Because of Them (Because of Love #2)

Chapter Four

AUDREY

T hump, thump, thump.

The steady, echoing sound drills into my ears with each rhythmic beat. I close my eyes, trying to block out the sound of my neighbour’s latest DIY project. Surely there are noise restriction rules about using power tools at midday on a Saturday.

My head pounds along with the pulsing thuds, my stomach churning with each distant bang of a hammer. Too late, I realise I should have stayed to eat the food I ordered at the cafe, or stopped to pick something up on the way home, or at the very least grabbed something from the kitchen before hiding out back here. Bile rises and I rush out of my art studio towards the bathroom.

Nothing comes up, it never does. It never did with Maisie, and I doubt it will this time. Mostly because I can never stomach enough food in the first place. All I can manage are little nibbles of pre-approved ‘safe’ foods. But they do nothing to stop the twisting in my gut and the unbearable heaves that leave me panting.

When my body has finally had its disgusting moment, I splash water on my face and wipe the sweaty tears from my cheeks. I hobble to the kitchen, crouched over like an old witch, and pull an apple from the fridge before making my way back to my art studio.

I’ve always found calm here. Through the darkest days of my marriage breaking down, through the exhausting moments of Maisie’s first few years, the spare bedroom I converted into an art studio has been something of a safe place for me. With its large north facing window, there is plenty of light, even through winter, to paint, and plenty of natural warmth to dry my artwork. We pulled up the carpet when we redid the flooring through the house, using the same ashy floorboards from the hall. The cupboard doors were removed, replaced with open shelving to store all my supplies. Various types of paints, canvases of all sizes, and more brushes than I can count fill the shelves.

Career ambition has always taken a strong first place when it comes to my interests outside of my family, but painting is a strong second. In high school, I hated the pressure that studying the visual arts put on the creative process. The planning, the explaining, the analysing. I just wanted to paint, to create. And that’s all I still want to do.

Sometimes my pieces are beautifully abstract. Swirls of colour to match my mood, like the deep stormy blue stage I went through when my ex-husband first moved out. Other times, I recreate landscapes and plants and flowers in my own unique, colourful way. And occasionally, I find myself attempting portraits. Like the one I’m working on now. Tiny baby Maisie, snuggled and sleeping, wrapped in a tiny sage green blanket.

Stepping back into the room, the gentle energy washes over me. I crunch into the apple, chewing slowly through the nausea still swirling in my stomach, right alongside the baby currently growing in there.

By instinct, my free hand finds its place resting on my belly. There’s no bump yet, but I’m bloated already, soft around the middle far sooner than my body changed with my last pregnancy. Maybe it’s a second baby thing, like my body already knows all the right places to grow, or maybe it’s just because I was so obsessed with crunches before I had Maisie, so my muscles were all tighter.

Either way, I’ll have to start living in leggings until I buy some maternity pants.

I unbutton my jeans and let my stomach relax at the reduced pressure. All the weight I never managed to lose after having Maisie, the weight I finally came to accept and even love, feels almost excessive now. I wonder what will happen to my body with this pregnancy. Putting on weight is a given, it comes with the parcel, but will my belly grow out like it did last time, or will every part of me swell up? How long will it take me to love my body again?

Sitting on my stool, I spin the seat a few times, trying to get comfortable. Naturally, my legs cross underneath me and I lean forward over the back support. I’ve never been one for sitting ‘normally’, always berated at school for hooking my legs under the seat or fidgeting too much while we all sat on the mat. Here in my art room, I decided early on to ignore all the ‘sit straight’ memories and just make myself comfortable.

While I finish my apple, I admire the painting in front of me, comparing it to the reference photo I have pegged to the top of the easel. Portraits are always harder to get perfect. There’s less freedom and I always want them to look exactly like the picture in my head. So far, Maisie’s eyes aren’t quite right, and the swirls of dark hair atop her head need some attention. I force my focus to the blanket wrapped around her. I used a little creative licence on the colour, turning the minty green into a deeper sage to give the whole piece an earthy feel. I’ll pull out the contrast between the shadow and highlights in my final layer of paint, but for now I love it. The colour is perfect, the woven strokes and gentle bunches look soft to touch.

