrapped tightly in a white cotton blanket, little Emily was wide awake, her blue eyes fixed on her mother. All she could see of her was her round little face and a tuft of fine dark curly hair – just like all her babies. 

‘She’s got your eyes, Jessie. And your hair. You looked just like that when you were born.’

And so did Katharine. At birth, both girls had weighed exactly six pounds and eight ounces.

‘Well done, Jessie. She’s beautiful.’ She felt a tug in her throat, as if she might choke. She swallowed quickly and stood back a little to achieve some distance from both mother and daughter.

‘Your first grandchild.’ Jessie was beaming.

‘How was the birth?’ Liz made herself sound business-like, determinedly unemotional. ‘Was there much pain?’

‘I’m afraid I said yes to pain relief. I didn’t mean to, but it was so intense. Just at the end.’

‘But it was only gas,’ Michael added. ‘You did so well.’

‘And Michael rubbed my back when it hurt and held my hand when I screamed.’ She smiled across at him; he was standing behind his wife, looking down on his family with such love Liz felt she could like him after all.

Suddenly she had a powerful urge to sit down. She couldn’t hold back a low cry as she flopped down in the chair.

‘Are you alright, Mum?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. Just happy, that’s all’ She mustered a smile, though she didn’t feel happy at all. Seeing Jessie holding her baby so tenderly, so close; it hurt. A lot.

She’d never felt that way with her babies. When Jessie was born, they handed her over and she’d looked at her as if she were a stranger. She was supposed to bond with her daughter, but she hadn’t felt a thing; the baby didn’t feel like she belonged to her, that she might be taken away at any moment, that she would never be truly hers.

If she loved Jessie, even for a moment, she risked the tremendous pain of losing her, of never holding her again. So there had been no love; no real love. She had filled her days with busyness – the nappies, the bottles, the washing, ironing, cleaning, baking and cooking dinners that Julia Childs would have approved of. The busyness had made up for the distance she had deliberately wedged between herself and Jessie, and then again with Richard two years later.

Watching Jessie with little Emily brought it all back, the unforgettable aroma of Johnsons baby shampoo and talcum when they nuzzled into you, the warmth and the deep, enduring trust.

‘Would you like to hold her, Mum?’ Jessie held the baby out towards her mother.

Would she? Could she? Perhaps it was time to make up for all those years of holding back? Perhaps now she could allow herself to love?

Jessie was looking expectantly at her. Grandmothers were supposed to cluck over newborns, to swoop them up in their arms and coo and gurgle like they’d lost their grasp of language. Come on, Lizzie, you can do it.

She took the baby from her daughter and held onto her, hesitantly at first, forgetting what it was like to hold something so fragile, so precious, so alive.

Emily started to wail.

‘Don’t you like your grandmother? Goodness, that’s no good.’ She held the baby away from her, distanced, unattached. Emily continued to wail, building up to a crescendo, her little face turning bright red. ‘Here, you’d better have her back.’ She handed her over, secretly relieved. ‘She’s not ready for me yet.’

‘Oh, Mum, you’ve got to give her a chance.’ Jessie took her baby and held her close. ‘Perhaps she wants a feed. Do you want something to drink, little Emily?’

The baby’s cries were piercing.

Jessie started to undo the buttons down the front of her nightgown and steered Emily in the direction of her breast. ‘Here, that should help quieten you.’

Liz wasn’t sure she was ready for this. She’d never breastfed her babies. It wasn’t possible with Katharine, of course, then with the other two, the hospital had insisted on bottles and she’d been more than happy to go along with it. That was what almost all the other mothers were doing then too.

Watching her daughter and the ease with which she pulled aside her nightie and undid the front of her bra, it seemed the most natural thing in the world and so easy.

Jessie’s smile turned to a wince. ‘Ouch! I can see why you’ve got to be careful in these first few days. She latches on like a leech.’

Liz decided she’d seen enough.

‘I think I’ll pop out for a cup of tea. Would you like me to bring you one back?’

But the new mother and father were too absorbed to hear.

She escaped into the corridor and headed for the patients’ kitchen, wishing she could keep on walking out the hospital door and go home. She longed to be back at Jessie’s place, where she could climb into bed and escape for a while from babies, from memories. Suddenly, she felt very tired.

It seemed forever before she finally got to bed and the next day, she found it hard to get out of it again, dragging herself out only just before Michael came home.

She just couldn’t face the trial of getting up, becoming part of a world that didn’t seem to be her world, that was foreign; a world where mothers breastfed and bonded with their babies. So she hid under the covers, making patterns out of the flowers on the darkened wallpaper, watching the sunlight dimly trace its way through the blinds from one side of the room to the other.