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Authors: Ros Baxter

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BOOK: Lingerie For Felons
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‘Luke, you macabre idiot,' she screeched at him. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing? Thank God you're gay and will probably never have children of your own —' she ploughed on, oblivious to the distress in her brother's eyes, ‘— because God knows where you'd take them. Little light entertainment at the emergency room? Go watch some gunshot victims get stitched up? Jesus. And you know this is even worse. You've probably cursed her. I've always worried death is kind of catching.'

Luke looked horrified, like he hadn't thought of that. ‘I — I didn't think. She just seemed really interested and I find it hard to say no to her.'

‘Yeah, well, nice one, GI Brainless.'

Luke turned to me. ‘Lolly, I'm sorry.' And, unspoken in the rabbit-in-the-headlights look on his face, were all of our worst fears.

You see, Eve was sick.

How it happened — The hospital; August, 2002

We were still at the hospital after the delivery. Eve was okay at first, but within hours she'd totally crashed, had trouble breathing and started to look really blue and wrong. They whisked her away to the special care units, and the next time I saw her, she was all wired up inside this horrible glass fish-tanky looking thing. It was the worst moment of my life. I was so afraid she was going to die, and I'd only just discovered her.

I couldn't believe the world could be so cruel.

Except that I knew about a lot of bad things and so I knew it could be.

I spent hours, days, at her bedside, expressing milk that they fed to her through horrible tubes. I stroked her tiny little body with one finger at first, then as she got stronger, I was allowed to hold her, and I told her endless stories about me and about all the people who already loved her, and just wanted her to get strong and grow up and see the world they wanted to show her. I made everyone sound much nicer than they really were, hoping it might encourage her to hang on, and get well, and just be with me. When I felt really scared I'd hold her and whisper ‘don't leave me don't leave me don't leave me'.

When she got better, I thought it was all over. Relief coursed through me with a high like how I imagine it feels to be on heroin. I wanted to kiss every single staff member in the hospital, even the freaky little orderly who hung around way too much and I suspected had stolen some of my underwear. I charged down the corridors with my baby in my arms ready to take her away somewhere where white sheets and disinfectant would never touch her again. But then they gave me the bad news: that this probably wasn't an isolated episode; that she may experience recurring respiratory problems.

That she may never get better.

When they felt in the mood to share some hope, they told me that some kids grow out of these problems, with time and the help of good therapies. But for others, life becomes a constant merry-go-round of stints in the hospital and episodes of extreme sickness. They told me to prepare for the worst.

But I couldn't. Even though I am the most pessimistic person on the planet, I simply could not allow myself to believe that she would always be sick. I had to believe that she would get better. And so, despite the frequent spates of illness, despite the long periods in the hospital, despite the fact that Eve and I knew every doctor, nurse and assorted hanger-on in that place by name, birthday and star sign, I kept thinking
this will pass
.

The thing is, I had never expected to love my child so much.

I think I'd worried, in some deep, secret place, that I'd be the only mother ever who was kind of not that impressed by their kid. I wasn't one of those baby-mad women who go all soft focus at the mere sight of a tiny little pink booty. I'd always found babies kind of irritating, and self-centered. Like mini-versions of my family, come to think of it. And who needed more of that?

Anyway, it came as a total shock that not only did I like Eve, but I adored her.

I loved the tiny perfect ‘K' shape her mouth made when she was suckling. And the whole, wonderful feeding concerto — little snuffling, grumpy
hurry-up-milk
noises that reminded me of a documentary I'd seen of a pig hunting for truffles. And the little, sensual coo-ing noises of relief and worship when the milk came down. And then slow, sleepy sighs as she started to drop off at the breast. I loved how she'd be fast asleep, and I would start to move to transfer her, and automatically her clever little mouth would do some quick sucks to convince me she was still feeding and I shouldn't put her down just yet. I bought it every time.

I kept sniffing her — putting my nose really close to her face and gulping in great big lungfuls of her baby-ness. My favorite bit was when she'd been feeding, and I could smell her milky breath. Sometimes I would shove my nose almost right inside her mouth. I just couldn't get enough of that sweet, milky smell.

