Sarah
It’s June 2. Another June 2 on the Broad Ride: my twentieth, I realize, as I try to pull my hair into an elastic band. There’s a stiff breeze today, pushing clouds quickly across the sky, combing and whipping them into tight whorls. The breeze snatches at strands of my hair, dancing them away out of reach.
I think of the year when it rained so hard the nettles bent flat, and the year when my hat was lifted off by a rampaging wind. I think about last year, when it was so hot that the air around me compressed and even the birds were silent, dead-feathered in their trees. That was the year I met Eddie, and this began.
Eddie. My Eddie. Even though I’m exhausted, sleep-deprived beyond all reckoning, I smile. I smile hopelessly, and my stomach zips and zooms.
This is still happening to me, a whole year after I ran into him on the village green. He says it happens to him, too, and I know he’s telling the truth because I can see it right there in his face. Sometimes I wonder if it’s an aftereffect of the battle we had to find and keep each other. Mostly, though, I think it’s because this is how it should feel.
As if sensing the swell of his mother’s heart, Alex snuffles, burrowing tighter into my chest. He’s still fast asleep, in spite of the number of people who have prodded and cooed at him in the last hour. I circle my arms around him, wrapped tight in my Stroud-issue sling, and kiss his warm little head, over and over. Having him on me—even when I’m so tired I would happily sleep in a dog bowl—is like turning on a light. I had no idea I could love anything, or anyone, so much.
The day after Alex was born, when Eddie walked into my room holding a toy squirrel, his hands shaking, his face white with terror, I knew we’d make it. I handed him his son and he stared at him in utter amazement, wept uncontrollably, and called Alex “Bruiser.” Later, when a nurse prized Alex away from Eddie, he looked at me for a few moments and then told me he loved me. No matter what happened, he said, he was mine if I’d have him.
So he came back to Mum and Dad’s with me when I was free to go home. We moved back to his barn a few weeks later. (He made a cot. A cot! He hung Mouse from the top.) And although his mother refused to talk about me, even though she took to calling him throughout the day, even though I had completely run out of money, and Eddie’s roof had sprung a leak, and I got mastitis and felt dreadful, I was the happiest I’d ever been. We didn’t get out of bed that first morning. We just lay there, with our son, feeding him, cuddling, drifting in and out of sleep, kissing, changing nappies, and smiling.
At first Eddie answered two, maybe three of his mother’s calls each day, although it soon dwindled to one. It was hard for him— “Impossibly hard,” he said, having woken one morning to three missed calls. “Night calls are the worst.” His hands shook as he called her back, sitting up in bed as I fed Alex in a chair, and he went round there soon after. She was “okay,” he said, on his return. “Just a bad night. But she’s had a bad night at least once a month for two decades, and she’s survived. I’ve got to trust more.”
Even after years of tortured imaginings about the misery of the Wallace family, the extent of Eddie’s responsibilities toward his mother have still come as a shock to me. But when he apologized for the number of phone calls, for the number of visits he still made to her, I told him he mustn’t. Of all the women on earth, I pointed out, I was surely the best placed to understand.
I understand, too, that something even bigger than his mother’s illness has happened to Eddie, and that’s parenthood. Parenthood, and all the indescribable instincts and emotions over which it reigns. Alex arrived into Eddie’s life, tiny, warm, looking like he was solving the mysteries of the world, and without saying so much as a word to his father—without so much as lifting a finger—he changed the landscape of Eddie’s responsibilities forever.
When his mum phones now, he’ll just cancel the call, message her later, but mostly his attention is on Alex. On me. “I just have to pray that Mum will be okay,” he said one day. “That what I can still give her is enough. Because I can’t give her more, Sarah. I won’t. This little man, he needs me. He’s the one I have to keep alive now.”
Still. I know it hurts him that his mum hasn’t turned up today. I knew she wouldn’t turn up; he knew she wouldn’t turn up—she’s met Alex six times in three months, each time insisting that only Eddie be present—but the slump of his shoulders when we had to start without her broke my heart.
