When I Ran Away by Ilona Bannister (best books under 200 pages .TXT) 📕

When-did-Dickhead-come-back-in-the-room-and-now-he’s-speaking-for-me-and-sorry-if-I-can’t-remember-the-baby’s-name-for-a-minute-and-excuse-me-but-what-the-hell-is-Alistair is what my eyes are saying to Harry.

He sees my look and corrects, quickly, “But we’re calling him, um…Rocky. My wife insisted because he was such a fighter on his way out. Alistair is just a family name, my middle name, in fact.”

Now I remember. When they were wheeling me to the operating room I said, “Call him Rocky.”

But every time Harry says his name he says, “Um…Rocky.” With that British “um…” that means he’s embarrassed about it but pretending he isn’t.

I don’t care how British he’s going to be about it, we’re sticking with Rocky because Alistair is not an option. I know, I get it, it’s a nice name here, it’s an old name. It’s cute in this context of sweet little kids with British accents who all think they’re going to Hogwarts when they turn eleven. But I can’t take Alistair home. Alistair wouldn’t survive a day in New York City. They’re not even going to let Alistair off the plane at JFK. They’re going to be like, “Sorry, dude, you got to take that shit back to England, you’re not gonna make it here.” And what do I say when I go home to Staten Island? I might as well be saying, Hi, guys, this is my son, his name is Kick-my-ass. C’mon now, obviously I can’t call him Alistair. I can’t even say it right.

The midwife brings me back to the moment. “Rocky, is it? What a strong name,” she says, but she’s too young to even know it’s a movie so whatever, Sara/Katie/Kate, just get out of my house.

She has to weigh him, prick his foot and check the cord. Harry reaches for him in the little cot and takes him out because he knows better than to expect me to do it. He tries to cover for me. He holds the baby and takes the swaddle off, comforting him, like he’s father of the year. Dick.

There’s forms and questions, the red book with the carbon pages for keeping his notes for the rest of his childhood because it’s 1965 here in the UK. I’m trying to look like I’m paying attention but I don’t hear a word. The baby’s screaming his howler-monkey yell. He’s looking for me. I’m sorry, buddy.

“Is Baby feeding well?” the midwife asks and Harry has to answer because I don’t know.

“His name’s Rocky,” I mutter under my breath.

“Yes, he’s doing fine,” Harry says.

“Mum, are you breastfeeding?” Here we go.

“No, I’m not.”

“Are you finding it difficult? Sometimes when a birth has been traumatic both Mum and Baby can take great comfort from skin-to-skin contact and establishing a bond through breastfeeding. We can support you if—”

“No, thanks.”

“It can be difficult for mums to establish feeding at first, especially after an emergency C-section, but we do encourage you to try because—”

I cut her off: “I said no.”

She sits down on the bed to get closer to me and I think about picking up Apron and throwing it at her. “Can I ask why you don’t want to try the breast?”

Try the breast. Makes me think of sitting in a restaurant, two breasts on a plate, parsley garnish on the side.

I don’t want to try, Sara, because I don’t want to touch him. Because I don’t want anyone to touch me. Because I got him out alive and that was all I could do. And no one thinks that’s enough. Now you want me to get my tits out and feed him too? With what? What’s my milk made of? Anesthetic? Paracetamol, stool softener, Clexane for blood clots, iron supplements, adrenaline, cortisol. Caffeine to wake up and alcohol to sleep. Pure mother’s milk. There’s not much I can do for him but I can at least not make him drink poison.

I don’t say any of that because the tears have started. My rage melting into water and when I close my eyes there are the ceiling tiles and the fluorescent lights blistering under my eyelids.

“My wife has tried, Katie,” Harry intervenes. “She’s been through a great deal and she’s done the best she can. She managed to give him colostrum in hospital. Didn’t you, darling? And she is, quite frankly, exhausted. I’m sure you’ve seen that many times before in your [pause] experience. So we’re using formula for now. We’ve written down all his feeding times and how much he’s taken. There’s been a bit of spitting up but um…Rocky seems happy enough.” Harry picks up a notebook and taps the cover.

“We shall certainly seek professional help should we need to. You’ve no need to worry about us but we are [pause] very grateful for your concern and all your help and support today.”

I look at him and she looks at him and she looks at me and I look at her. We all know Lord Grantham just said the opposite of everything he means. In the politest way possible he just told her to back the fuck off and lied to her face because there’s nothing in that notebook. Part of her knows he’s lying but she’s not going to call him on it because she and Harry understand each other. They’re British and this is how they do confrontation. By not doing it, really politely.

He’s defending me and protecting her because he sees I’m about to lose it and this girl, she doesn’t deserve it. He’s trying his best, standing up for me, but it’s how he’s done it that makes me worry. When he channels his inner middle-class-private-school-impeccably-mannered-Tory-voter and his accent goes aristocrat, I get it—I know he’s just using it to control the situation. He doesn’t do it often, it’s not who he is. But it still makes me wonder if Harry ever would’ve married me if I was from my family but we were from here. Would he have ever married me if I was the daughter of a bus driver from Croydon and I talked like Eliza Doolittle and he had