I’ll have to find where I stashed the blanket, for the little baby growing inside me now. We donated almost everything as Maisie got older and we settled into the idea that she was it for us: the cot, the pram, the car seat, the toys. But I know I kept the blanket somewhere, in a box with a few other precious memories.

From the day Maisie came out, announcing her presence with the most beautiful wail, Callum and I knew we were done having kids. It wasn’t what I originally wanted, and we’d fought over it time and time again. But pregnancy was hard, and deep in the midst of my twelve-hour labour I said never again. I backflipped a few times, but Callum stood his ground.

As the days, then months and years went on, I became happier, more content with our decision to be a ‘one and done’ family. Maisie was our world. But I also enjoyed the freedom that only having one child brought. I could progress my career without having a massive gap on my resume. Finding a babysitter was easier. Daycare fees were lower. Everything worked.

I guess I should count my blessings that the little bean currently growing inside me will arrive right as Maisie will be starting primary school. Although juggling drop offs and pick ups around naps and feeds will probably be a nightmare. In truth, there’s probably no right time to have a second child. Doing it all alone only adds another layer of complexity, and the thought of handling all the sleepless nights and never-ending days on my own gives me a headache.

There’s probably a wrong person to have one with though. And it’s not that I don’t like Michael. It’s just that I don’t like him. Not in the way I should considering we are about to become parents. I can’t even picture him taking proper care of himself, let alone a tiny baby. How would he go sacrificing his sleep, his sanity, his gym time, to put the needs of a child above his own?

Callum and I weren’t right together, at least not anymore, but at least he is a good father. I wish I could say the same about Michael, but I don’t see how it will work. Sure, he has his own way of showing that he cares: the little gifts he used to bring me and the way his touch always lingered on my lower back as we walked. But being a parent is so much more than that. It’s giving everything for this little baby.

When I tried to tell him this morning, I clammed up, not knowing the words to say. I have no idea how to break the news that his whole world is about to change. What if he doesn’t want to be a father? Technically, there are options for us, but not for me. I may be scared and confused and overwhelmed by the fact I’m having another baby, but somehow it also feels right. I can’t bear the thought of Michael not feeling the same way.

When he laughed his way through our terrible catch up, I got the feeling he wouldn’t be ready for this massive change. And that only made it harder to tell him. I know I should have; I know I need to. But the air was too sweet from the giant floral wall of the café, too warm from all the bodies trying to escape the harsh winter chill outside. I couldn’t breathe.

My stomach clenches, a new wave of nausea crashing through me like a train. I heave over the waste bin, emptying my stomach of the apple I just finished eating.

I guess I do actually vomit after all.

Dropping to the floor, I curl my knees up to my chest, squeezing my arms tight around my legs. I was never this sick with Maisie. So sick it hurts.

I wish I had someone to rely on in times like these. Even when I finally tell Michael about the baby, it hurts knowing that he still wouldn’t be here when I need him to be. He would still always be a phone call away, never around to rub my back or fetch me some ginger ale.

Stretching back up as the nausea begins to wane, I head to the kitchen to get my own fizzy drink. The bubbles tingle their way down my throat, settling below my ribcage and massaging my twisted insides.

The steady thumping of a hammer next door has quietened, replaced by the occasional screech of a power tool and laid-back laughter of a dad and his sons. Through the noise, the crunch of tires on gravel drifts in the open kitchen window. Looking out, down the driveway, I see Callum returning with Maisie from their extra day together. His new girlfriend still cowers in the front seat, pulling her hair up as Callum parks the car behind mine. I don’t blame her for being cautious of me. I wasn’t exactly friendly for a while.

