Page 8 of Because of Them

“Good sex is not all it’s hyped up to be. It has consequences.”

My thoughts scramble. We always used a condom, and I hadn’t been with anyone since I was tested for any sexually transmitted infections or diseases. Audrey stands before I can work out what she means, before I find the words to ask for clarification.

“I’m sorry, Michael. This was a mistake.”

Reaching down to grab her bag from beside her chair, Audrey sucks in a long breath. She doesn’t look at me when tucks it over her shoulder, croaking out a swift goodbye and turning on her heel.

I sit and watch her exit, coming to my senses as the bell above the door chimes and she steps onto the footpath. The waitress steps up to the table with our drinks, preventing me from rushing out to Audrey.

“Sorry, please cancel the order.” I throw my wallet on the table, already scooting around the chairs.

“Wait, you can’t—” the waitress calls out, but she doesn’t move. Either she knows she can’t stop me, or she can’t be bothered.

I call over my shoulder as I head to the door, “I’ll be back.”

Stepping onto the footpath, I spot Audrey a block down the street. I scurry between the crowd, wrapping my fingers around her wrist when I catch up to her. Last time I touched her, electricity sparked through me. But this time, something softer tickles its way up my arm, settling back into my chest.

“Audrey, what do you mean?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” she sobs.

Pulling her towards me, I spin her around and wrap my arms around her back. Her soft curves fall into place against my chest as she nuzzles into my shoulder.

“It doesn’t matter,” she adds. “Really, don’t worry about it. But please, stop calling me. Okay?”

I nod against her hair, even though I don’t mean it. I don’t want to stop calling Audrey, I don’t want to stop trying to make her see that we are right together. But with everything I keep doing and saying? All the mistakes I keep making? Maybe we’re wrong after all.

AUDREY

Thump, thump, thump.

The steady, echoing sound drills into my ears with each rhythmic beat. I close my eyes, trying to block out the sound of my neighbour’s latest DIY project. Surely there are noise restriction rules about using power tools at midday on a Saturday.

My head pounds along with the pulsing thuds, my stomach churning with each distant bang of a hammer. Too late, I realise I should have stayed to eat the food I ordered at the cafe, or stopped to pick something up on the way home, or at the very least grabbed something from the kitchen before hiding out back here. Bile rises and I rush out of my art studio towards the bathroom.

Nothing comes up, it never does. It never did with Maisie, and I doubt it will this time. Mostly because I can never stomach enough food in the first place. All I can manage are little nibbles of pre-approved ‘safe’ foods. But they do nothing to stop the twisting in my gut and the unbearable heaves that leave me panting.

When my body has finally had its disgusting moment, I splash water on my face and wipe the sweaty tears from my cheeks. I hobble to the kitchen, crouched over like an old witch, and pull an apple from the fridge before making my way back to my art studio.

I’ve always found calm here. Through the darkest days of my marriage breaking down, through the exhausting moments of Maisie’s first few years, the spare bedroom I converted into an art studio has been something of a safe place for me. With its large north facing window, there is plenty of light, even through winter, to paint, and plenty of natural warmth to dry my artwork. We pulled up the carpet when we redid the flooring through the house, using the same ashy floorboards from the hall. The cupboard doors were removed, replaced with open shelving to store all my supplies. Various types of paints, canvases of all sizes, and more brushes than I can count fill the shelves.

Career ambition has always taken a strong first place when it comes to my interests outside of my family, but painting is a strong second. In high school, I hated the pressure that studying the visual arts put on the creative process. The planning, the explaining, the analysing. I just wanted to paint, to create. And that’s all I still want to do.

Sometimes my pieces are beautifully abstract. Swirls of colour to match my mood, like the deep stormy blue stage I went through when my ex-husband first moved out. Other times, I recreate landscapes and plants and flowers in my own unique,colourful way. And occasionally, I find myself attempting portraits. Like the one I’m working on now. Tiny baby Maisie, snuggled and sleeping, wrapped in a tiny sage green blanket.

Stepping back into the room, the gentle energy washes over me. I crunch into the apple, chewing slowly through the nausea still swirling in my stomach, right alongside the baby currently growing in there.

By instinct, my free hand finds its place resting on my belly. There’s no bump yet, but I’m bloated already, soft around the middle far sooner than my body changed with my last pregnancy. Maybe it’s a second baby thing, like my body already knows all the right places to grow, or maybe it’s just because I was so obsessed with crunches before I had Maisie, so my muscles were all tighter.

Either way, I’ll have to start living in leggings until I buy some maternity pants.

I unbutton my jeans and let my stomach relax at the reduced pressure. All the weight I never managed to lose after having Maisie, the weight I finally came to accept and even love, feels almost excessive now. I wonder what will happen to my body with this pregnancy. Putting on weight is a given, it comes with the parcel, but will my belly grow out like it did last time, or will every part of me swell up? How long will it take me to love my body again?

Sitting on my stool, I spin the seat a few times, trying to get comfortable. Naturally, my legs cross underneath me and I lean forward over the back support. I’ve never been one for sitting ‘normally’, always berated at school for hooking my legs under the seat or fidgeting too much while we all sat on the mat. Here in my art room, I decided early on to ignore all the ‘sit straight’ memories and just make myself comfortable.

While I finish my apple, I admire the painting in front of me, comparing it to the reference photo I have pegged to the top ofthe easel. Portraits are always harder to get perfect. There’s less freedom and I always want them to look exactly like the picture in my head. So far, Maisie’s eyes aren’t quite right, and the swirls of dark hair atop her head need some attention. I force my focus to the blanket wrapped around her. I used a little creative licence on the colour, turning the minty green into a deeper sage to give the whole piece an earthy feel. I’ll pull out the contrast between the shadow and highlights in my final layer of paint, but for now I love it. The colour is perfect, the woven strokes and gentle bunches look soft to touch.

I’ll have to find where I stashed the blanket, for the little baby growing inside me now. We donated almost everything as Maisie got older and we settled into the idea that she was it for us: the cot, the pram, the car seat, the toys. But IknowI kept the blanket somewhere, in a box with a few other precious memories.

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