Kevin grabs his coat and kisses her on the forehead, calling her a clever girl. I hear him jogging down the stairs, taking them two at a time and swinging across each landing.
“So how was it really?” I ask. “I want all the gory details.”
She smiles tiredly. “Easier than last time.”
“Great.”
“You’ll be fine.”
I listen as Jules describes her labor and the delivery. She has photographs on her phone. Some of them show Violet in the minutes after her birth, being cleaned and weighed by a midwife.
“Kevin was really good. You’ll be glad that Hayden is with you,” she says wearily. Her words are beginning to lose shape.
Leo has come to peer into the crib. He looks at me. “When is your baby coming out?”
“Soon.”
“Are you still bleeding?”
“No.” I laugh nervously and ruffle his hair.
“What do you mean, sweetie?” asks Jules. She’s looking at Leo.
“Nothing,” I say, my heart hammering. “I spilled something on my skirt. Leo thought it was blood.”
Leo wants to say something else. I interrupt him and tell him Mummy needs to rest.
“I’ll look after Leo. You have a nap.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
I tuck Jules into bed and she’s asleep within moments. Leo has gone to the sitting room, where he’s watching TV. I sit next to him and make him look at me.
“I didn’t bleed.”
“But I saw.”
“I spilled something.”
He nods, more interested in the TV.
“Listen to me,” I say, squeezing his upper arm. “You shouldn’t tell lies.”
He tries to pull away.
He knows. He knows.
He’s a child.
What if he tells someone?
Nobody will believe him.
Stupid! Stupid!
Leaving Leo, I return to the bedroom, quietly opening the door, making sure that Jules is sleeping. Tiptoeing across the floor, I take a nightdress from the dresser drawer before going to the small painted crib and gently lifting Violet into my arms. I carry her out of the room, shielding her from Leo’s gaze when he turns and looks at me reproachfully. He goes back to watching TV.
Slipping into Leo’s bedroom, I lay Violet on the floor between two pillows and quickly remake the bed, pulling back the SpongeBob duvet and taking plain sheets from the linen cupboard. Retrieving two bunches of flowers from the kitchen, I arrange them on either side of the bed. The only other furniture in the room is a chest of drawers with a tilting beveled mirror on top. Using books and soft toys, I prop my phone next to the mirror and turn on the camera, adjusting the angle to put the bed in the center of the frame. Some of Leo’s drawings have been stuck on the wall above the bed. I pull them off gently, trying not to tear the corners.
Once I’m satisfied, I take off my clothes and the prosthetic bump, before slipping the nightgown over my head. I dampen my hair using Leo’s water bottle, plastering strands on my forehead and splashing water on my face before picking up Violet, who is still swaddled in a crocheted woolen blanket. Half sitting up in bed, I hold her in the crook of my arm so that only part of her face can be seen. She smells so beautiful, so clean and new.
Using the timer, I take multiple photographs, checking the composition after each one. Satisfied, I unhook my bra and press Violet’s face into my breast, smiling tiredly at the camera. This time I’m recording.
“Hello, everyone, this is Rory. I would love to show you his face, but he’s pretty hungry right now. I’m exhausted, but so, so happy.”
Violet has woken. She snuffles and opens her mouth, searching for my nipple. I set her down and stop the recording before quickly rearranging the room and remaking the bed. Violet is now fully awake and her cries are getting louder. I pull off the nightdress and begin fastening my prosthetic. I hear a sound from the main bedroom. Jules is awake.
“Where’s Violet?” she asks, panic straining her voice.
“She’s with me,” I reply, wrestling with my clothes. Jules is in the hallway . . . at the door.
She appears. I’m breathless.
“What were you doing?”
“Violet was restless. I didn’t want her waking you.”
“How long did I sleep?”
“Not long. I think she might be hungry.”
Jules picks up Violet up from the bed and points to my blouse. “Your buttons aren’t done up properly.”
“Oh. Silly me . . . I’d forget my head . . .”
“Are you OK?”
“Fine.”
I make Jules go back to her bedroom and prop pillows behind her back. Once she’s breast-feeding, I put Leo’s drawings back on the wall, but I can’t quite remember the sequence. Hopefully Jules won’t remember either.
I’m returning the flowers to the kitchen when I spy Violet’s PCHR booklet. The personal health record is given to every newborn, listing details of the birth—weight, length, and head circumference, as well as the name of the midwife and family doctor. I’m going to need a booklet like this.
I begin photographing the pages. Jules appears. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. I mean—I’m just looking. How’s Violet?”
“Full as a fat lady’s socks.”
“Cup of tea?”
“No.”
“How about a piece of toast?”
“Two.”
I get bread from the freezer and fill the slots of the toaster. “I didn’t get a picture of Violet,” I say. “Can I have one of yours?”
“Sure.”
Jules unlocks her phone and hands it to me. I scroll through the images and find one that I want. It shows the midwife weighing Violet. I send the picture to my phone, which chirrups in my pocket.
“Is there anything else I can do?” I ask. “I could make dinner for Leo.”
“No, you’ve been wonderful. I’ll be fine.”
“Well, I’m going downstairs to tell Hayden. He’s due to call me tonight.”
“Where is he now?”
“Eight days out of Cape Town. He’ll be home a week from Wednesday.”
“Well, tell him to hurry. He doesn’t want to miss this.”
MEGHAN
* * *
Today I phoned an old friend who works for a law firm in the City. Jocelyn made partner this year. I’m not really sure what that means, but she celebrated by throwing a party at the Savoy Grill, so I figured a lot more money.
She returns my call, shouting to be heard above the noise of traffic. “Sorry, Megs, I’m just out of court. Have you had the baby?”
“Not yet.”
“I want to see pictures.”
“You will.”
She whistles for a taxi. I hold the phone away from my ear.
Jocelyn and I were at school together—inseparable from the age of ten, doing all the usual stuff, graduating from hopscotch and jumping rope to dripping black eye makeup and stalking Oasis. Later her hobby was bulimia, while I became fixated on self-help books. We both pulled through.
She’s found a black cab and some silence. “What’s with the mysterious phone message?”
“I need some legal advice.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“No, I’m calling for a friend.”
“Mmmm,” says Jocelyn, choosing her words carefully. “Because if this was about you, Megs, I would be obliged to warn you not to make any admissions or confessions of guilt to me because I cannot mislead a court. At the same time, I have a duty to keep whatever you tell me a secret.”
“Oh my God, I haven’t killed anyone!”