The Morning After
By SJ Townend
You
can’t help but feel nauseated as you watch the lady lift her red-faced
wailing baby out of its pram across the other side of the cafe as you sit and
wait for your partner — each babe you’ve carried you’ve bled out dead, in
rivers. She lifts her blouse, places her bundled newborn to her breast. The
crying stops. The lady closes her eyes and leans back in her chair. You have to
look away. The scene is all too much.
The brownie you’ve ordered—the cheapest item on
the menu— sticks to the roof of your mouth as you take your first bite. Are you
enjoying it? Not sure. Everything tastes funny today. Could just be nerves, you
think. Clearing your throat fails to
dislodge it so you wash it down with water. Just
eat slowly, you tell yourself, plus, you can’t really afford to order anything
else while you wait for James to arrive—it’s nearing the end of the month and it’ll
be Christmas soon.
The string
of fairy lights around the cafe window blink. You stare at
them instead. Staccato thoughts flit in and out of your mind: the credit card
bill you’ll have to somehow find the funds to pay off, the slipped roof tile at
home which is allowing water in—another job your partner said he’d remedy but
still hasn’t ‘managed to get around to’ yet. And there are so many seasonal gifts
you need to purchase—your younger sister has three children, spoilt
brats. They’ll each demand something expensive.
It’s
already half twelve. James said he’d meet you here are midday.
Surely he won’t be much longer? Waiting is such a drag. Yet, as you’ve grown
older, you’ve noticed the passing of each year grows quicker. Time moves faster
since turning forty-eight. “At least you’re still bleeding,” Mother will always
say when you complain to her about a new grey hair or the crow’s feet which
branch like cobwebs from the corners of your eyes. “Menopause is awful,” she’ll
usually follow that flippant comment with.
As
you take a second bite of claggy cake, you think of your last blasted
monthly, and all the mess it’d made. It’d been atrocious. But James had
insisted he didn’t care, had wanted to do the deed anyway; as he had a few days
ago. You tolerate his bi-weekly demands.
Bless
him. He’d fumbled in your knickers as if winding up an old
wristwatch, then he’d mounted you, and wriggled around on top, in and out, and
then in and out again. Over and over he’d pumped for perhaps a matter of
minutes, asking more than once if he’d been ‘hitting the right spot’.
Ultimately, he’d let you know he was on his way and then he’d dumped his load
inside you. Afterwards, he’d rolled off and pecked you on the cheek in the same
way he always does, as if kissing his mother, and then he’d fallen asleep
immediately.
He
tries, bless him. Always manages to get it to stand to attention, and
oh, how he always tries, even though it’s always over too ‘early’.
But
in every other aspect of his life, he’s always late. Always never on
time. “He’s a good man though, a good man,” your mother often tells you, despite
his many flaws: the trail of crumbs he leaves in the kitchen, the way he ogles
other women in the supermarket, the park, the way he’s so frugal with money. “He’s
a good man, Laura, because he stuck by your side, took you back, even after he
had that low period and slept with his receptionist. You have to understand,
dear, he’s a red-blooded male— And men have wants and needs.”
Here
he is. The jingle of the cafe door as it opens jolts you from your
downward spiral. James spots you and takes the chair opposite at your table. “Here
you go, Love. They weren’t happy issuing it to a man though, said they really
should’ve spoken with you.” He slides the packet across. “If you ever need it
again, the pharmacist said you’ll have to speak to him directly, no matter how
embarrassed you feel.”
The
shape of a small cardboard box is apparent, despite the purchase
being sealed inside a brown paper bag with “Hill Street Pharmacy” printed on
the top. “Cost a fortune. £12.99. Bloody Big Pharma,” he says. He rolls his
eyes. “Pay me back later, into my Lloyds account.” You thank him quietly then
he stands and leans and pecks you on the forehead before heading to the counter
to order the most expensive latte. You sigh and pick at the remnants of your
cheap chocolate treat.
Plate
cleared, you push it aside and pull the package closer. Should I open it here and
get started?
you think, or shall I wait until we’re
home? You’ve heard the side-effects can be quite savage, and you don’t want
to vomit in public.
