The door swishes. Voices are hushed.
A snuffle. A mewl. A scent I can’t define.
Is it sweet? Musky? Why does it remind me of sunshine and innocence.
A protest. A hitch in a breath. Another. And another. And then a wail.
‘Wa-wa-Waaa!’
Like a wave, the realisation smacks me in the face.
The thing that I’m missing.
‘Wake up.’ Her voice waivers, the sob and hitch no less pitiful.
‘Wa-wa-Waaa! Wa-wa-Waaa!’
‘Wake up, James. Open your eyes for our child.’
Maybe that was a wave. Because I can’t breath. I think I’m drowning.
The little bundle is lifted away. A flurry of voices. The squeak of rubber shoes, my hair being pushed from my face.
‘Don’t you dare—don’t you dare take that back! I saw your eyes flicker. Open them, goddammit!’
And there she was.
‘Did—’ I cough, my head fit to explode. And, fuck me, my ribs feel like they’re crushing me.
Faces. Voices. None of them hers. They swim in and out of focus, prodding and poking and questions and lights.
‘Miranda. Where’s our baby?’
Epilogue
James
‘Is that a fire engine?’
My words are thick and woolly as I try to lift my head from the pillow but find I can’t. It’s like someone filled it with sand and then glued it to my head.
‘That,’ Miranda mumbles from somewhere on the other side of the bed, ‘is your son.’
I groan like I’m in pain, because I am. Or maybe I’m just pained by our child’s lung capacity. He was born five days after his due date and I’m certain this is the reason he has the kind of volume he has. Babies aren’t supposed to be this loud, surely.
I manage to successfully push myself up onto one elbow as I rub sleep from my eyes. ‘How many times were you up with him last night?’
‘More than you. And last time only twenty minutes ago.’ I see where this is going as she pulls the pillow over her head, snuggling down under the bedding.
‘Darling, I don’t know whether you recall, but I’ve recently had a traumatic brain injury.’
Due to the pile of covers, I’m not quite sure what she says but I’m certain it wasn’t pleasant.
‘Ouch, my head.’
I realise my mistake a beat too late as she whips off the pillow, and glares over at me. She looks like Medusa’s crazier but hotter cousin, and the resemblance ends at her hair because the rest of her is utterly beautiful. As she inhales a deep breath, maybe as a precursor to join in with our son’s wailing, I can’t help how my eyes dip to the strap of her tiny nightdress as it slips from her smooth shoulder. Fabric clings to the swell of her breasts as one nipple pokes above the fabric, like a puppy intent on escape.
And then I remember she’s glaring like she’d happily deliver me another brain bleed.