I'd run my nose across her downy hair over and over, smelling the sunshine in it and feeling its softness. Steve caught me once and said he wondered if snorting your baby was kosher. But I loved her so much, and I was so afraid. I just could not get enough of her.

There were some awful, awful moments; times the staff looked so bleak, and fretted about her little lungs, and her immune system, and her strength.

But ever so gradually, year by year, month by month, she went to the hospital less. They built her up with drugs and other treatments. And I did everything I could think of. Completely dismissing all the superior crap I'd ever said about the stuff being basically snake oil, I supplemented medical interventions with every reasonable-sounding naturopathic remedy I could find. In the trenches, everyone's a true believer.

In between the hospital, and being sick, I tried to make life as normal as possible. There were a lot of things she couldn't do, but we did the things she could. I didn't let anyone talk to her about being sick, or let on even for a moment that there was anything less than completely normal about her life. I told her she was strong. I took her to class with me sometimes, and she loved to be amongst the action, and watch all the students. I told her someday she might go to NYU too. And I thought,
someday you will be well
.

And now, Eve was four, and she was. She was almost totally well. And the doctors even felt confident enough to tell me that it was only going to get better.

But there was no denying she was kind of different.

She'd spent most of her short life with doctors and nurses, as well as a cast of adults dancing attendance at her bedside. We'd all talked to her and read to her constantly while she lay there connected up to various machines and tubes. And while I tried to keep it as normal and age-appropriate as possible, I couldn't be there all the time. I had to work. I needed the money that my part-time teaching gig provided.

And more importantly, the medical cover.

Eve loved listening to people reading to her as she dropped off to sleep, with way too many drugs in her tiny little system, and way too many worries darting through her over-active little mind. When I wasn't there, people naturally reverted to type. So Emmy shared her passion for Marxist revolutionaries, and read Eve long tracts from the writings of Che and Fidel. I also suspect she read her Alyssa St James. I caught her once, and even though she swore she edited out the dirty bits, I still wasn't thrilled. But in the end, I couldn't really blame her. Eve thought it was amazing that her aunt was a real-life writer, and would beg, plead and insist that she be read some of her work.

When it was her turn, Heidi told Eve stories about animals at the shelter. Heidi had taken over several shelters on the island, and was trying to turn them from hopeless little operations into well-run enterprises. I know she tried really hard to keep the stories nice for Eve when she visited her in the hospital, and would bring in pictures of the baby animals that had gotten better and tell stories about how the clever vets had made them well. But Eve had a mind of her own, and — as we'd already seen — a kind of macabre streak, so she would insist on hearing the sad stories too. She wanted to know all about the animals that hadn't made it, and explicit details of surgical procedures. How many stitches? Exactly how big was the scalpel? How did they know how much anaesthetic to use for a Great Dane? She wasn't like some serial-killer-in-training. She just kind of liked the excitement of hearing about the risky stuff, so that the happy endings were that much more satisfying.

Luke would go with adventure stories. Once he'd exhausted the usual childhood fare — Robinson Crusoe, pirates, et cetera — he figured he might as well start on real life battles. So he'd read great long tracts from Machiavelli and from accounts of Napoleon's most famous battles. He even read her Sun Tzu's
The Art of War
. One would have thought a little baby, then little girl, would be bored to tears, but Eve once told me she just really liked people to read her the things they liked the best. ‘They always read better if it's something they like,' she explained. ‘Their voices sound different.'

She especially loved Uncle Luke's shifts because he would sing to her. And he really did have the most beautiful singing voice. Even if the song choices worried me more than the reading list.

‘I was in a rock band,' Luke protested once. ‘I don't know many lullabies.'

‘Learn some,' I barked. ‘If I hear the Violent Femmes again, you're banned.'

Mom was far too wily to ever get caught in the act of telling any inappropriate tales. Whenever I arrived to relieve her, she'd be innocently stroking Eve's head and reciting nursery rhymes. I gathered over the years that she mostly shared stories about Emmy, Luke and me as kids. Eve seemed to know some details about my childhood that I was pretty sure she could not have gathered from any other source. The day she started asking me about what Uncle Luke had sung at the end of year school concert, I knew she'd been getting some inside information. I assured her that the story could wait until she was older.