After
prising the package open, and reading the accompanying bumpf, you decide
to pop the first of two pills there and then. ‘Side-effects may manifest
several hours after the second tablet,’ the information tells you, but you won’t
be taking the second until twelve hours after the first. You pop the small beige
pill from its foil and knock it back with more water.
Within
seconds, you feel something unnatural, a scrape of sorts deep
down within, you swear you do, and you grapple at your stomach and watch on, trying
to hide the discomfort on your face as James leers at the young brunette
serving his fancy coffee. If he left you again, you’d feel so lonely. You’d
struggle, wouldn’t you? You’d probably end up on antidepressants, become a ghost
in your own home, need phone-call prompts from Mother to remind you to shower
and eat. You panic: have you made the
right decision?
The
new mother across the way places her baby into its pram and pushes it
towards the exit. She’s struggling to manoeuvre the pram and open the heavy
door at the same time and you feel you should probably get up and offer help. But
you can’t. You can’t go near it: the smell of talc and milk, the woman, the
baby, the pram. The child is calm now, at least, not making any noise. But you’ve
always been awkward around newborns.
A
wave of brownie travels back up your throat and you manage to swallow
away. No, not here, I can’t be sick here,
you think, unsure if it’s the medication—you know, all those hormones—or the
rich cake or the sight of the woman with her child that’s making you queasy. Phone,
scarf, loose change: you pack up your belongings and put on your coat as James
darts from the counter to the cafe door, which he opens. His hands are loose as
he assists the mother. Surely there’s no need for him to be touching her
shoulder like that, as she jimmies her pram over the threshold, no need at all
for him to be quite so close to that woman and her child?
He
returns to you and, together, you make your way back to the car where
he asks you if you think it’s working yet, the tablet. “You’re white as a sheet,”
he says after insisting that he drives. “Use your phone while I drive, to pay
me back for the tablets.” He’s a good man,
you think as he talks to you but stares at a passing generously bosomed lady who’s
pulling a whining toddler along the pavement, he just has male needs.
Twelve
hours pass. You’ve found it hard to stay up so late, feel much
sleepier than normal. “Your eyes were closing,” says James as he prods you in
the side. “It’s half eleven, time to take the next dose.” He brings you warm
tea, pops the second pill out of the packet, and places it in your hand.
“Thanks.”
You eye up the oval tablet which pops against the white of
your palm. This one’s larger than the first, treble the size, and it’s red.
Different. You shrug and knock it back and James tells you to go to bed.
“Just
try and sleep through, then you won’t notice any side-effects,” he
says, and, “are you sure this is what
you want?” A little too late, you
think, the second tablet now certainly deep within your gut. But are you sure,
you wonder.
On the sideboard
as you journey towards the bedroom, you catch sight of
a Christmas card: Mary and Joseph either
side of baby Jesus sleeping in his crib. Baby Jesus; so still, so tiny. And you
do vomit this time. There’s nothing you can do to hold it down, but at least you
make it to the kitchen. James follows. “Oh dear,” he says without any passion.
He pats you on the back as you retch and puke for ages, then, as you stand
straight, steadying yourself with both hands on the edge of the sink, he
reaches around and tries to place a hand on your stomach—an act of reassurance
he wants you to think. But you’re sure you feel his uncertain fingertips
probing, nosing there for signs. Your stomach hurts. A cramping pain not
dissimilar to the ones you experience before your monthlies. “Are you sure
this is what you want?” he says
again.
“Yes.”
You say, your voice weak, your lips and chin still christened
with vomit. “Yes it is. The leaflet said the side-effects will pass fast.” You
bat his hand away; your body, your choice. He passes you a dirty tea-towel. “Clean
your face,” he says. You refuse it and brush past him, still green around the
gills, but confident the wave of sickness has elapsed, then you help yourself
to a clean tissue from a box on the table before climbing the stairs to ready
yourself for bed.
