The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(80)

They’re both asleep when David comes hurtling through the door a little later, taking the stairs two at a time. I’m dozing in the armchair, but I startle awake as he comes into the room breathing heavily.

‘They’re fine,’ I say quietly as he approaches the bed, and Elle opens her eyes and sees him. And the look on her face … it’s everything. It’s I love you, look what I did, I’m so glad you’re here.

The look on his face … it’s everything too. It’s I love you more, look at this wonderful thing you did, I’m so proud of you, my super-human.

He sits beside her and she slides into his arms, crying again, this time with sheer joy because her new family is at last together for the first time. I soak in their pleasure, and then slowly back out of the room because I don’t want to intrude on their first moments as three. They don’t notice, and that’s okay. It’s as it should be.

I stayed long enough to find out that they settled on Charlotte after all; David carried her cautiously downstairs to give Elle a chance to take a very careful shower. We sat on the sofa examining Charlotte’s miniature hands and feet, her gangly limbs waiting to plump out, her shock of dark hair. David thinks she favours Elle; I think he’s probably right. The midwife came, brisk and efficient with her scales. Charlotte weighed in at a healthy 5lb 4oz, which is apparently great going for three weeks early.

I’m back home again now with a cup of tea. But now I’m here I don’t think the house has ever felt this empty; nor have I ever felt this lonely. The silence is acute. I could switch on the radio, but I don’t think I could stand the inane chatter or banal laughter. I’m exhausted to my bones. I feel strange … untethered, which is odd really, having just witnessed something as grounding as a birth. Perhaps I’ve hit emotional overload; getting married and delivering a baby all in the space of a few hours can do that to a person. I can’t easily explain it. It’s a feeling of disconnection, like distant clicks on the line when you call overseas. Elle has moved to another country now, somewhere I can visit but not stay. Everyone around me is moving forward, away from me: Mum with Stef, Elle and the baby, Jonah in LA.

My poor, strained heart. You know those old-fashioned music boxes lined with mirrors angled to reflect the slowly revolving ballerina from every angle? I have one somewhere with colourful birds painted on the lid; Jonah gave it to me for a birthday when we were still schoolkids. I imagine myself like that ballerina, a myriad spinning versions of me.

I’m so damn tired and it’s too much effort to get upstairs to bed, so I drag myself as far as the sofa and collapse, curled on my side, my face in my hands to block out the daylight. I’d cry myself to sleep if I had the energy; God knows I deserve a bloody good sob given the hours I’ve just lived through. But I don’t have the energy, and I don’t think I have any tears left in me either. I feel tinder dry, a parched pile of leaves that would catch alight at the merest hint of a flame. As I close my eyes I see the leaves scatter on the breeze, some here, some there, pieces of me drifting away.

It’s dark again when I wake up. I passed out into a dreamless sleep and now I’m wide awake at ten at night and seized by the urge to do something, to go somewhere, to take myself away from here. I’m not at work this week or next; I booked it off without mentioning that, had things been different, Freddie and I would be in New York on our honeymoon. I told Dawn I’m planning to redecorate the kitchen, and I told Phil and Susan I’m going to a spa with Mum and Elle before the baby comes. Neither of those were true. I’ve blocked this time out to spend at home, a back-to-back string of visits to my other world. Crazy as it sounds, I am going on my honeymoon.

But it occurs to me now that I don’t need to stay at home: have pills, will travel. In fact, the more I think about it, the more it makes sense to get away. If I stay here, there will be demands on my time. Elle, the baby, Mum. I tell myself that Elle and David will appreciate some space to get to know their daughter. If I go away, there will be no one but myself to think about or plan for. My heart is banging with adrenaline; I’m gripped by the idea of being somewhere else. It’s a need, not a want. I feel like an elastic stretched taut, close to snapping, in need of careful release. My mind races around the options: beaches, mountaintops, oceans. Where can I go? I mean, I could actually try to get on a plane to New York. I consider it for a few minutes, but then I decide it’d be too weird even on my scale of weird to be there in both of my lives simultaneously. Upstairs, I practically run through the shower and change, throwing clothes and underwear into my suitcase dragged from the spare room, sunglasses, sandals. I know myself well enough to know that I don’t want to end up somewhere cold. Sunshine. I need to turn my face up to the sun and feel it coat my skin in hot, sticky warmth. Bag packed after a fashion, I drag it downstairs and hunt out my passport from the kitchen drawer. It’s in an envelope with Freddie’s, and for a few moments I hold them both against my chest, imagining us queuing at the airport with them clutched tightly in our excited hands. I daren’t look at his now; I need to stay in this frame of mind, the one that’s going to carry me all the way to a new place. I can’t wait it out until morning comes. I can’t wait even another hour, so I call a cab and drag my suitcase out on to the footpath and wait in the street. I push some money and a scribbled apology note through Agnes’s letter box; I feel obliged to ask her to watch Turpin even though he practically lives with her anyway, and he won’t give a damn if I’m not around. There’s no one else to leave a note for to alert them to my madness. I’ll message Mum and Elle when I’m sure where I’m going, but for now I lock the doors and fling myself into the cab when it pulls up, exhilarated. I can’t shake the feeling that someone or something will stop me, grab a-hold of my arm and tell me I can’t go, but no one does. I’m on my own. Captain of my own ship, albeit one who has no idea where she’s navigating towards.