Best Australian Yarn: The Girl by Kate O’Connor

The sound detonates through my eardrums first. Slap. My head whips into my shoulder. Then the sting billows up my left cheek. His flat palm lands harder when I don’t have an arm up to defend myself. I turn inward slightly. Brace myself for round two. Shut my eyes. Slap. ‘You moron,’ he roars, voice thick with rage, ‘you stupid moron. What have you gone and done?’ Fuelled by dark spirits, he swears loudly as he moves from room to room, tipping over furniture and smashing my bedside lamp with cyclonic force. I open my eyes slightly. My whitened knuckles are tethered to the bassinet. My maternal instinct is to protect the girl over me now. The perfect, tiny beacon of hope that I had spent my whole life yearning for is oblivious to the racket. Her eyes purse tightly, her lips part a little. I can hear the soft raft of breath moving in and out. A light snore. The door slams. Tyres screech off in a fit of fury. He’ll be back. It might be ten minutes or two days. Never long enough. Every hit pushes me closer to the door but something always stops me. If I leave, will he track me down and drag me back? Or what if he never looks for me at all? Loneliness and uncertainty bind me. He knows I don’t have the guts to make it out there alone. He reminds me every time he gets home, red-faced with contrition, nuzzling my neck. He could be good sometimes too. We laugh sometimes. Not about the girl though. My grip releases on the bassinet. My breathing decelerates, synchronising to hers. I walk over to the bathroom basin. Three splashes of cold water. The water illuminates the slap rash. It isn’t too bad today- not enough to make me leave of my own volition- but it’s about the girl now. I can’t risk it. I push my toothbrush and toothpaste into a clear sandwich bag. I hesitate. If I leave him without toothpaste, he’ll be enraged. I place it back on the sink edge. My clothes are easy to pack. A few shirts, a bra, a pair of jeans, clean underwear. It’s harder packing for the girl. I open her wardrobe and my eyes bathe in the neatly folded baby-suits. There must be fifty or more. The fruition of a five-year project fraught with longing and let down. Every time my period arrived, I bought another baby-suit, dreaming of the day when I would gently enclose tiny limbs in the soft patterned cotton. I make a selection. I take more than she needs. Planning for her arrival was a clandestine pleasure. I delved into days of research on the science of baby formula to ensure her superior nutrition. Eight months worth of it lined my cramped pantry in case another formula shortage struck. Plump oblong bricks of disposable nappies were pushed to every crevice under the bed for storage. I saved for her pram, bassinet and change table. Baby store catalogues were stacked like trading cards on my bedside table. By the time she came into my world, I had everything researched, bookmarked and highlighted like a dog-eared form guide on race day. I took a weekly knitting class and spent two hundred bucks and a whole semester to make her a bonnet and gloves. The girl was worth it all. I pack a tin of formula, and prepare a bottle for the road. My hand trembles as I measure out four level scoops of formula. I shake it firmly, but not hard enough for the milk to bubble. Bubbles aren’t good for little stomachs. We traverse through the backyard and out the back gate to avoid attention. It is too humid for spring. The kind of clammy heat that makes the tendrils of hair in front of your ears curl erratically like the frazzled ends of sweet peas. My damp palms grip onto her sticky legs, our brackish sweat intermingling together as one. Oh, how I love holding her. Never have I felt so whole. The girl stirs as I lay her in the pram, then settles, lulled by the incidental rocking over the uneven ground. I couldn’t leave him if it weren’t for the girl. I’ll thank her for that one day. We get to the train station before she rouses. She’s hungry, pawing at her mouth, whimpering lightly. With her lodged in the crook of my arm, I rustle my shirt edge up and pull down my bra, allowing her to take my nipple. She hungrily attempts a few sucks before disengaging. Her cry intensifies. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whisper, ‘that my stupid boobs produce no milk.’ Guilt cloaks me. ‘Fed is best,’ I repeat aloud. I lean her back and hold her head as I push the bottle toward her. She opens her mouth and sucks instinctively. I can’t stop looking at her. Her poreless skin is alabaster, almost ceramic, like one of those realistic baby dolls they advertise on the back of women’s magazines. As a child, I imagined those dolls to be some sort of matrescent gateway; a natural order of things, where you progress from fabric dolls to plastic, then ahead to ceramic lifelike baby dolls, before you are finally entrusted with a real baby. Alas, the doll-maker of life doth not bequeath so easily. Trying for a baby became aching for one; folic acid, iron transfusions, teetotalism. Months of trying turned into years of failing. The hardest part was not knowing if it would be next month or never. Then I transitioned my quest into the stable hands of science. The shelves of ceramic baby dolls formed a guard of honour as I self-injected the hormones I needed for ovarian stimulation. Their impassive porcelain faces grew musty with dust as they waited seven failed rounds of IVF for a real baby to take the baton from them. Where will I sterilise her bottle now? I couldn’t bring the clunky steriliser along. I can’t get a deep breath. It keeps catching in my chest. I’m breathing too fast. I can feel the percussive rhythm of my heart reverberating from my eardrums all the way down my body. Stop. I can’t let this anxiety paralyse me. Not when the girl needs me. She pulls away from her bottle and sticks her doll-like fingers in her mouth, sucking insistently. I count her toes to distract myself back to a state of composure. Two, four, six, eight, ten. I breathe out deeply. I feel eyes on me. People are looking at us. I wheel our things from the front of the platform to the shadowy edge. Like a summer leaf firm on the branch, I cling to her tightly, determined I will not let autumn come for us. The train pulls in. I look at the board. Airport. ‘This is our train,’ I say to the girl. We sit in the pram area on the train. You need a special passport to sit in the pram area. She’s my