A
couple of hours later, you wake with worse pain: your stomach, and horrible
stabbing in your vagina, a relentless pounding in your lower back. The entirety
of your lower body throbs and burns worse than when you caught that infection—the
infection that later brought light to the second affair James had had. It’s
then you realise your bed is damp. Forehead and chest, sodden, you’re totally drenched
in sweat. As your hands find your way to your womb, you sit up fast as you
discover your distended torso. You read about this in the pamphlet. It’s normal,
you tell yourself. ‘Some
swelling is to be expected.’ But the pain! ‘Only one in ten women will
experience ‘significant’ pain’. It seems that one in ten is you. Just
my luck, you think. Then you
consider what your body is going through, is about to go through, and you remember
a quote from a television program, one of those ‘comical’ panel shows, but in
this moment, you’re pretty certain nothing could make you laugh: ‘83% of
statistics are made up on the spot.’ As if what these pills are doing to your
body could never hurt! Lies! You’ve never known anyone go through what you’re experiencing
without at least some emotional or physical malaise.
But
you can’t take any pain relief. You won’t—because you don’t want to
risk ‘interactions’. You don’t want the treatment not to work. It can’t not work. Could there be anything worse
than the tablets failing? You’re far too old for that.
Like
a volcano erupting, severe pain bulks within you, almost enough to
make you sick. You panic, think about waking James. He’s snoring by your side.
But what use will he be? Christ, this
hurts, you think as you slowly swing your legs round and out of the bed and
place your bare feet on the carpeted floor. The
pain. You try to channel it into your tightly-balled fists but you can’t
and as the agony intensifies—an eternal crescendo in your womb—you hobble as
fast as you can, buckled over, into the bathroom, where, unable to hold back
any longer, you projectile vomit all over the tiles.
And
then the bleeding starts. And despite the mess your body makes, you know you’ve
made the right decision.
James might well be a ‘good man’ in your mother’s eyes, but he could never be a
good father. And now, you just want this thing out.
You
tug on the bathroom light. The brightness sends you dizzy. You slide
your right hand between your legs and grip the side of the bathtub with your
left. Red. From down below, sticky vermillion gushes everywhere. Your bathroom
now stinks of chunder and coppers. Your hand is covered in blood, as are the
insides of your thighs. You yank down your knickers and stagger to sit on the
toilet—seems like the right place to be, especially now your belly is so
swollen and your innards are pulsing out and down and your legs feel useless,
like they aren’t even part of you, like they’re two numb shanks of raw lamb.
Your
body pulses, rattles even, and you can’t help it, you let out the
most violent scream. The vibration of it all causes the mirror above the sink to
crack. That side effect hadn’t been in
the pamphlet. What the fuck is going on?
Unable to contain your fear any longer, “Help me,” you holler.
James
stands in the bathroom doorway, gasping at all the damage. Palms
raised, “Glass of water?” is all he manages to say.
“Fuck
off,” you shout as a tornado of agony cascades from your spine
down into your groin. “Just fuck off!” He goes. You’re alone again.
Slumped
on the toilet seat, you feel the descent begin from within; a
bowling ball perhaps, purging out from your cunt? You scream louder, cursing
inwardly your partner’s infertility, then slide your hands down between your
legs, into the toilet bowel, to pull something out. So fast.
And
now you’re no longer alone. Your blood baby is here, as red as that
second tablet; a baby. And it’s at least three kilos. It starts to breathe, and
then it screams with you. The tablets have
worked. Relief. Your chemical labour
is over.
You
lift your bundle of clots and joy up and kiss its coagulated
forehead and place its feeding slit around your left nipple where it sinks
sharp canines into your breast. ‘It may hurt more than a traditional birth,’
the pamphlet had said. Fuck yeah, it hurt,
you think, then, “It hurts,” you cry out as the light of the morning sun pours
in through a gap in the bathroom blinds.
Postpartum
now, you’re a little tearful because your baby will always be
a tendrilous clump of red, will always need to feed on the blood of your
breast, even in adulthood— But as its tiny dripping nearly-fingers curl around
your index finger, you grin. At last, you won’t need James for company any
more.
You’ve
never been happier.
