i.
The summer has been dryer than usual, sun sitting bright in the sky; but on this particular afternoon it pours as if the world is ending. She sits upon a wall in the garden and allows the rain to seep through her cardigan; thin wool has turned heavy, and the pale blue cotton of her dress clings to each slip of skin. In her hands a book lays sodden, fingers caught between pages she has already forgot, whilst the other skims gently across the moist fabric covering her middle.
She breathes in slowly and rain catches upon her lips, trawling down the crevices and contours that define her youthful features. Her hair has lost its ringlets; instead heavy curls drip down her shoulders, dull blonde a startling contrast to their usual golden hues.
There is a sudden shout from far away, towards the house she thinks, and she glances up just in time to see him striding purposely towards her. In minutes he is there, slipping a steady arm around her back to pull her upwards, muttering about the rain and the state of her clothing; the damage she is doing to her health. Her hand is caught up in his broad fingers, causing her to drop the book, as she refuses to let her other hand wander from her stomach.
He sees, and scowls slightly before leaning down to retrieve the volume from the mud. As he hurries her towards the house she wonders if he's noticed, if the rapid fading of her consciousness is not just the creation of her mind. She's drifting further and further from this moment, can still feel the rain beat a steady rhythm upon skin, but can't hear his words as he turns towards her, face contorting as he finally grips her other hand and rips it painfully from her middle.
It takes him a moment to realise she's sobbing, that the stains upon her cheeks are not the rain, and the confusion evident in the crease of his brow brings an ache to her bones. She can hear him, vaguely, gently asking what's wrong, and the truth is so horrible she can barely force words. When she does speak it is a jumble of murmurs and sobs, caught up in the rain and the humidity of summer.
"I lost her," she murmurs, "The baby, she's gone."
---
One day Nikki escapes through a hole in the back fence and spends what feels like hours, exploring the nearby park. She is four years old and has quite forgotten the presents given to her mother that morning.
She scouts through the tree branches hanging low by the footpath, collects twigs and leaves that have fallen to their rest and hides them in the special pockets of her dress. In the playground she scales the slippery dip and from the top watches the other children play games with their families. A little boy falls over and she watches in interest as his mother scoops him up.
She pushes herself down the slide, frowning as the hot metal sticks to the undersides of her legs, before skipping towards the swing set. She's never pushed herself on one before, but the bigger kids can do so by kicking their legs, so she clambers onto the hot rubber, settling herself in the seat.
She kicks furiously, and frowns as nothing happens.
Her blonde ponytail has slipped from its confines, and the red ribbon tied around it has disappeared in the bushes. She hastily pushes back strands from her eyes and tries kicking once more; rocking her little body back and forth, though all the swing set does is rattle, the metal rings holding it up clanking loudly.
Minutes later she feels a gentle hand push her lightly; she turns, suddenly, and an older girl is smiling back at her.
"Need some help?" she asks, not unkindly, and Nikki nods hastily.
Before she knows it she is flying; back and forth in the wind, giggling loudly as the girl pushes her from behind. Her hair streams golden behind her as the sun beats down, and her dress billows gracefully in the breeze. It is the most fun she can remember in her very short life, and she decides quickly that she'll disappear to the park every afternoon.
Suddenly, frighteningly, she feels her hands slip from the metal chain. Her dress slips too and before she knows it she's tumbled backwards, falling harshly on the ground. There is a second where she doesn't know what's happened, her left arm is aching, and her knees are scrapped raw; her head, beating loudly, causes the lights to swim before her eyes, before everything rushes forwards, and the pain in her body intensifies, screams wailing past her ears.
It takes her a moment to realise she is screaming, hot tears are pouring down her cheeks, and her small body has curled around itself.
No body moves, each adult awaiting the parent that will surely notice their young one screaming, but when no one comes they rush forwards, brushing back the hair and tears of the little girl in the red dress, her broken arm cradled in her right one.
---
It has not been hours, and as a frantic Mrs. Alexander notices the commotion down the street, anxiously searching the gardens for her missing daughter, she realises with the most dreadful sickness that it is her little girl wailing.
Her little darling, small and fragile and forever falling over, is being bundled into an ambulance when she reaches the park, and as tears drip down her face, so too does a sob escape her daughter.
It is a most exacting pain, like a knife to the heart, a tilt in the earths axis, and as the little girl quiets, reaching feebly for her mother's warmth, Mrs. Alexander collapse forwards and prayers, thinks of the morning and the joy she had felt, and with her face pressed to Nikki's golden locks, vows to never let her from sight again.
