The End is Where We Begin by Maria Goodin (best books to read non fiction .TXT) 📗

again. Libby, crawling towards me on her hands and knees, stopped and looked at me like I was stupid.

“On your lips, of course.”

“Oh,” I said, not sure what I thought of all this. “Okay then.”

I closed my eyes again. I couldn’t remember what it was like to be kissed on the lips. I seemed to remember being kissed on my lips before – by my mum, I guessed – but I was too big for that now. I had an idea that it might be quite wet.

“Don’t do it for too long, okay?” I said, opening my eyes again. Libby’s face was so close to mine that the first thing I saw were the freckles on her nose.

She sat back and looked thoughtful. “Three seconds?”

I nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

I closed my eyes again, my legs crossed, the grass tickling the bare space between my socks and the hem of my jeans. I heard shuffling in front of me, and then the light was blocked out. There was a warmth in front of my face, and the sweet scent of cherry lollipop. She placed her lips on mine. They were drier and warmer than I had anticipated. Neither of us moved a muscle. I wasn’t sure how I could breathe with her face pressed so close to mine, so I didn’t. I held my breath and counted the seconds. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississippi…

I was starting to feel the squeeze on my lungs. But if I tried to breathe in now how would I do it? Her nose was pressing into mine on one side, and my free nostril would probably make that weird noise, like the tiniest bit of air coming out of a balloon. Or did I need to breathe out, release the air caught inside my chest? But then I’d be breathing right onto her face. Was that okay? Was she breathing? I couldn’t hear her. Was this how you were meant to do it? Because on TV they sometimes kissed for a really long time, and I wasn’t sure I could go much longer.

Libby sat back on her heels, returned her lollipop to her mouth and looked at me quizzically. Then she started to giggle.

“You can breathe, you know.”

I took in a gasp of air with a sense of relief.

“That wasn’t three seconds,” I grumbled, feeling stupid.

“Yes it was. I did one Mrs Hippity, two Mrs Hippity—”

“It’s not Mrs Hippity, stupid, it’s Mississippi, like the river.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes it is!” I laughed loudly, partly because it was actually funny, and partly to cover my own sense of awkwardness.

“It is Mrs Hippity!” insisted Libby.

“Who’s Mrs Hippity?”

“I don’t know!”

“Mrs Hippity!” I howled, falling back onto the grass.

“You’re silly, I’m going home,” said Libby, sulkily. She stood up and stomped off through the grass.

I lay on my back, laughing up at the bright sunshine. Once I’d recovered myself, I glanced over at Libby’s bag of sweets and thought about how her lips had tasted of cherry. It hadn’t been too bad, being kissed by a girl, although I couldn’t see myself doing it again any time soon. Maybe if I breathed next time, I decided, it might be better.

I reached over and helped myself to all the sweets she had won from me.

I remember standing there in shock; my knees shaking, my T-shirt sticking to my back, my stomach clenched. I’d read the books, known what to expect, and still it had been terrifying.

The baby was out. He was finally here. I was meant to be important, but I felt like a spare part, standing around awkwardly, being given little jobs to try to involve me. I felt patronised and overwhelmed.

So this was it. Now we had to listen out. Because the first cry meant he was breathing. That he was alive. And it seemed to be taking an eternity.

The nurses were fussing, doing something with him at the side of the room.

Him. My son. It didn’t feel real.

I watched the clock on the wall. The seconds ticked by. Eleven, twelve, thirteen… Nobody said anything, but surely we were all thinking the same thing. Why wasn’t he crying? I opened my mouth to ask the question, but I couldn’t. Maybe I’d got it wrong. Maybe it wasn’t meant to happen that quickly. I didn’t want to look a complete idiot, but I was sure the cry should have come by now. That’s what I’d read.

The first cry is synonymous with breathing…

If he wasn’t crying that meant he wasn’t breathing, and for a split second I experienced a violent twist in my gut – not fear or desperation, but guilt. Because if he wasn’t breathing that meant it was all over.

It meant I was free.

Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…

This wasn’t right. I knew it wasn’t. They were meant to cry. I wanted him to cry. Didn’t I? Didn’t I? What was wrong with me? Surely I had to at least want that.

But I couldn’t make myself wish for it, couldn’t will it to happen.

When the baby cries, his airways are ready to take in that first, big gulp of air, allowing him to breathe on his own…

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…

However hard I’d tried to get my head in the right space for this, however hard I’d tried to accept what was to come, I knew that I’d never accepted it at all. It was never meant to be like this, not yet, not now, and I realised in a sudden rush of anguish and self-disgust that I didn’t want the cry to come.

I just wanted this to all disappear.

Twenty, twenty-one…

And the silence was shattered.

A painful wail, a chug, a splutter and another wail.

He had taken his first breath.

“There we go,” said the midwife, cheerfully, carrying the bundle towards the bed.

I glanced at the other faces in the room, all smiling. None of them surprised or afraid, as if none of them had endured the agonising wait that I had just experienced.

I felt crushed by the weight of some