‘Exactly. I want you to go out tonight and forget all your baggage,’ she said, taking the rucksack off my back. Slowly the weight eased around my shoulders. ‘It’s time to let your hair down and be twenty-seven, be the old January who loves to dance and party.’ Lizzie was in a serious relationship at this stage, with someone she’d met online, and she’d encouraged me to go on to the same website. Tonight would be the first date I’d had since Isla was born.
‘But…’
‘No buts! Go and have a bath, shave those legs, doll yourself up. Don’t talk about cerebral palsy or hospital appointments. Don’t mention the word splints. Not sexy, Jan.’
Only Lizzie could get away with saying that.
‘Don’t call me every five minutes,’ she continued, ‘wondering if Isla is all right. If you do, I won’t answer. Forget about everything for one night and have some fun, right? Who knows where it might lead.’ I’d turned to her, wondering how she’d become such a wise counsel. ‘My parents taught me the art of letting go, but we didn’t just forget our troubles for a night. We moved away from them.’
I close my eyes again, turn over in bed, trying to forget that night, but the memory still haunts me.
On the way home my date and I had kissed in the cab, his hand grazing the inside of my thigh. To my surprise I’d enjoyed myself. It felt good to flirt and drink with a man. I’d also forgotten how much I loved to be kissed. I wished the cab driver could take us to the other end of the world or we could be stuck for hours in gridlocked traffic. Who cared if the meter was running? Who cared if time stood still? All I wanted was to be desired, to be held; to feelsexy.
When we returned home Lizzie had slipped away discreetly, clearly sensing love was in the air. Or sex.
We skipped the coffee, moving straight to the sofa. He’d climbed on top of me, both of us ripping off our clothes clumsily. Soon we were semi-naked, bare skin on bare skin. I breathed in his smell of sweat and aftershave, even loved the taste of beer on his lips. He unhooked the strap of my bra, I coiled my legs around his, he murmured my name; I wanted him inside me. I want… I want… I want… don’t stop… don’t stop… don’t stop.
‘Mummy?’
‘Hurry,’ I said, praying I’d imagined that little voice.
‘Mummy.’ Her voice was louder, getting nearer. ‘Mummy?’
He withdrew, frustration in his voice as he said, ‘Go’.
I hesitated, not wanting the moment to be killed, then muttered, ‘Sorry, won’t be a sec.’
‘Mummy.’
I slipped out from underneath him. ‘Coming!’ I grabbed my top off the floor and shoved it back on without bothering to do up all the buttons. Quickly I put on my jeans. ‘Isla,’ I gasped, racing upstairs. She was too close to the top step and the stair gate wasn’t shut. Lizzie must have forgotten. ‘Mummy,’ she repeated, even more unsteady on her feet without her walker frame. ‘Don’t move! Stay there!’
‘Everything all right?’ I heard him calling.
‘Fine.’
I grabbed Isla and slowly guided her back to her bedroom; she gripped on to my arm, her knees turned inwards and knocking together as she walked.
‘Good girl,’ I said, as we reached her bedroom door and switched on the light. I stopped cold when I heard his footsteps behind mine. I turned, Isla by my side. He was dressed only in his jeans and I noticed the tyre of fat around his middle. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ he asked, staring blankly at us both. ‘Why does she walk like that?’
I open my eyes and switch on the bedside light, catching my breath.What’s wrong with her?I saw that look in Ward’s eyes too; he was just too polite to say so. I’d told my date to go, the moment well and truly killed. ‘What the fuck?’ he’d said as I’d pushed him away. ‘Just go, get out,’ I kept on saying.
‘Weird,’ he’d muttered, gathering his clothes and jacket.
I locked the door, slid the chain across, safely knowing that was the end of his phone calls and texts. I rushed back upstairs and had a shower before tiptoeing into Isla’s bedroom. I lifted the duvet, slipped into bed beside her. I held her close, her body so tiny and fragile. That was the last time I was going to try to pretend I was normal. Nothing about our lives was normal. It hadn’t been since that day in hospital, when the doctor confirmed my deepest fear that Isla had CP. I stroked her hair in the darkness, trying to let go of my anger. It wasn’t until lightness came and the birds started to sing that finally I drifted off to sleep, still in Isla’s bed.
17
2004
Isla is eighteen months old and about to be assessed by a community paediatrician. We have a 10 a.m. appointment and we’re in the hospital waiting room. Isla is playing with two other children about the same age. As I watch her crawling to keep up with them, I have to remind myself not to compare. I imagine all mums do it, especially first-time ones. We enter this pressured race, whether we like it or not, or even know it. Subconsciously we are always looking around like spies, noting down what other children can or can’t do, doubt creeping in or complacency that our little one is advanced.
The good newsisIsla is walking a little now. She can pull herself up into the standing position and when she’s on her own, or just with me, she will walk from one side of the room to another. However, when she’s in a room filled with toddlers, she slips back into crawling, like a dieter going back to comfort food. Her language is limitedto the odd word, like ‘up’ or ‘juice’. If I say ‘toothpaste’ she can repeat it, but she’ll never say it again. Other children her age can link two or three words together – there I go again, comparing.
Isla isn’t that interested in toys or books and she’s not bothered by the television. The one thing she truly loves, however, besides food, is swimming. She never looks happier than when she is in her bright orange armbands and pink costume, splashing me in the pool, saying, ‘Ha ha!’ She gets prettier by the day with her chestnut curls that have been passed down the line, and her blue eyes that laugh. My thoughts are interrupted when our names are called.
The paediatrician, Dr Fry, is plain and stocky with a determined chin. Her hair is short; she wears no make-up, only glasses; a no-nonsense kind of doctor. I tell Isla to sit still, but already she’s kicking her legs up and down restlessly. Dr Fry launches straight in, shoving a piece of paper in front of Isla, drawing a circle and asking if she can copy her with no hint of a smile. Perhaps what she lacks in the bedside manner department she makes up for in her work. Isla slithers down her chair, staring at Dr Fry, that unnerving stare children do when they’re not sure who you are or if they like you. Dr Fry points to the piece of paper. ‘Come on.’
I rummage in my handbag, produce a piece of dried fruit out of a packet. ‘Can you draw the nice doctor a circle?’ I say.
