Pursuit

Originally published by Otago University Press in Landfall 245

Photo Credit: Danelle Bohane

Three days after Alba became a mother, her breasts became full and excruciating. Dolly Parton-esque was what her husband thought of them, and he was disappointed, too, that at that same time they became forbidden. But he was not angry about it. He explained to her that he was only marvelling at the irony of large, untouchable breasts. How cruel life could be, he had said, smiling. He brushed his teeth over the basin while watching Alba’s reflection in the vanity, the cracked mirror slicing her body in two. If he had told Alba about the terrifyingly beautiful woman he believed her to be, she would probably have cried. 

Alba was not in the least bit interested in her husband’s thoughts of her. She was cupping her thickened breasts, allowing the hot shower to scorch them—a sensation so intense, it was only made possible by the hope of soothing the agony of her milk coming in. In truth, Alba admired the newfound ability her breasts possessed. They could sustain the life of her newborn! She had had them for years of course, properly since she was fifteen, but back then they had been empty and futile. And there had been all those years before that when they hadn’t existed at all. The astonishment she now had for her own body was too conceited to share with anyone. Even her husband. 

Alba turned the shower off and lightly dried herself beside him as he spat blue foam into the basin. She pulled on large black underwear, but not before pressing a thick pad between her legs. Finally, smiling at him, she blew a strand of brown hair away from her eyes. 

I think I’ll go to bed seeing as the baby is asleep, she told him. She was becoming a bit ruffled by the way he now looked at her: with reverence, as one to be feared.

The coffee her husband made the next morning had a transparent quality to it, which is to say it had no quality at all. Less satisfying than water. Alba wanted to spit her mouthful into the vast chrome sink but her husband was watching her with a long, sombre expression—the baby had been up most of the night. Instead, she satisfied her impulse by imagining herself spitting gallantly into the sink, as if to say she was worth more than mediocre coffee. Did she really believe that? She needed only remember the engorged breasts clinging tightly to her torso under the pinstripe nightshirt to know for sure. With her husband watching her, the visualisation of her daring splutter of coffee would have to be sufficient. If you believe in the potency of your perceived experience, then it must be real and true—isn’t that correct? 

When Mark noticed her return the full mug to the bench, he asked if everything was all right. Alba shrugged, which is to refuse an answer altogether, and he took it hard. He sat on the bar leaner beside her, nibbling his homemade sourdough, then removed the sleeping baby from her arms, enveloping it into his solid chest. He had advocated for that breakfast bar back when they renovated, enchanted by the notion of his future three or four children sitting opposite him each morning, staring back as their father made coffee for their mother. My feelings of love for you are immense, he told Alba. 

Love has very little to do with how you feel and more to do with what you carry out, Alba told him. And when she said it she spoke with conviction, as though she was telling him that cake with icing is not a substitute for a nutritious meal (no matter how much he liked it), or that very few people enjoy their job one hundred per cent of the time—like these were facts, known by everyone except him. She would have liked to stand up then, move to the rattan settee, but her legs were heavy from lack of sleep. 

When she didn’t move from the stool, which he had anticipated, knowing his wife as well as he did, he became apprehensive about what might happen next. Alba clearly had no intention of speaking again. It terrified him, her inability to recognise love, a feeling so deep and wide that he believed she had never felt it at all—not for him, not for their child in his arms. 

Mark took the baby to the nursery to change his nappy and onesie, which had streaks of yellow spreading down the legs. He turned to face Alba from the kitchen door, anticipating her affectionate gaze, but she was holding her phone up to her face, smiling into its screen. Your mother loves you, he had whispered. But also, he was thinking that it was impossible to engage with her without feeling afraid. Still, he would keep trying. His breath swirled between him and the baby—it held the faint whiff of excrement and he made a note to brush his teeth after he’d dressed the child. 

In the afternoon, as he predicted, both Alba and the baby fell asleep on their queen-sized bed. He dressed quickly out of his flappy pyjama bottoms—the blue and white checks having unified over the years—and pulled on a pair of jeans. He had planned to tell Alba that he was going to the supermarket but she was still asleep. He’d read somewhere online that women needed additional sleep post childbirth, so after taking a deep inhale of the baby’s forehead, which made his eyes water, he left them sleeping to find his car keys among piles of paper on the bench. Alba’s coffee was still there, cream coagulating at its surface. He poured it out, rinsed the cup and left it upside down.