passport. The girl. My mouth trembles with emotion. This unremarkable minutia of everyday motherhood is ground breaking for the uninitiated like me. I’ll burst into tears if I think about how long I’ve been waiting to sit in the pram area. ‘She’s beautiful,’ says the white-haired lady opposite me. I smile nervously, flushing with maternal pride. My heart beats faster. I hope she can’t tell we are running away. Stay present, I counsel myself, you have everything you ever wanted. You don’t need him anymore. I gently stroke her feet in the pram. My greatest hope is that I spend my whole life feeling nothing else but the unbearable lightness of loving her. The girl stares back at me. Her gaze is unfocused, squinting, pure. I lean in and kiss the downy, cashmere threads on her head. My little love. One day, I’ll tell her that she is the most beautiful masterpiece that I didn’t paint. The seventh round of IVF left both my womb and wallet empty but it was my spirit that took the king hit. The confirmation that motherhood was attainable left me incarcerated in a psychological cell so miserable that the only thing I dreamed of was how to end it all. Then, out of the blue, she came along and saved me, the girl. A man in a dark suit and a furrowed brow whispers pointedly into his phone. He is looking at us in a way that unnerves me. Have I seen him before? I feel my breath quicken again. I make a split-second decision to get off the train a stop early and walk the rest of the way to the airport. I can’t risk us getting caught. I don’t want anything to take me away from the girl. We take the station elevator to street level. Inside, I inadvertently look up at the white demi-lune camera recording our every move. My breath catches in my chest. I try to force a deep breath, but I can’t. The anxiety makes me feel like I’m drowning in compressed air. The lift door rolls open. I breathe out. We walk along the main road. Cars pass us without regard. She is properly awake now. A light whimper turns into a sob which progresses into a guttural cry, a sound that makes my stomach flip and my skin crawl. She needs something. I don’t know what she needs. I question everything. What if she thinks I’m a terrible mother? Nothing prepares you for the stress and self-doubt that motherhood serves up with ease. Dusk threatens. The girl is eventually soothed by the rise and fall of the ground under her pram, which in turn quiets my own internal jury. We all have our tragedies, then our tipping points. One day I’ll tell her about the day that was mine. The moment I first set eyes on her was as transcendent as I imagined it would be. Pushing my wrinkled, tear-stained cheek against her squishy new one, life immediately gained richness. It doesn’t matter that I’ll sleep half upright on the edge of the bed tonight to keep her safely in it. Life is an adventure with the girl. One day I’ll tell her how she saved me from an existence so fallow that I would’ve let myself get slapped to death. There is no going back now. We have our whole beautiful lives ahead. One day I’ll explain to her that it’s not where you start in life, it’s where you finish. She needs her nappy changed, a new bottle. I need a break from the street. The airport can wait until tomorrow. I start to feel paranoia creeping in as the sun falls behind us. People might know me. They might know him. They could be in any of the cars. They could take me back to him. They could take her away. I break into a jog until the anxiety passes then I revert to walking again. I wheel her pram until we come to an airport motel. Traversing the car park, a four wheel drive stops to let us pass, even though it is their right of way. A man holds the reception door open for me as he exits. Strangers are kind to mothers. I wave thanks, avoiding eye contact. The room brings us what we need. Time to sterilise, shower, eat and eventually, sleep. She is the first to wake with the sun’s new rays. Eyes crack open. Lips part. Tongue sticking in and out as she coos the world good morning. What ecstasy to wake to her song. This might be the best day of my life. Our first unshackled. Our suitcase, still packed, stands guard at the door. I am tying my shoelace when I hear muffled voices. We need to get to the airport. The voices get louder. The door begins to rumble with loud knocking. ‘Police! Move away from the door!’ I grab the girl and cradle her against my chest. I hear the heaving thump of a shoulder hitting the door outside. ‘Police! Move away from the door!’ I move to the back wall, instinctively recoiling, as the door explodes open and helmeted police stream into the room. A policeman looms in front of me, weapon drawn. I cocoon her head against my collarbone, savouring the wisps of hair in my fingertips as our hearts beat against one another for the last time. All the love in the world couldn’t stave off autumn. ‘Put the child down,’ I hear the police officer say. I want to run. It’s not our time to part. I hesitate. The policeman is annoyed that I am not obeying him. ‘Please,’ I beg, ‘she’s all I have.’ They have me surrounded. ‘Put the child down on the bed and your hands in the air,’ he bellows. I am trapped. A howl of defeat escapes from me. I place her gently on the bed and she is immediately seized. The girl starts to cry. I raise my shaking arms. ‘You’re under arrest for the wilful endangerment and abduction of a seven-week-old infant,’ he says, ‘anything you say or do may be used as evidence against you in a court of law.’ The room is spinning. ‘Okay,’ I hear myself say, ‘just please don’t scare the girl.’ I press my wrists together tightly. The police officer shakes his head, abandoning protocol. ‘What on earth were you thinking, kidnapping an innocent baby from a Shopping Centre?’ he asks, eyes squinting, as the cold metal cuffs hit my wrists. ‘Her parents are beside themselves.’ The girl is hauled from the room, shielded by two police, thereby ending the best forty-two hours of my existence. It is exquisite torture to live your wildest dream. The police officer, now alone with me, lowers his voice as he leads me out of the room, onto the street. ‘As a father and a grandfather, I think what you did is indefensible,’ he says, ‘I hope they throw the book at you… that you lose everything because of this.’I watch as the girl gets placed in an ambulance. She disappears from my sight.‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘I already have.