The Mother-in-Law(39)

Ollie’s expression is as puzzled as I feel. “I wish I knew,” he says finally. “She was my mother but as it turns out . . . I didn’t really know her at all.”





21: DIANA


THE PAST

The call comes at around 5 A.M. I turn over in bed and look at the red numbers blinking into the darkness.

“The baby’s coming,” Ollie says, when I pick up the phone. “Lucy’s contractions are about ten minutes apart. Can you come now?”

I get out of bed and make myself a strong coffee. I don’t trust myself on the roads until I’ve had my morning coffee, my eyes aren’t what they once were. I shower quickly and get myself dressed, double-checking everything in the overnight bag I’ve packed. These labors can go on for a long time, so who knows how long I’ll be at Ollie and Lucy’s house. I’ve packed my pajamas, a toothbrush, a novel. I’ve even brought a little gift-wrapped Thomas the Tank Engine train for Archie. I plan to give the train to Archie “from the baby,” because apparently that’s what everyone does these days, at least that’s what Jan says, and Jan seems to know these kinds of things. Once I’ve confirmed that I have everything, I get in the car and make the twenty-minute drive to their house, arriving at 5:55 A.M.

Ollie is on the doorstep and Lucy is half bent over the front fence, having a contraction.

“Where have you been?” Ollie exclaims.

I bristle, I’ll admit it. Heaven forbid I take longer than they expect to get there. No one is asking where Tom has been. He’ll wake up sometime around 8 A.M., play eighteen holes of golf and then swan into the hospital when the baby is a few minutes old, bearing an extravagant gift and promises of a trust fund and he will be everyone’s hero.

“Here’s the taxi,” Lucy says, ignoring me entirely. She is in labor, and I know the reasonable thing to do is to forgive her for this. But a thank you, I feel, wouldn’t hurt. Even a “hello.”

It feels like yesterday I was in her position, doubled over in pain, waiting for my baby to come. But in my case, no one was on their way to help, no husband was there to call a taxi to the hospital. I was left on the steps of the hospital with a bag in my hand. And after that, I was on my own. I know that I should look at Lucy and see the similarities between us. We are both mothers, we have a mutual love for my son. We are also both motherless, although my mother stepped away by choice where hers was taken from her, kicking and screaming no doubt.

I know all this.

But for some reason, despite our similarities, when I look at her, all I see are our differences.

When Tom arrives at Ollie and Lucy’s house later that day, I tell him he has a granddaughter.

“A granddaughter?” Of course he is misty-eyed in an instant. “It’s like history repeating itself, isn’t it? A son, then a daughter?”

“Our story is a little different, though.” I say.

“A little,” he agrees.

I laugh as I notice a shiny pool of liquid gathering in the corner of his mouth. “You’re drooling.” I wipe it away with my thumb, the same way I do sometimes to Archie. “Ollie wants us to bring Archie in to meet his sister.”

Tom’s eyes canvas the living room. “Where is Archie?”

“Napping. He only just went down, so I’ll give him another hour or so.” I take one of Tom’s legs into my lap, and begin massaging his calf. His eyes fall shut and he moans appreciatively. “Tom, I was wondering . . . you’re not looking for any engineers at work at the moment, are you?”

He frowns, but his eyes remain shut. “Engineers?”

“I might know of someone, that’s all.”

“An engineer?”

“Yes. Very qualified. Used to build sky scrapers in Kabul.” I run my thumbs from the back of his knee, all the way down to his Achilles heel.

“I’m getting the feeling that you’re trying to influence me with a leg rub, Diana?” Tom smiles and I feel that familiar surge of joy that Tom Goodwin loves me. It is without question the greatest blessing of my life.

“If you can vouch for them,” he says. “Consider them hired.”





22: LUCY


THE PAST . . .

Lightning doesn’t strike twice, that’s what they say. Well in fact, there was a man, Roy Sullivan, who was struck by lightning seven times during his life. SEVEN! What must Roy have thought every time he heard someone say that lightning didn’t strike twice? I get the point, of course, it’s not common. But that must have just made poor old Roy feel even worse. Roy survived all seven strikes, which is more inspiring if you ask me. He was found dead in his bed at the age of seventy-one after shooting himself in the head—and I daresay all these “lightning doesn’t strike twice” folk should shoulder their share of responsibility in that. Because the fact is, sometimes, lightning does strike twice. It did for Roy and it has for me.

Because I have a second child with colic.

I’m sitting in my recliner holding a nipple to my screaming infant’s mouth, only this time, I have a toddler too. My recliner is in the lounge room, which is now the playroom, TV room and Harriet’s bedroom. An episode of Game of Thrones plays on the television and I half-watch it. I’ve watched this episode three times now and I’m still not entirely sure what’s going on. Too many characters in this damn show. Still, there’s Jon Snow, which makes it worth the effort.