As for Dad, he's not much of a talker. But by the time Eve was four, she could play a mean game of chess, so I guess I know how he spent most of his bedside time with her. Anyway, you can see that it might be hard for a little girl to turn out entirely average with this kind of immersion class from day one. It didn't matter. I totally understood how other parents got frustrated with their kids. Screamed at them in the park and generally looked like they wished they'd gotten themselves sterilized at birth. But, for me, I relished every irritation, every inconvenience. Mostly, I was just glad she was alive.

And you thought it couldn't get any worse — Gramercy Park, October, 2006

When we got to Mom and Dad's apartment after our cemetery crawl, Eve started her usual routine.

‘Well,' she declared, dropping her bag. ‘Fancy seeing you again so soon, Grandma and Grandpa! Did Mommy tell you I'm staying tonight, and tomorrow night, because Mommy has to go to court, and then Aunt Emmy's party?'

I felt guilty leaving her for two nights. We've rarely been apart for so long.

‘Well,' I insisted. ‘Technically, I'm here with you tonight, so it's only one night.'

‘Yes Mommy,' she said, sighing and shaking her head at me. ‘But you aren't staying over so actually, it doesn't count.'

‘But I'll be here to put you to bed,' I insisted.

‘Don't worry, Evie,' my mother intervened. ‘Your mother always did have to have the last word. Later on I'll tell you about the time —'

‘Ahem,' I cleared my throat. ‘I'm still here, remember?' Then I looked at her tiny little body, still smaller than other children her age. ‘Actually, maybe Eve should come home with me tonight. I can bring her back over in the morning. Or maybe I won't go to Emmy's.' I hated to be away from her.

Mom looked at me with pursed lips. She knew I was over-protective of Eve and had been trying to encourage me to loosen up a little these last few weeks, insisting that it's good for Eve to get out, sleep over, do some normal things.

‘I promise everything will be alright,' Dad assured me, patting my shoulder. He was about to say more when Eve intervened.

‘Don't be silly, Mommy,' she breathed with a cluck. ‘Of course you must go to the party. Poor Aunt Emmy. She'd be sad if you didn't. It's for you.'

Yeah, right. Emmy's got her own agenda. I just need to find out what it is.

Eve could tell I was prevaricating, and she pressed home the advantage. ‘And, anyway, you know Grandpa and I always watch the chess championships together. It won't be the same if you're here. You always eat too many of the Oreos, doesn't she, Grandpa?'

Dad nodded his head in agreement. ‘Indeed, Eve. She's always been a regular little cookie thief. Go to your party, love. I'm afraid there just aren't enough Oreos to go around.'

‘You're sure you're alright about this?' I checked for the fiftieth time. ‘I know you'd really like to be there tomorrow, but it'll really help knowing you're looking after Eve.'

Mom just came over and held me, putting her finger to my mouth.

That settled, we all sat down to eat. Eve kept everyone entertained with tales of Clark's new girlfriend. She didn't sound too bad, actually. It emerged that she'd let Eve have her blotter to draw pictures on, and she'd made chocolate pudding for dessert. More than I ever managed for any man. But Eve was merciless. Even though she was trying to be nicer about Martha since Heidi's chat, I could tell the jury was still out. She couldn't believe Clark would be interested in anyone so old. Apparently, Martha was ‘at least 35'.

Through the happy chatter, I kept thinking I was missing something. Mom and Dad were as besotted with Eve as ever, and responded perfectly to her stream of questions and comments. But you know how you feel when you're trying to think of a word, and it just disappears from your mind? You know, that frustrating sense that an idea is hiding out there, and you just can't quite manage to grab the end of it and pull it in to you? Well, that's how I felt, like there was something in the room with us, and I was missing it. So when Eve finally went to bed, happily exhausted after her day with the dead, I approached it directly.

BOOK: Lingerie For Felons
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