Now that I can appreciate what the two of them share—meaning, now that I’m over my initial jealousy—I’m happy for them both. I hope we can fall into an easy co-parenting team, and more than that I hope we can even consider each other friends. She seems nice, and Maisie adores her.

I step out to meet them, painter’s apron still wrapped over my clothes and ginger ale still firmly clasped in my hands. The small porch is surrounded by roses planted by Callum’s sister, with fruit trees lining the long narrow driveway. The block and house are small, but when Callum and I first found it, we fell in love with the little cottage propped in between townhomes. A little slice of the suburb’s history that we wanted to claim for ourselves. It’s all mine now, after the divorce, but I still see little bits of Callum everywhere. Even after I changed the photos on the wall, and the pillows on the couch. I bought a new bed and changed all the linen, rearranged the living space and spread my paints further into the sunroom. But the ghost of our relationship still hangs around.

I’m not sad about our marriage breaking down, at least not anymore. We were good, great even, until we weren’t, and then it was time to move on. Living in this house, though, is like being trapped in time. I had been planning to find something else eventually, but with a new baby coming it feels like all too much, all at once.

“Mummy!” Maisie runs from the car, colliding with my legs before continuing into the house. I’ll have to figure out what to cook for her dinner soon.

“How was your date?”

Callum and Cassidy walk hand in hand towards me. My face crumples as a thick lump forms in my throat. Clutching at my stomach, I attempt to stretch my expression back into something that oozes comfort and friendliness. I’m sure I fail.

“Yeah, um, it was … great.” My voice pitches unnaturally.

Cassidy steps away from Callum, eyes wide, folding her arms across her chest.

“Do you paint?”

Her change of topic catches me by surprise, and I stumble over my answer. “Yes,” I croak as I finally form the word. “Well, kind of. Just for fun.”

“She’s pretty good,” Callum’s kind words surprise me. Although we get along now, I’m still wrapping my head around the whole ‘being friends with my ex-husband’ thing.

“I’d love to see them, one day.” She turns towards the open door, calling through the house. “Bye Maisie!”

My daughter’s voice echoes down the hallway, “Bye Cassidy! Bye Daddy!”

Cassidy’s chocolate hair is swept back into the kind of messy mum bun I always longed for. My thin hair never cooperated though, so I gave up. In a way it forced me to always have my hair a little more styled than I have time for, but when I’m feeling as crap as I do now, I’d give anything for the quick easy throwaway style.

She tips between her heels and toes, hands on her hips. Eyes darting between Callum and me, she whistles under her breath. We might all be on friendly talking terms, but this drop off seems particularly strained. It was awkward enough when they came to pick Maisie up and Cassidy didn’t want to get out of the car. I don’t know if it’s worse now that we are all left standing on the porch.

It’s the first time I’ve had to call on Callum to watch Maisie on an extra day. The first time I interrupted their day in this way. But also, even though I know it’s not the first time they have spent time together, it’s the first time Cassidy has been here to drop Maisie off. Despite how I know Cassidy feels about taking on a motherly role—meaning she doesn’t want it to have that kind of label—it still feels a little like that’s what happened today. It’s too much like the new mother figure in Maisie’s life is dropping her back off with the old one. The lonely one.

“Well,” I say, sucking in a deep breath and attempting to break the weird tension. “Thank you for having her today.”

“Anytime.” Callum’s hands are shoved deep in his jean pockets. “We better go, let you get her dinner sorted.”

“Yes, thanks.”

Taking a step back, I pull my hand away from my stomach to wave an awkward goodbye before turning towards the house. Footsteps recede down the gravel driveway, but something stops me from going inside when I hear the car doors open.

“Wait,” I call out.

As I spin on my heel to face them again, Callum steps a leg back out of the car.

“What’s wrong?”

I jog a few steps towards them so they can hear me over the power tools next door. “Nothing, I was just wondering if you were still looking for a house?”

Callum turns towards his girlfriend. She tilts her head to the side and gestures to him.

“Maybe, why?”

“I found the perfect place for you.”