The traffic was sparse on the roads around their house. He stopped for one red light, counting the seconds until it turned green, one, two, three, four, five, six … It was easy to find a park right outside the library at two o’clock on a Wednesday. He was greeted by the nod of a woman just inside the door who smiled each time the scanner beeped the barcode of a book. She seemed to enjoy her job one hundred per cent of the time. 

Silence rang throughout the large room when the beeps paused, and he felt he had to whisper right beside the woman’s ear in order not to be overheard. 

Do you have a section on motherhood? 

He was trying not to be too breathy, having forgotten after all to brush his teeth. 

The woman made a movement that looked pained, shuffling away from his face. She didn’t say anything, but he followed her along the aisle to the back of the library where she pointed to some shelves. 

Nobody spoke to him or even noticed him crouching down on the thin carpet, pulling out books, but then a woman about Alba’s age was standing beside him. She stroked the spines on the top shelf of the motherhood section, stopping on a book titled You’re Good Enough. He wasn’t sure whether the title sent the right message—was one ever good enough? He thought of his own mother, finger curled through the Uniden phone cord, legs draped over the back of the couch when other mothers were feeding their children dinner. He wondered whether his mother read this book back when he was a boy. 

When the woman left the motherhood section, having taken no book for herself, he pulled You’re Good Enough off the shelf and opened the initial pages. First published 1962. It was quite possible his mother had read it. He felt a deep sadness for his mother then, almost like a gesture of forgiveness. He quickly returned the book to the shelf. He kept smiling though. He would find a book that had space for Alba to fill. 

I’ve found it! he told the librarian, having forgotten his previous resolve to remain unheard and unknown. The woman took the book and his library card from him, smiling when the scanner made a loud beep. She returned both to his grip without as much as a good day to you. Snooty little intellectual, he thought. 

When Alba awoke, she startled into a sitting position. Quickly she felt around the duvet for the baby and found him unmoved, wrapped in muslin and still sleeping. His tiny breath came out of his nostrils in sudden milky puffs and her breasts felt pummelled from inside. She had a memory. Back when Mark had been pursuing her, he had invited her to his mother’s house for cheese and an aperitif. They had sat on his mother’s blue velvet sofa drinking Campari with vermouth on ice. It was bitter and without warmth. The conversation had been pleasant enough, but the content had been courteous, almost distant. Mark and his mother had not hugged or kissed on the cheek when they arrived. A formal goodbye had been said upon departure and Alba did not see her again until their wedding day. Alba had been amazed by Mark’s ability to overcome an unfeeling childhood—she had made love to him that afternoon for the first time.

Alba leaned her head back on the duvet now, thinking about lying beside him. She ached for her husband then, for the first time since before the baby. She could almost smell the scent of sleep and their aromatic sandalwood shower gel threaded through the hairs of his beard, pink lips poking through black fuzz. His body had always felt thick and immoveable when he lay beside her. She almost cried with longing for him. His small but intentional affections appeared in her mind like popping candy that she’d bought from the dairy as a child. Waiting for him lulled her back into a dreamlike state. 

As she waited, the memories were overtaken by irritation. He had left no note, which was unlike him. She felt abandoned, charged with caring for the baby on her own when she was already sleep deprived. 

When from the hallway she finally heard the turning of the lock, the stomping of boots on wooden floorboards, she simply cancelled out the fond memories. It was as though her afternoon of longing hadn’t been real. And when Mark popped his head around the bedroom door and approached to kiss her, she rolled away from him, almost onto the sleeping child, recoiling from his musty breath. 

You’re still tired, he said. Go back to sleep until the baby needs feeding. 

That evening, after what seemed like several hours of breastfeeding on the sofa while watching The Bachelor, Alba decided to put the baby down to sleep. 

Mark said, You think he’s ready for bed?

Alba had not said anything about the baby being ready for bed. She only knew that she was tired and hungry, and her nipples were sore. She scooped the little guy up into her arms and carried him to the bedroom still attached to her softening breast. She could still smell his milky newness. When she reached the bassinette at the end of their bed she pushed her pinkie finger into the corner of his suckling mouth to release the suction and swiftly placed him on the mattress. He screamed, his face scrunching up like discarded paper, and reeled around as though in pain. Alba closed the door and went to eat her dinner.

