The Push by Ashley Audrain (motivational novels TXT) 📗

Standing at the foot of her mother’s bed with tight fists, she realized that she wanted Etta to hurt her. Being smacked by her at least meant that she existed in Etta’s small, sad world. By then Cecilia had felt for months like she was dead to her mother. Etta stirred awake and looked at her.

‘Hit me, Etta,’ she said, shaking. ‘Go on. Hit me!’

She’d never called her mother by her first name before.

Etta’s expression was empty. She looked from Cecilia’s trembling face to the light switch on the wall and she sighed again. She put her head back down and closed her eyes. Henry’s footsteps traveled through the front foyer downstairs and into the kitchen. He’d been looking for dinner but there wasn’t any. Not today. The two pills Etta had given her were still on the bedside table. Cecilia wasn’t sure why she didn’t want Henry to see them. She took them and flushed them down the toilet.

‘Is she not feeling well again?’ Henry was filling the kettle when Cecilia came into the kitchen.

‘Headache,’ she said. They were all so good at lying for one another, at pretending things weren’t as bad as they were. He nodded and looked again for leftovers in the fridge. Cecilia turned on the radio to fill the room so that they didn’t have to say anything more.

37

I wonder if you ever noticed the things about him that I lived for?

The way he flung his arms above his head like a teenager while he slept. The smell of his feet at the end of the day, just before his bath. How he’d pop up on his arms when he heard the creak of the door in the morning, desperately seeking me through the bars of the crib. And so I never asked you to oil the hinges.

He’s been heavy in me today. Sometimes this just happens. Distinct, dense, aching days that make everything around me taste sour. I want only him, but the real world threatens to quiet his noises, his smells.

I want to breathe him in deeply and never breathe out ever again.

Do you feel this sometimes, too?

Those first days. Sour milk and body odor. Nipple cream staining the sheets. A constant ring of tea on the bedside table. I cried without thinking, without knowing why, but the tears were a release of love. My milk came in and my breasts were boulders, and I barely moved from that spot. I jiggled him to sleep on my naked chest. He startled every so often, throwing his skinny little arms right up, and then curling back into me. And then we’d start again. There was no day or night. My nipples stung at the thought of feeding him next.

And yet. I didn’t want that time with him to end. He was everything I had ever wanted. The connection we shared was the only thing I could feel. I craved the physical weight of him on top of me. So this is it, I would think. This is what it’s supposed to be like. I drank him in like water.

He would lift his head from between my breasts and wobble it around like he was searching, trying to find his mama, looking for the person he loved. I would put my cheek down to touch his and then he would rest again, safe and happy and full. Of milk, of me.

Eventually I left my bed and turned my attention back to Life. I cleaned up Violet’s breakfast, I made make-believe castles, I threw pile after pile of clothes in the dryer. But when he wasn’t with me, my mind was with him, up in that nursery.

Violet didn’t care much for Sam at first, although she watched carefully every time I latched him for a feeding. She would often feel her own flat chest as he drank from me, as though she was bewildered by the function of a woman’s breasts. When he was done, she would leave the room, wanting to be alone most of the time.

Sam fell madly in love with her in the months that followed. Soon, he would light up when he heard her voice come out the school door at pickup.

‘There’s your sister!’ I’d say, and he’d kick his legs, desperate to get near her, aching for her face to come up right in front of his. She would jiggle his foot and off we’d go, back to our home, to the part of the day I feared the most. The three of us, alone, the minefield of the late afternoon, waiting for you to walk in the door. You were the great neutralizer.

You and me. We were partners, companions, creators of these two humans. But we lived increasingly different lives, like most parents do. You were cerebral and creative, inventing spaces and sight lines and perspectives, your days concerned with lighting, elevation, finishes. You had three meals a day. You read sentences written for adults and you wore a very nice scarf. You had a reason to shower.

I was a soldier, executing a series of physical actions on a loop. Change the diaper. Make the formula. Warm the bottle. Pour the Cheerios. Wipe up the mess. Negotiate. Beg. Change his sleeper. Get her clothes out. Where’s the lunch box? Bundle them up. Walk. Faster. We’re late. Hug her good-bye. Push the swing. Find the lost mitten. Rub the pinched finger. Give him a snack. Get another bottle. Kiss, kiss, kiss. Put him in the crib. Clean. Tidy. Find. Make. Defrost the chicken. Get him up from the crib. Kiss, kiss, kiss. Change his diaper. Put him in the high chair. Clean up his face. Wash the dishes. Tickle. Change the diaper. Tickle. Put the snacks in a baggie. Start the washing machine. Bundle him up. Buy diapers. And dish soap. Race for pickup. Hello, hello! Hurry, hurry. Unbundle. Laundry in the dryer.