A baby on the way

Nights are always the worst because the mind sharpens in the emptiness. Darkness creates edges and everything else is sucked away, as though from the gravitational pull of a black hole. All I am left with is my breath, as I float through space, attempting to slow my heart rate and ease my breath. A pit opens in my stomach and my organs fall through – I become a shell and I feel as though I might be that way forever.

But it is over when a golden light touches the tip of my nose. The room warms my cheeks and the shadows are drenched in a splendid stream. Birds begin to chirp, and the air swells with the promise of a new day. I have returned; my feet touch the ground as I swing my legs over the side of my bed. I lengthen my arms overhead, bending my head this way and that, shaking off the night before. My hand greets my belly; it is always my first interaction of the day. A couple more weeks and soon I won’t be able to keep this to myself anymore.

The glass of water, stagnant beside me, cooled by the night air, helps me gather my thoughts. As I sip, I turn my phone on – no notifications. An ambivalent feeling passes through me, like a ghost, as I turn it face down and make my way to the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, I think how unlikely it is that this has stayed hidden. My eyebrows have thinned – I guess they may have been plucked – the edges of my face have softened – natural change, maybe diet – my hair has browned, the blonde highlights about halfway down my scalp – no time to go to the salon, work probably. But the most noticeable change is that it seems as though the aura that surrounds me has become tangible, there is new warmth, new splendour. No one has noticed. I believe I have never looked more beautiful. I turn away.

I decided to keep her, but I broke up with him. And so, my baby stayed mine. On good nights, this is what I dream about. Someone who will return the love I give them, unconditionally. She will become everything I had never been granted: the best friend, the best partner in crime – the kind you see in television and smile sadly at, knowing that it is pure fiction. We will never drift apart because I love her, and she loves me and love forgives. These are things I believe when the nights have been good.

But when the black hole returns, swallowing all goodness with it, I feel the loneliness like an ocean around me. I feel my endurance wane as I tread and kick, trying to keep us both afloat. When I inevitably feel sunlight on my face again, that exhaustion stays with me throughout the day. It seeps into my bones and settles there. It stays when I bike into work, and as I sit down at my desk. It stays as I pick up the phone – which suddenly feels like a brick in my hand – my eyelids drooping as a client prattles on. It stays as I head to the cafeteria, and I hear my colleagues chat about their weekends, like a radio with the volume turned down. It stays as I put the next frozen lasagna into the oven, and as I turn the television on, and as I read the last page in my book, and as I turn to switch off the light. As I settle on my pillow, my leaden eyelids can finally take up their resting position, and I drift off into the night. And my body and my belly thank me.

I can count myself lucky though. Despite the fact that she has no idea why, my mother is delighted that I come over every weekend these days. As I ring the doorbell, and she opens the door a split second later, always at precisely six o’clock, her smile stretches from ear to ear. My overnight bag in one hand, she takes my other hand and pulls me into an embrace that sparks tears in my eyes. She also has a gravitational pull, like the black hole, but instead it feels liberating. She pulls away, holding me at arm’s length: let me get a good look at you – how do you get more beautiful every weekend? I smile a soft, ironic smile and avoid eye contact, or else my emotions may just overflow and show themselves as tears. And if that happens, then the words that I have kept to myself until now, may just overflow as well.

As I make my way down the corridor of my childhood, I ask: what’s for dinner? Lasagna. A chuckle escapes me as I head up the carpeted stairs, guided by the many different versions of me that smile stoically from the wall.

Everything is as I left it, of course. These rooms are my mother’s museum of her past life. She keeps them the same as they are the single thread that she still holds in her grasp of the lost moments woven into her history. But I am grateful. An innocent peace descends upon me like a warm blanket as I settle into my routine, as if I am drifting off, counting sheep. The gentle whistle of the kettle downstairs warms my heart, as though I am already sipping the minty tea in front of the fire I know my mother is already preparing.

At dinner I resist the urge to caress my slightly swollen belly, my oversized t-shirt gratuitously covering the bump. After dessert, we move to the den, having washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen in a quick, practised choreography. My mother clicks on the next episode of our show, and we settle comfortably in our separate cocoons, a crocheted blanket hugging my shoulders in a way that slows my heartbeat and eases the dread that usually descends at this time of night. Periodically, I look over at my mother, and she offers me an encouraging look. I know she knows there is something I want to tell her. But before the temptation overrides my resolution to keep this to myself until I have processed it, I turn the corners of my mouth upwards, as close to a smile as I can get in these moments, and pull my gaze back to the television.

We hug once more before we head to bed. She strokes my cheek and I whisper: I love you, see you tomorrow. She smiles poignantly, blinks once, whispers I love you too. We turn away from each other, our hands the last thing to separate.

These nights, where I lie in the middle of my childhood bed, one hand placed softly on my belly, the other one tucked against my cheek, are my favourite. I sink into a peaceful slumber: the creases between my eyebrows smooth, my mouth slightly open. My delicate breaths are lifted towards the ceiling as I draw in my next.