Who else?
Audra’s parents were long gone. Her one brother was eking out a living as a musician somewhere in Seattle. Even if they’d had any kind of relationship, he’d never kept a dollar in his pocket longer than it took to walk to the nearest bar.
Who, then?
‘You done?’ Mitchell asked.
‘Wait,’ Audra said.
She screwed her eyes shut, tried to think of someone. Anyone. Only one name came to her mind, and she would not dial that number. Not if her life depended on it.
‘You don’t want to call your husband?’ Mitchell asked, as if reading her mind.
‘What good would that do?’
‘He’s the father of your children.’
‘That’s right,’ Audra said. ‘He’s my husband. And he’s the father of my children. And he’s the kind of man who’d pay someone to take my children, just to try and break me. He’s been trying for a year and a half to grind me down. I won’t let him get me now.’
Defeated, she went back to the bunk and returned the phone to Mitchell.
‘You have some thinking to do,’ the agent said, standing.
Audra didn’t answer. She sat on the bunk, buried her head in her hands as Mitchell exited the cell and locked the door behind her.
Memory bore down on her like a river on rock, wearing her away.
The first months of her marriage to Patrick had been good. They got married at City Hall, only a handful of people present. Patrick’s mother was initially displeased, even used the term ‘shotgun wedding,’ but the idea of a grandchild won her over. And when Margaret was happy, Patrick was happy. Or as close as he ever came to it. Audra had grown used to his constant criticism by then, in the way one gets used to a toothache or an arthritic joint. But now his carping had become a nagging concern for the growing life inside her belly. Suddenly his two-bed-two-bath apartment in the Village was no good anymore. Patrick’s mother insisted that they move closer to his parents’ place on the Upper West Side.
But we can’t afford it, Audra had protested.
Maybe not, Margaret had said, but I can.
It was then Audra learned that Patrick’s lifestyle was provided for less by his job on Wall Street than by his mother’s indulgence. It wasn’t that he lacked money; he was, by any measure, a wealthy man. But not Upper West Side wealthy. So, when Audra was five months pregnant, they moved to a three-bed-two-bath in the West Eighties. Unlike her mother-in-law’s place, the apartment afforded no view of the park from its window, but it was still greater luxury than Audra had ever hoped to live in.
Even with all that space, there still wasn’t a room for her to paint in. While Patrick’s mother picked out wall coverings and carpets, and hired the very best contractors to carry out the work, Audra moved her easel from corner to corner, ever cautious of spilling a yellow ocher or a burnt sienna, of letting a brush too near a drape, of knocking over a canning jar full of turpentine or linseed oil.
Some days she didn’t paint at all. The smell made her nauseous, and the baby made it uncomfortable for her to sit in a working position. Some days became most days, and by the time Sean was born, she hadn’t touched a brush in weeks.
Looking back, Audra could remember that first week with her new baby with utter clarity. She had wanted to breast-feed, even though Patrick’s mother said nonsense, a bottle had been good enough for her son, and it would certainly be good enough for her grandson. But Audra had insisted, not that it was any of that old bat’s business anyway. She had spent days and weeks reading up on the topic, watching videos on a new website called YouTube, rapt by the simple beauty of the act. It might be difficult at first, all the books and websites said, but don’t worry, baby will soon get the hang of it.
But Sean would not latch. And when he did, it hurt so bad it brought Audra to tears. And how he cried, his hunger driving him to sound like a revving chainsaw. No bottle, everyone said. Even if Audra expressed her milk, a bottle would ruin the chances of successful breast-feeding. So she had held Sean upright on her knee, tipping milk from a tiny cup into his tiny mouth. She sniffed back tears as most of the food that she had endured terrible pain to provide for him ran down his chin and his chest. And still he cried as Patrick and Margaret watched, their faces hard and unpitying.
It lasted almost a week. The doctor weighed Sean, said he wasn’t too concerned about the lack of weight gain, that they’d figure out the feeding soon enough. But Patrick’s mother wouldn’t hear any of that.
‘You’re starving my grandson,’ Margaret said on the sixth night as Audra took a cup of expressed milk from the fridge.
‘No, I’m not,’ Audra said.
Tiredness made her mind a swamp, thick and heavy in her skull. She still burned and itched between her legs, even though the tearing hadn’t been too bad, and the bleeding had lessened over the last twenty-four hours. Her abdomen felt as though it had been used as a punching bag, like she’d been turned inside out, her breasts hard and aching, her nipples stinging. Every single minuscule action seemed like a grinding effort, but still she pushed on.
‘Listen to him, for God’s sake.’ Margaret pointed to the door, Sean screeching on the other side. ‘Just give him a bottle and be done with it.’
‘No,’ Audra said. ‘I want to keep trying. The doctor said he’s—’
‘I don’t care what the doctor said. I know what a suffering child sounds like.’
Audra slammed the fridge door shut. ‘You think I don’t hear him?’ She tried to keep her voice down, but couldn’t. ‘You think I don’t have that noise drilling into my head night and day?’
Margaret glared at her for long seconds before she said, ‘Please don’t raise your voice to me.’
‘Then don’t tell me how to feed my baby,’ Audra said.
Margaret’s eyes widened. She marched out of the kitchen, the door swinging closed behind her. Audra cursed and poured a little of the milk into the small cup she used for feeding. A few seconds in the microwave, and she brought it out to the living room where Patrick waited, his hands in his pockets, Sean still squealing in the bassinet.
‘I thought you’d have lifted him,’ she said. ‘He needs comforting.’
‘What did you say to my mother?’ Patrick asked.
‘I told her to butt out. Not in so many words, but that was the gist of it.’
Audra set the warmed cup of milk on the coffee table and took a muslin cloth from the folded stack. She shook it loose, draped it over her arm.
‘She’s very upset,’ Patrick said.
‘I don’t give a—’
The back of Patrick’s hand rocked Audra’s head on her shoulders, left a hot ball of pain to swell inside her cheek. She staggered two steps to her left, her vision wavering, put her fingertips to the arm of the couch to keep herself upright.
Patrick stood still, blinking, his mouth tight and small.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his lips barely moving. ‘I didn’t want to do that. I mean, I didn’t mean to. Please don’t be angry.’
Audra waited for the dizzy waves to abate, then she said, ‘I need to feed the baby.’
‘Sure,’ Patrick said. He shuffled his feet, put his hands back in his pockets. His eyes on the carpet, he left the room.
Audra sniffed hard, wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. Then she went to the bassinet, lifted Sean out. So small, so delicate, like a rose whose petals would fall if you breathed on it too hard. His cries softened as he nuzzled the skin of her throat.
Try again, she thought.
She brought him to the couch and lay down on her side, opened her dressing gown, and guided his mouth to her breast. He squirmed there, his tiny feet kicking at her belly. She placed her nipple at his upper lip, and on cue, his mouth opened.
Please God, she thought. This time, please.
His mouth closed around her, drew her in.
‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Please.’