Pete said again from the doorway, “Mark? Is it work?” and he realised he hadn’t replied the first time round.
He said, “Meeting today in Westminster,” which was actually true, and with inverted air commas he added, “Someone thought I needed reminding.”
She smiled fondly. “That will be the day, eh?”
When she started to leave the room, he saw she’d got some of Lilybet’s poo on her shirt. He said her name and nodded at it. She looked down and exclaimed, “Good Lord, how disgusting!” with a laugh as she hurried to the bathroom to wash it off.
He could hear Lilybet on the baby monitor. He could tell that she was manipulating the mobile that hung above her hospital bed. In a moment the television began to blare. She cried out, startled. He called to his wife, “I’ll see to her,” and yanked his trousers up. He went to their daughter’s bedroom.
It wanted a good airing, and he opened the window onto The Mothers Square, which was actually oval-shaped, not quadrangular, and reminiscent in a very down-market way of the Royal Crescent in Bath. A car’s engine coughed among those parked between the line of pergolas in the oval’s centre, and Mrs. Neville came dashing outside, waving her husband’s lunch bag. She ran to the car, the window was lowered, she ran back inside, clutching her dressing gown at its throat.
Mark turned back to the bedroom. With the hospital bed, Lilybet’s massive wheelchair, the oxygen tanks, the chest of drawers, and his father’s old recliner, there was very little space in which to move. Much of it was taken up with extra nappies, the pail for used nappies, and all the other accoutrements of having an infant. Except, of course, Lilybet wasn’t an infant but rather a child who would only grow bigger, the single constant that defined her parents’ lives. She couldn’t speak, although she could both see and hear. She couldn’t walk, although she could move her legs. He had no clue whether she understood him when he spoke to her, so he made it enough for himself every day that she seemed to know who he was.
She cooed as he approached her bed. He bent over her and, fresh nappy in hand, wiped her face. He said, “Up?” and she gurgled. He raised the bed. He said, “So what’s planned for today, little one? Birthday party? Trip to the zoo? Madame Tussaud’s to see the wax people? Library? Shopping for a party dress? Girls your age have birthday parties. Have you been invited to any? Who do you want to come to yours? Esme? Esme would love to come.”
A coo in reply. He smoothed her wispy hair behind her ears and allowed himself a moment of what-ifs. These were so much more welcome than the what-will-bes. The what-ifs were sad, but that was all they were. The what-will-bes were terrifying.
“I’m so sorry.” Pete spoke from the doorway, where she was pressing a hand towel to her T-shirt where the poo had been.
He looked up from their daughter and caught the expression on his wife’s face, which told him she’d heard his words to Lilybet. “It’s not anyone’s fault,” he said.
“Except she’s not an it. Not to me.”
He straightened from the bed. “You know I didn’t mean Lilybet.”
She looked at their daughter, then back at him. “I do know,” she admitted. She dropped her hand and her shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry. There’re moments when I just want to say something hateful. I don’t know where that comes from.”
“This is hard. You’re owed,” he told her.
“You’re owed. I’ve lost the part of me that you loved.”
“That’s not true,” he said, although they both knew it was. “We’ve got a rough path here, Pete. That’s all this is. No one’s to blame.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you were to blame.” She came fully into the room. She joined him at the hospital bed’s raised rail, and she curved her fingers round this as she gazed at their daughter. Lilybet seemed to be studying them, although her eyes didn’t appear to be focused properly. Mark found himself wondering what it was she saw. Pete went on with, “You’ve been saddled with both of us, haven’t you.”
He’d heard this remark so many times before. There were a hundred and one answers to give but there was only one that she wanted to hear. He said, “I couldn’t do without my two ladies right here and there’s an end to it, eh? Have you had breakfast?”
“Not yet.”
“Shall we have something, then?”
Her gaze went automatically to their daughter. He quelled his impatience and said gently, “She can do on her own for fifteen minutes, Pete. She does longer than that at night.” But not much longer, he realised. Pete was up and down all night, checking on her, terrified that her breathing would stop while her mother slept, no matter the alarm that would begin to blare and the supplemental oxygen they could easily supply if Lilybet stopped breathing.