---
Months pass slowly, and the nursery down the hall seems a ghost. It haunts her waking moments till she refuses to walk past it, and her dreams are filled with the cries of a daughter lost.
There will be no baby, no laughter and giggles, no ballerina slippers and dolls wrapped in blankets; only a mobile suspended above a crib that whispers slowly in the breeze when the windows open.
He goes to work and returns each evening, promises the future against her temple as she lays close to him at night, and sometimes the future seems so distant that she can only turn from him, murmur good night and prayer for sleep.
Sleep comes, mostly, and as days go forth so too does the pain.
---
It is five thirty in the morning when Mrs. Alexander awakes to the sound of plates being placed upon the kitchen bench. Her husband lies still by her side, and she wonders a moment, before turning over and falling asleep.
It is much later when the smell of pancakes comes drifting through the bedroom.
There are giggles from the doorway; small feet can be heard tripping over themselves, before a small body pushes its way through the door.
Nikki tiptoes over, hands holding the heavy plate carefully, before placing it on the bedside table and clambering to the bed. Her mothers body is soft and warm, and the mounds where her parents lie leaves a valley that is perfect for her seven year old self to fall in.
"Wake up, wake up, wake up!" she chants loudly, giggling as a pair of hands descends upon her suddenly to tickle her stomach. Her father pulls her to his lap, cuddling her to his chest, as her mother turns over happily, smiling.
"Happy mummy's day!" Nikki calls, collapsing onto her.
Mrs. Alexander hugs the small girl close and realises she could never love anyone more.
---
It is much later in the year when she notices the changes, first that same unsettled feeling, then she is late, and then the simple act of making coffee brings sickness.
She can't tell him, won't even allow herself to take a test, but as weeks go on and the symptoms get worse, it becomes harder and harder to evade the inevitable.
It's the most horrible feeling, she decides, being simultaneously sick with terror and delirium. Yet as she sits in the doctor's office, pulling her nails to pieces over the slip of paper in his hand, she can't help but feel whole once more.
He is happy, when she finally tells him, and the pain she didn't know he hid from last time begins to slowly lift.
With the first few months slipping by, they reopen the nursery door, brushing away cobwebs and dust and opening windows. A softer pink is chosen, and butterflies swim in an ocean of bright hues around the edge of the wall.
The mobile still hangs above the cot and despite the memories, she can't bring herself to take it down; wants her new daughter and the one she lost to have shared something besides her womb.
Days pass and summer returns, rain in the afternoon brings sweet relief to her changing body, and she spends hours on end reading books of names, searching for the one to embody her child.
It is a good summer, and as the baby grows, she feels for the first time the intensity of motherhood.
---
Nikki is nine years old when she decides to surprise her mother. It is Mothers Day soon and the florists down the road sell bright carnations wrapped in pink ribbon.
It takes her weeks to save the money, doing odd jobs around the house that mystify her mother. She hasn't seen her father in days and by the time he returns he's locked himself in the office.
It is Saturday when she promises that she's only going to the back of the garden. The small hole she disappeared through five years ago is still there and when she knows her mother to be particularly busy she slips out it and onto the street.
Her little feet pound the pavement and with her money purse clutched firmly in her hand she steps into the florist minutes after leaving home.
The sickly sweet smell of rich flowers invades her, seeping into her cotton dress and infusing her skin. It's bright and gorgeous and reminds her of the Botanic Gardens she visited last year. She's had her selection picked for weeks now, and proudly presents the bunch to the florist. The older lady smiles gently and accepts the many coins Nikki places in her hand.
It is harder getting home, she cannot run, and whilst the heat of summer has lessened now that May has arrived, the autumn weather is still hot. Already her flowers are drooping slightly and she reminds herself to hide them in water when she gets home.
With great skill she slips through the back fence, skipping up the back path before ducking down the hallways, finally rushing into her room and snatching the jar of water she's had ready to be placed at the back of her cupboard.
When her mother comes in minutes later she is flushed red with exhaustion and excitement, and almost gives the game away by giggling loudly. She won't let her mother near her cupboard, yet misses the woman's knowing smile.
Sunday arrives, bright and early, and she is up with the rise of the sun. Her flowers did not appreciate the stay indoors, but have survived the night and look gorgeous in their bright pink wrappings.
Still in her pyjamas she tip toes down the hallway, listens to the clocks strike seven, before opening her parents bedroom door with a creak.
Her father is not there, and she mistakenly believes he has already awoken. She does not know that he spent the night down the hall.
"Mum," she calls gently, before raising her voice.
"Mummy, wake up."