I have a book for you about motherhood, Mark said, once she was seated.

Alba took a bite, then looked away from the roast beef and grilled tomatoes on her plate. She chewed, then swallowed quickly and said: You have a book for me about motherhood?

The baby’s wailing was continuous and blaring. It occurred to Mark that he may not have been easily heard above the child’s roar. He nodded, smiling. 

Alba placed the fork on her plate beside the sliced beast. Do you also have a book for yourself about fatherhood?

It was a very good question. He nodded, but it was insincere. He hadn’t even thought to visit the section on fatherhood and the realisation came as a blow. No, I don’t, but you have a good p—

Why do I need a book about motherhood? 

Crying still sounded from the bedroom. Mark placed his knife and fork on the table and went to retrieve the baby. He returned with the child curled into his neck and the boy fell asleep to the rhythm of his chewing.

Why do I need a book about motherhood? Alba asked again.

Mark was surprised. They were both avid readers and he was aware—his wife had taught him—that there was always more to learn and understand. Only the week before Alba had gone into labour she’d arrived home from the mall with a coffee-table book titled Sourdough, it’s Not Playdough, and he had been grateful that she recognised the importance of his hobby.

Alba stood up, her meal half eaten, and went to the bedroom. Mark sat quietly on his chair. 

She couldn’t recall later how long she spent in the bedroom watching the empty bassinet. Often, time was all the communication that was required. Her husband had always been a slight enigma to her. Mark had spoken about children from the moment she met him—which seemed incongruent, considering his mother. He took the opportunity almost every time they passed a child: look at that little boy in the playground, he’s dropped his ice-cream; isn’t it sweet how that girl smiles with her nose bunched up like that; the neighbours’ kid could come to our place while he waits for his parents to get home, don’t you think? 

Alba had never thought about the boy at all, even when she saw him waiting on his front doorstep in the rain. She pitied her husband—how used up he was by the neediness of others. She remembered, then, all the times he had driven her home from college parties after she had spewed on their friends’ parents’ rugs, and how he hadn’t tried anything on her. He’d cleaned her up, tucked her into the flannel bedsheets and left the dorm. Perhaps some people were just born with a greater capacity to think of others.

After a while, Alba heard a ripping sound from the dining room, followed by a resounding thunk on the wooden floorboards. 

The baby must have fallen to the floor.

The baby must have fallen to the floor and was silent. 

Alba lurched from the bed and swung the door open. The baby was indeed on the floor, but he was curled up on the sheepskin rug, his pink mouth open and wet. Sleeping. No sign of having been dropped at all. 

However, metres from the baby lay the library book, torn in half. 

When she thinks of this now, she always recalls a deep sense of urgency. In her memory the urgency is coming from her own voice. No! I want the book! 

The book looked like two pieces of a puzzle that had been missing but were now found. She sees herself running across the floorboards and almost skidding to a halt on her knees. She sees herself look from the book to the baby, her breasts becoming rigid, filling with milk. All she had to do was look at the baby; her body knew what to do, her pale blue T-shirt turning navy around the nipples.

What she really did was walk around the dining table to the book and pick it up. She pressed together the two pieces of the book her husband had chosen for her at the library. 

Mark was instantly filled with guilt. You don’t need the book, he had told her, almost pleading. I’ll pay for it at the library tomorrow, but you don’t need it. I’m sorry. 

He had been looking at the dark patches on her T-shirt.

Alba shook her head and said, I want the book. Do we have sellotape wide enough? Narrow sellotape would be too visible on the thick spine. 

Mark went to his office and returned with a roll of tape. Pushing aside the plates and glasses, he motioned for Alba to sit beside him. She held the two sides of the book together as he pulled a long piece of tape from the roll and cut it off. Stretching it tightly, he covered the whole spine of the book and pummelled his fingertips over the tape until all air bubbles had escaped. His fingers brushed the tips of Alba’s nails. 

The baby started to stir, a moan escaping his small throat.

Alba laid the restored book on the wooden table. She smiled at it, then lightly rested her hand on her husband’s forearm, making circles in the black curls with her fingertips.