Dark Lullaby by Polly Ho-Yen (ready to read books .txt) 📕

‘What’s the most important thing we can give this baby?’ Thomas asked me after one of these fraught afternoons.

‘This sounds like one of the induction guides. What is it, safety, support…’ I started to run off.

‘No, seriously, what’s the most important thing?’

‘Love.’

‘Love. Not things. Not the perfect crib. Or the most accurate heartbeat monitor. Love is the answer. We don’t need all that stuff, Kit. Not really. We just feel like we do.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Love, not things. You’re right.’

We kissed each other then, and I wondered how long it had been since we had last done that. It had been too long.

‘But can we still get that chair?’ I asked into the crease of his shoulder.

* * *

He ordered it to arrive on a Monday and it came in a huge box, which the delivery men struggled to get up the stairs to where our living quarters were on the first floor. At one point they thought it would not fit and they would have to take it back, but I insisted that they squeezed it round the corner, pleading that I wouldn’t mind if there were any scuffs or wear and tear to it.

When I unwrapped it, there was no need to worry; there were layers and layers of packaging. At the centre was the golden chair, gliding lines and polished smooth to the touch.

I put it at the head of the table and imagined mealtimes with the three of us there. It seemed so real that it felt more like a memory than a daydream. But Thomas frowned when he saw it placed there, waiting.

‘Don’t you think it’s tempting fate a little?’ he said, and so I moved it into one of the cupboards, covering it with a sheet as though it were a piece of art in storage, awaiting exhibition.

I first felt Mimi move when I was standing in a queue at the supermarket. I almost dropped the box of tomatoes I was holding and looked up, grasping my stomach.

It wasn’t the flurry of bubbles I’d been told to expect, but something more like a jab, a ‘hey there’, a jolt.

‘Are you all right?’ the cashier asked.

‘It’s just that the baby moved. It’s… it’s the first time.’ There was a part of me that didn’t want to share this with a stranger. And another that could not resist it.

‘There’s nothing like it,’ the cashier said. She pursed her lips together as though to stop a smile from spilling out. ‘Enjoy it, love. Enjoy it while it lasts.’

Her eyes glazed over with sadness, awash with memories. Then, she nodded her head, and smiled at me properly this time, although it was small, tight and fleeting.

When I could see a ripple of movement in my stomach, or thought that I could very almost see a foot outstretched and kicking me, I told myself that I would go and see Evie. I got as far as her street, but I never made it to her front door.

NOW

The distance between Mimi and me floors me now: I am on my knees.

‘Easy, easy,’ Jonah says. He helps me to stand and though he is slight, he takes my weight.

He is smaller than I imagined.

I have felt in the past that I know more about this man than I know about myself, although somewhere along the way I forgot he was a real person. I forgot that any of my life document clients were. They were like a book I was reading, a story I’d dip in and out of, a character on the page for the purpose of a plot.

Not real. Not wrinkled just a little around the eyes. Not wearing a jumper that has a stain on its front, which he doesn’t seem to have noticed. I wonder if he did that today, at lunch, or if it’s been there for a while and there was no one to tell him.

I begin to babble. ‘My daughter’s in hospital… my sister gave me this address. It’s you, why is it you? All of this time, I’ve been writing—’

‘I’m an admirer of your work,’ he cuts in. He is thoughtful; I am reminded of how he encouraged Genevieve when she was a young child.

‘The life document – you know about me, you know who I am? But how does that link with Evie? Why did she send me to you?’ I struggle to grasp each thought.

‘One thing at a time.’ He speaks very slowly, deliberately. It almost grates against my frantic outbursts.

‘I don’t know why I’m here.’

He peers at me, his head held slightly to one side. I am reminded of the robin at the roadside restaurant. ‘Your daughter – Mimi.’

I almost shriek, rather than speak: ‘You know about her too? You know about Mimi?’

‘I learnt you’d stopped life documenting. It didn’t take much to find out why.’

‘You’re connected with them, aren’t you – OSIP? You’re involved with them somehow. I need your help…’

As though I hadn’t just begged, as though I weren’t clawing at him desperately, he says, with a slowness: ‘First things first. You must want to have a wash.’

I can’t imagine what I look like to him. I am still wearing the pyjamas I wore when I climbed out of bed this morning. I am coated in Mimi’s vomit. But the last thing I want to do at this moment is wash.

‘I don’t have time – there’s no time. My daughter, she’s not well—’

‘You said she was in hospital. She’s being cared for there?’

I can’t bear to admit it but I nod, in tiny movements.

‘I’m not an enforcer, Kit,’ Jonah says. He has a gentle voice; I start to feel lulled by it. ‘Will you come in? We can talk more, if you like. You can have a shower. You must be hungry.’

The idea of eating now revolts me. I can’t imagine chewing food, I can’t think of swallowing it down. All that fills my mind is that last image I have of Mimi, small