Her mother rises slowly, blinking rapidly, before noticing the bright flowers splayed where her daughter's head should have been. Nikki's small face is grinning happily from behind them as she pushes the bunch forwards, and Mrs. Alexander can't help but sob as she realises the little girl bought these on her own.
"Happy Mothers Day," her daughter smiles, climbing slowly onto the bed for a hug. Nikki is small and slight, and her mother can still remember that horrible day years earlier when her little girl disappeared and broke her arm. To this day she has never felt fear like that.
"Thank you, darling," she murmurs gently, and watches as her husband hovers at the door. He glances in, smiling as Nikki greets him happily, before promising to be back later to take them both to the park.
Nikki's excitement is palpable and she reminds herself to be strong for the little girl.
The day is good, as most days with her family have always been, and for a while she forgets, at the sight of bright carnations, that deep down she knows they are falling apart.
Her daughter falls asleep on the ride home, smile settled across her features, and Mrs. Alexander can't help but sigh contently. In one hand lies the family camera, filled to the brim with happy photos, and her husband takes her other hand in his to squeeze gently. She smiles at him.
By the next day he's gone.
---
Her child is born in the middle of winter, on a crisp July evening that tells a tale of sparkling stars.
That's how he tells the story, at least, that she was born on a night where no clouds dared enter, and each sparkling member of the night sky danced for joy.
It's beautiful story, one that comes close to explaining her bliss, and it serves as a bedtime tale for years to come.
Despite this the delivery was hard, much harder than it should have been, and when she finally awakes hours later, she finds herself told that she will not have children again.
It is a startling concept, watching new life being placed in your arms for the first and last time.
Her daughter is red faced, squishy, squirms constantly, and is apparently bald. She is the most gorgeous, alive sight, and each movement is etched in her memory.
She can remember, years later, the tingling sensation throughout her body, as the little girl cried gently, suckled at her finger before she took her to her breast, and the way his eyes shined with tears had made her happier than anything on earth.
---
There is a cool breeze blowing through the windows on this last May morning. It is crisp enough to draw shivers from the beds inhabitants, and as thirteen year old Nikki watches her mothers eyes slither closed once more, she fights back the tears that threaten to fall.
It was very nice of the doctors; she realises, to let her mother home on this special day. They've driven past the park, but not entered, she's made pancakes and vases upon vases of bright carnations are scattered throughout the bedroom.
Her mother's life is slipping before her eyes, yet she knows deep down it will not pass today. They still have time to remember the old days, before the sickness, before her father disappeared. Days when the trio had lain in bed till midday, Nikki jabbering on about what ever took her fancy whilst her parents half listened to her chatter.
They were happy, back then, and whilst she and her mother have always been happy together, it has never quite been the same.
"Niks, darling," whispers her mother softly, eyes still closed, as her daughter picks up a bit.
"There's a box right at the back of the cupboard, get it for me?"
The old shoebox is covered in butterfly wrapping paper, and with a start Nikki remembers if from her eighth birthday. She unpacks it by her mother, who has turned on the bed to pick at the contents, and so Nikki lies by her side, pressed to her Mother so their foreheads are almost touching, as they gaze upon the thousands of pictures that tell stories of childhood.
It is the most overwhelming afternoon, filled with tears and laughter, the promise of life held in a little blonde girl and the approaching death held by her mother. Nikki can't bear to think of it, and blocks everything but the moment from her mind.
There are pictures of birthday parties and trips to the park, her first day of school and her playing in the garden.
One, in particular, catches her eye and she realises it's her mother and father on the day she was born. There is a little bundle of cloth held tight to her mother's chest, and suddenly she feels the frail weight of her mother slip her arms around her once more.
Before she knows it she is sobbing, gripping the photo to her chest, and praying, wishing on stars, searching for the end of the rainbow, that this moment could continue.
---
"What do we name her?" asks Victor slowly, breathing gently lest he wake the baby, yet he can't help but reach out and run a finger across her brow in awe.
Lillian smiles softly and whispers the name she has had ready for years.
"Nicola, we name her Nicola."
---
ii.
Harry often wonders why he never asks questions of her childhood, but as he returns home one evening he realises why.
Nikki is seven months pregnant, Peach is definitely in there, and the doctor has assured them that there's only one. Life is difficult at 30 weeks, and some how Nikki manages to be both off balances when standing and dizzy when lying down.
On this evening, Harry bounds up the stairs and expects to find her in the bedroom. She's been in and out of work for a few hours each week, but spends the majority of her time finishing paperwork and researching obscure matters online, so he's surprised to find her missing.
"Nikki," he calls loudly, and tries to ignore the slight tremble in his stomach.
