I Unlove You (24 page)

“
I wouldn
’
t call it
bottomless.
”

“
To a baby it
is.
”
I scan the white mattress and its various stickers warning
of suffocation and fire.
“
To a baby, this is the
worst place ever. It
’
s what separates him
from Mum and Dad. The one place he
’
s left on his own.
And when he
’
s eventually able to
hoist himself up, he clings to the bars like an inmate. This is why
they wake up crying in the middle of the night.
”

“
Not because
they
’
re hungry?
”

“
Nope.
”

“
What do you suggest as an
alternative?
”
she asks, still nestled in my dark blue
t-shirt.

“
A hammock,
”
I say, tapping my fingers on her
back.
“
That
’
s sure to create a
well-rounded human being.
”

She
snorts, my t-shirt
’
s fabric stifling
her laugh.
“
We are not raising my son in a hammock.
”

“
Don
’
t dismiss it so
fast.
”
I cup her face in my palms and stroke her bangs out of her
eyes.
“
I have this random memory as a baby, all hazy and dreamy,
and to be honest, I
’
m not sure if
it
’
s real or a dream, but I climbed the damn bars like
these and escaped.
”
I plant my palm on the beige railing.
“
I landed
on my head as I fell and cried as my mum ran in.
That
’
s all I remember, but there has to be a reason I
remember it. It clearly scarred me, so I think we should save our
own little man from such pain.
”

Placing her hands over my own, she shakes her head.
“
Not a
chance, mister.
”

“
You know, you
don
’
t get to make all the decisions.
”

“
Yes I do.
”

“
Is that so?
”
I stop in front of a
blue cot with a giant yellow Pooh bear at the bottom. Surrounded by
blue blankets and a fire engine-shaped pillow, I practically see
myself constructing this in some future house of
ours.

“
Of course. I have to carry him,
so I make all the decisions,
”
she says, lingering on the
word,
all
.
“
If you
want to make them, you carry him in your womb.
Deal?
”

“
Well, I would,
but
…”

“
That
’
s what I
thought,
”
she says, blowing her fringe from her
eyes.

“
Fine. In that case, how about
this one?
”
I say, tapping the blue cot.

“
It
’
s a solid boy
one.
”

“
That
’
s what
I
’
m thinking.
”

“
But, do we want an overly
boyish one?
”

“
Well, we are having a boy,
so
…”

“
What if they
’
re
wrong?
”

“
They
’
re right
ninety-five-percent of the time, and when it comes to boys,
they
’
re never wrong.
”

“
How do you know
that?
”

I shrug.

“
Either way, maybe we should go
with something neutral
…
like white?
”

I
shrug again, reaching for the Pooh Bear from the bottomless
pit.
“
We
’
re getting him a Pooh Bear, too,
right?
”

“
It
’
s good to see you
smile again,
”
she says, rubbing my upper arm.

“
I didn
’
t realise I
was.
”

“
You are. And I
’
ve missed it.
It
’
s nice to have it back.
”

Silently, we look at each other, our chests a few inches
apart. It
’
s too bright in this humongous warehouse-like
room, the long halcyon bulbs washing out her features. I hate
soulless, featureless stores like these, row after row of gleaming
white product stands and flawless display areas. So busy. So full
of busy-bodies rushing around with no time to explore and enjoy the
adventure.

Maybe this is how it is now. After all, you
can
’
t buy baby clothes from second hand shops, or take a
chance on vintage furniture that may or may not be riddled with
danger. Babies require new things, clean things, expensive
things.

I
grip the blue cot tighter, due to the overbearing thought that this
is the rest of my life. I can
’
t decide whether
it
’
s easier surrounded by soon-to-be mothers with bulging
bellies; fathers with six bags in each hand; or grandparents
dashing and rushing, picking up teddies and onesies and pictures of
babies. In part, it terrifies me, because it
’
s all the
more real. But in another, I
’
m soothed, because
these people are now my people. I
’
m not alone in this,
and maybe I
’
m realising I never
was; not with
B
beside me, offering her strength.

Easier, but far from easy. I can picture him now as I close
my eyes. Resting in
B
’
s
arms, she rocks him and hushes him to sleep, me
watching from behind as the proud father to a wonderful family.
Maybe it
’
s this that makes it easier. The fact
I
’
ll soon have a family. I
’
ll truly belong.
Each day I
’
ll wake up
surrounded by those who love me, and who I love with all my
worth.

“
Aus,
”
says my mother, bundling beside me
and bringing me back to the prison-esque cots.
“
Come choose the
stroller you want,
”
she continues, grabbing my wrist.
“
We
’
ve found
some lovely ones.
”

No
longer my mother, but a grandmother. It
’
s like
she
’
s outgrown me, ecstatic about elevating to the next
stage of her life. The fear she couldn
’
t hide when we
told her is now gone, replaced with pure excitement and unbridled
happiness. When she sees me now, she doesn
’
t see her son.
When she sees
B
, her eyes hone in on her tummy, a grandmother with
purpose, and an energetic skip to her step.

“
Which one do you
like?
”
she asks, guiding me towards the stage of strollers
overflowing with colour and aerodynamic curves.
“
Your father and I want
to buy you both one.
”

“
You don
’
t have to do
that,
”
B
says, appearing to my right, next to
my mother.

“
We want to.
”
Moving her hands from
me to
B
, she rests her head on her shoulder.
“
It
’
s a
grandparent
’
s
duty.
”

“
Are you
sure?
”
asks
B
, looking to me.
“
They
’
re so expensive, and
you
’
ve already done so much.
”

“
Yeah, Mum. You don
’
t have
to.
”

“
No argument,
”
says my father,
appearing on my left.
“
You should know by now there
’
s no
point arguing with your mother.
”

“
Exactly, so
let
’
s choose one,
”
Mum says, striding towards the
clean, crisp stroller display area. Curves and features vie for
attention, enhanced with streaks of neon colour: orange handles,
pink wheels, purple trays, and green butterfly
silhouettes.

“
Don
’
t you think
they
’
re all a little
…
overkill?
”
I say, running a finger over a carbon fibre
handle.
“
Some of these cost as much as a car.
”

“
We want our grandson to be
safe,
”
my mother says.

“
Did I have a stroller like
this?
”

“
Nope.
”
My father shakes his
head.

“
They didn
’
t make
them like this when you were a baby, Aus,
”
she
interrupts.

“
There
’
s no point in
arguing,
”
he whispers.

I smile, flicking the cardboard
price tag hanging from the flamboyant handle.

“
I like this
one,
”
says my mother, grabbing one big enough to hold three
children.
“
What do you think,
B
?
”

“
I like it,
”
she says.
“
It would
go great with a bag I saw the other day.
”

“
It
’
s a lovely colour.
And do you see how much storage it has?
”

“
Yeah. I wonder how small it is
when you fold it up?
”

“
Look,
”
says my mother,
pointing to a glossy leaflet.
“
It has a few sizes, so
when he gets bigger, so does the stroller.
”

“
That
’
s great. And
look,
”
B
says, pointing to
something.

“
Come on,
”
whispers my father,
holding the top of my arm.
“
We
’
re no longer
needed.
”

“
Yeah?
”

He nods.

“
B
? I
think we
’
re going to get a drink. Do you want
anything?
”

Waving her arm, she mumbles
something.