When Jenni and Javier announced their plans to fly over for the month of June, Eddie and I decided to hold a welcome party for Alex. With two atheists for parents he was unlikely ever to get a christening, so we planned a little ceremony for him. Just a couple of friends saying a couple of things, then on to the serious business of eating and drinking.
Jenni’s found the last ten months very difficult. We’ve spoken at least twice a week, and there have been some heartbreaking lows, but I sense she’s emerging from the worst of it. She’s been on good form since they arrived yesterday morning. She told me earlier that she and Javier now feel ready to figure out what their life is going to look like without children (maybe some travel? she said)—she’s even considering a postgrad degree in “something cool.” Poor Reuben will be distraught if he loses her, too.
It was Eddie’s idea to do it here, on Broad Ride, on June 2. Right where Alex and Hannah had their den. I thought that was perfect.
But, of course, as with every other part of our relationship, it has not been a polished affair. Smelly, my sister’s dog, ate almost all the food during our ceremony—including a large chocolate cake—so Hamish is now with him at the emergency vet, and Hannah’s children keep crying because they’re scared he has finally eaten himself to death. Alan, Eddie’s best friend, was very nervous about making his speech and drank so many beers that he’d fallen asleep by the time we were ready for him to stand up. His wife isn’t talking to him. And then Rudi was discovered kissing the elder daughter of one of my mother-and-baby-yoga friends in a secret cow-parsley cave, even though he is eight years old and should be finding girls annoying for at least another four years, and even though the yoga friend was telling me just last week how happy she was that her daughter isn’t inappropriately sexualized like most children these days.
Jo couldn’t stop laughing, which did little to diffuse the situation.
Still, everyone is here, except Hamish and, of course, Eddie’s mum. Jenni, Javier, my sister and her family, Alan and Gia, who have been so warm and welcoming to me—and Tommy and Jo, who are all wrapped up in a love story of their own. They are both the happiest I’ve ever seen them, although things with Shawn have been messy since Jo told him about Tommy. But she’s got something she never had before: a real partnership. She’ll deal with it.
And, of course, my parents are here, watching with great delight every last interaction between their two daughters. They still can’t quite believe that I’m back, that Hannah and I have managed to become friends again, that we can be together as a family. And of course they’re obsessed with Alex. Dad wrote a cello piece for him. I have a bad feeling he’s going to play it later.
I take another piece of quiche, while I still can—Alex is going to wake any minute—and look for Eddie.
There. He’s on his way over to us, hands in pockets, smiling. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of this smile.
“Hello,” he says. He kisses me once; then he kisses me again. He peers down at our tiny little son. “Hello, Bruiser,” he whispers. Sure enough, Alex is beginning to wake. He half opens an eye, screws up his face, then headbutts me in the chest, fast asleep again. His father kisses him on the top of his head, which smells like the most perfect smell in the world, and takes a crafty bite of my quiche.
Alex wakes again, only this time it looks like he’s going to stay with us. He stares blearily at his father, whose face is like a ridiculous, beaming pumpkin looming into view, and—after a few moments’ consideration—smiles. And Eddie falls to pieces, just like he always does.
He begins to extract his son from the sling, and I see us suddenly, the two people who watched each other over an escaped sheep last year. The gusts of hope and expectation, the unstoppable unraveling of a past of which we weren’t even aware. A lot has changed since then; more is yet to come. But there is nothing to hold me back anymore. No dark corners, no pending avalanche. Just life.
And who would have thought that Eddie Wallace would have been the solution? That Eddie, of all people, would be the one to stop me running? Who made it possible for me to sit still, to breathe, to like myself? Who would have thought that it would be Eddie Wallace, from whom I’d hidden so many years, who would make me want so desperately to come home? Who would allow me to spread my roots and belong somewhere at last?
When I look up, I see Carole Wallace.
She’s standing at the edge of our gathering, her arm tucked into that of a man whose other sleeve hangs empty by his side. It must be Felix. My body goes still, and my heart goes fast. I’m not sure I’m prepared for this. Selfishly, I’m not sure I even want it. I can’t cope with a scene, not on Alex’s day.
But here she is, and she’s already picking her way across the gathering, making straight for me.