There is no answer, but a muffled sob rings from the nursery, and Harry can't help the terror that settles through him.
Within moment he is at the door, crouching by her side before pulling her frame (still tiny in comparison to his) towards his chest.
She had been cross-legged on the soft rug of the nursery, back resting against the wall, but as he settles her across him she burrows towards his chest, breathing in his scent and calming slightly.
He is murmuring against her forehead, as he does to her stomach, every few seconds pressing a kiss to her clammy skin as his hands slip up the back of her shirt and rub comforting, firm hands against her.
Minutes pass, and as she's finally drifting into a state of exhaustion, sobs lessened to soft whimpers, he notices the butterfly print shoebox lying by her feet.
It is open, and hundreds of old photos lay scattered across the floor.
"Is this you?" he asks gently, picking up one of a young girl in blue, her left arm plastered heavily. "You were a clumsy child, I bet, with the amount of accidents you get yourself into now you'd have to have been."
"I ran away on Mothers Day when I was four and broke my arm swinging at the park down the road. Gave my mother a heart attack I think, not only had I gone missing from the backyard but then an ambulance shows up and she finds me screaming as they tried to put me in it."
"Happy Mothers Day," murmurs Harry ironically, smiling crookedly
He brushes back her hair gently, feels the sweat beaded across her forehead despite the close of winter, and pulls her tighter.
"Harry," she whispers feebly, shaking, "I don't know what to do."
"About what, darling?" he asks, rubbing his hands to her back.
"I don't know how to be a mother. I thought I did, and I thought I'd stopped hurting, but it hurts more and more and I don't know what to do."
She's sobbing dryly now, breath erratic, and he isn't quite sure what she's talking about as she continues to murmur to herself.
Finally, as he gently asks what she means, she breaks down, and it is then that he notices the photo clenched in her hand. He can make out the blonde wisps of her younger self, and beside her a beautiful woman, headscarf flowing down her shoulders, smile fading despite the sparkle in her eye.
"I miss her, Harry. I really, really want her here. And I don't know what to do without her to help me."
"Yes you do, sweetheart," is the only thing he can think to say, because truly he doesn't know what to do besides stroke back her hair and hug her tighter.
"Nikki," he murmurs finally, as she continues to shake. "Tell me about your mum?" he asks.
She falls still, shuffling against him, before glancing to the photos strewn around her.
"She gave me this box on the last Mother's Day we spent together," she begins, and Harry can't help but relax as she slips into memories.
"They let her come home from the hospital to spend it with me, and I filled the whole apartment with vases of carnations because I used to get her a bunch each year."
"Sounds beautiful," he comments, but allows her to continue.
"It was, until they all faded. She died about three weeks later."
---
It is late evening, the soft glow of the baby's lamp lights the small room as Harry stretches out his legs on the carpet. Nikki is settled between them, her back pulled to his chest, as he rubs a hand to the skin there and rest another on her stomach.
Peach is active; kicking at random intervals, and the butterflies under his fingertips are the most amazing feeling.
Nikki has spoken the majority of the evening, lost in the world of her South African upbringing, and the steady thump against her insides is both uncomfortable yet breathtaking. It centers her to this time and space, this wonderful man and darling child.
Sometimes she feels so entirely lost, and knows somewhere that her mother's arms are what she craves. She's not spoken to her father since the pregnancy, and he's yet to try and contact her, and though part of her knows the terror is the thought of this child growing up without either of her parents, at the same time she wonders if this is her finally grieving her mother.
"Nikki," murmurs Harry finally, easy smile furthering as Peach assaults just under her belly button. Harry finds it fascinating, but she has to shift, and silently prayers the baby will be less active throughout the night.
"Everything you've just told me, that's your mother showing you how to do this, you know that, don't you? You don't need her here, even though I know sometimes it's all you won't, because she'll always be in your heart and in your memory. She's your mother, she raised you to be the beautiful woman I love, and surely from that you'll be the most brilliant mother."
There are no more tears to fall that evening, instead Nikki can only grip Harry tighter, kiss his fingertips and promise her love. There is no less pain and hurt, she is finally grieving, but that thought brings some type of comfort.
"You know what," she murmurs finally, and picks up the photo of her mother and father in the hospital.
"In South Africa Mother's Day isn't the same as it is here, it's held on the second Sunday in May."
Harry grins suddenly, catching on, and chuckles warmly.
"Second Sunday in May is when Peach is due," he murmurs, and pats her stomach.
Nikki nods gently, and threads her hand beneath his over the baby.
"It's going to be a good one."