She’s heading for Eddie, I tell myself. She won’t even look at me. Eddie’s lifting Alex above his head, laughing at his son’s expressions of wonder and confusion. I watch as Carole and my mother see each other at the same time. My mother stops her, puts a brief hand on her arm, says something, smiles. Carole just looks really shocked. She blinks at Mum, stands awkwardly still, and then manages to reply. There might be a smile, although if there is, it’s brief. Mum says something else, points toward the picnic, and Felix smiles warmly at her, nods, and thanks her. He looks at Carole, but she’s turned back toward me and Eddie, and she’s walking again.
“Eddie,” I say quietly. He’s still talking to his son. “Eddie. Your mum’s here.”
He swings round and I feel his body switch to high alert. There’s a febrile pause as he works out what to do. For a second he starts to move away, to intercept her before she gets to me, but then he stops. He stops, stands firm, and takes hold of my hand. With his other, he holds Alex close to his side, a thumb moving across the soft cotton of Alex’s miniature dungarees.
I look up at him. His temple is pulsing. His neck is strained, and I know he wants very much to bolt, to waylay her. But he stays. He holds my hand more tightly than ever. We are a couple, he’s telling her, and I love him for it. I’m not just me anymore. I’m us.
Carole is looking only at her son. As she approaches, the man, Felix, drops back. He smiles warmly at me, but it’s not enough to make me believe that this will be okay. Over his shoulder, my parents are watching. Jo is watching. Alan is watching. In fact, everyone is watching, although most of them are pretending not to be watching.
“Hello, Eddie darling,” she says, arriving in front of us. She seems only at this moment to realize that Felix isn’t with her. She glances back nervously, but he doesn’t move, and she seems to decide to stay put. “I thought I’d come and see Alex on his special day.”
Eddie holds my hand yet tighter. It’s beginning to hurt.
“Hey, Mum,” he says. Cheerful and relaxed, as if everything’s okay. And I think, You are so kind. You’ve done this for years. Made her feel safe, no matter what’s happening inside you. You are an extraordinary man.
“Alex!” he whispers. “Alex, your grandma’s here!”
Alex is getting hungry: he keeps diving toward Eddie’s chest, even though he’s not going to find much milk there. “Would you like a cuddle?” Eddie asks his mother. “I think he’s going to want feeding soon, but you may get a few minutes of peace.”
Carole doesn’t look at me, but she smiles and opens her arms. Carefully, gently, Eddie hands her our baby. He waits until she’s got him; then he kisses his son on the top of his head.
He steps back and takes my hand again. Carole breaks into a smile I never imagined seeing on her face, the face that sat at the edge of my mind for so many years. “Hello, my darling,” she whispers. Her eyes fill with tears, and I realize that Eddie’s lovely ocean eyes are hers. “Hello, my lovely boy. Oh, Granny loves you, Alex. Oh, she does!”
Eddie reaches out to squash one of Alex’s chubby little feet. Then he glances sideways at me and squeezes my hand.
“Mum,” he says levelly. “Mum, I want you to meet Sarah. The mother of my son.”
There’s a long pause, during which Carole Wallace murmurs at Alex, as he begins to wriggle down her chest. Eddie drops my hand and puts his arm around me. Carole doesn’t look up. “Aren’t you a good boy,” she murmurs at Alex. “Aren’t you such a good little boy.”
“Mum.”
Then slowly, uncertainly, Carole Wallace looks at me. She looks at me, across my son’s head, across two decades of pain that I can only now, as a mother, begin truly to comprehend. And for a second—a lightning crack of a second—she smiles. “Thank you for my grandson,” she says. Her voice trembles. “Thank you, Sarah, for this little boy.”
She kisses Alex and then moves away from us, back to the safety of Felix, and conversation resumes. The wind has slowed; the sun is warmer. People are taking off jackets and jumpers. The cow parsley sways violently as a child burrows through its stems, and a tiny shower of butterflies flickers over the wild grass that surrounds us all, screening us off from the past, from the stories that we told ourselves for so many years.
I slide my arm around Eddie’s waist, and I feel him smile.
