Le berceau
That night, she woke up to blackness.
She hated awakening to blackness. The shock of nothingness when her eyes opened, pupils not knowing whether to expand or contract for lack of any light, was unsettling. The only thing visible was the déjà vu that illuminated her room. It seeped through under the door and through the windows, it lit up the darkest corner because it was here, in this room, in this bed, that she would awake to blackness.
It had been blackness that drew her out of countless dreamless sleeps during the war. Eyes flashed open, seeing the nothingness, and a hand would move across her stomach, soothing the low ache there, because it was impossible to soothe the constantly tightening pain in her heart. She knew, she had tried. And when she saw the nothingness she couldn't bear the thought of closing her eyes again and seeing every horror her mind conjured up for her.
Him, dead. Him, wounded. Him, missing. Him, gone. Or the worst image, the one she dreaded: Him, alive and well. The war was over, and he was coming home, meeting her on the same train platform and kissing her and holding her heart in his hand and refusing to let it break again. She hated this vision, this shining beacon of hope, because waking up from it was more painful than the others, it wasn't real.
She had trained her heart to bear the worst when she saw his corpse in the dark forest of her dreams, to keep its chambers together when the organ wanted nothing more than to explode and shatter like a gem upon a marble floor. But it was impossible to train her heart to not break out of her chest when she saw him alive and real, could almost touch him if she reached far enough. When she awoke from these dreams to see the blackness, she was reaching out towards it, her fingers grasping the night between them, her sheets sticking to her body even in the coldest months of winter, hot tears burning at her eyes -because the blackness told her it wasn't real.
And this night when she woke up to blackness Mary ran a hand over her eyes, sighing because this time she knew he was real. His arm was real around her and his warmth was real next to her and the steady rise and fall of his chest was so blessedly real that Mary couldn't help but lean closer to him, reveling in the solidity of him.
If he was real, why did darkness surround her? If all was well, why was she not awakening to the gray of morning and the shy sun glowing through curtains? If nothing was amiss, why were her eyes open and seeing nothing?
A baby was mewling down the hall, and Sybil was dead. Oh, God, Sybil was dead. Mary understood with a rush of nausea why she saw blackness. Sybil was dead. Sybil, her darling sister. And that was real, too. Oh, God, it was real. Mary's eyebrows came together and she brushed a hand over her stomach to try and dull the ache, but this time the caress didn't help, because it was real.
She heard it grow, the cry. It was anguished and heartbreaking, small and terrified, and it grew in pitch as the seconds pasted. Shame overcame her as Mary buried her self against Matthew, in the pillows, drowning the baby's cries out because she couldn't bear to hear them. The wail was everything she didn't want to hear, that Sybil was dead. And then there was sniffling, and coughing and she thought the baby would hyperventilate and then there would not only be one, but two corpses in the house, in the darkness of the night. Why was it that the night seemed to take life away so much more than the day?
Why was no one going to her? Could no one hear her? Mary shifted against Matthew, whimpering slightly at the sound that was beginning to tear at the now fragile muscles of her heart. The baby screamed, and Mary closed her eyes. Why was no one going to her?
She detached herself from her husbands caring, comforting, very real arms and, with monumental effort (was it possible to feel this heavy?) she rose from the warmth of their bed, not bothering with her dressing gown because she couldn't find it in the dark nor could she see the use of it on this night, this night that had changed so much. She moved blindly through the room, out into the corridor, finding the wall and wondering why it was still so terribly dark, and so cold. Then, before she knew it she was rushing without sight, almost running towards the horrible cries, her nightgown breezing behind her. In the darkness she moved through the corridor like an apparition, and suddenly she was in the baby's room with moonlight streaming in through the light curtains, and she was moving towards the whiteness of the crib with its sheer canopy and faltering at the sight of the squalling, squirming infant in the cradle. The baby reached up to her, urgently, needfully, desperately, and then Mary was picking her up, not remembering the last time she had picked up a child, and gathering her into her arms, sshing her and moving with her and unconsciously singing some melody even she didn't recognize -anything to soothe Sybil's child.
The baby's face was red and she still twisted restlessly in Mary's arms, but at the sound of Mary's voice, the frantic yet gentle hum and coo of the first voice the baby would ever remember, her dark blue eyes gazed up in wonderment, it seemed, at this new figure, latching onto her voice as if it was the only thing in the world. And in the darkness, in the world lit only by a sliver of moonlight, the voice was the only thing in her world.
Mary breathed a sigh of relief as her niece (her niece) began to hiccup and still, now curling up against Mary's chest, a tiny baby fist batting at her breast instinctively.
"I know, I know," Mary whispered, something inside of her breaking at the thought that the baby was probably hungry. "I know," she said again, her index finger stroking the tears away from her soft, newborn cheeks. Nevertheless, the baby nestled against Mary's breast, taking comfort in the softness and warmth of her, and Mary whimpered quietly again, almost in a sob at the poor helpless child who would never know her own mother's.
As if the baby could somehow understand Mary's grief she began to cry again, quietly and woefully this time, as she was quite worn out both from being brought into the world and from realizing her terrible solitude as she awoke to darkness. Without thought, the new person hugged her closer, lips brushing against her forehead as she whispered something against it.
"No, no, it's alright, it's alright,"
No, no, it's not alright, it's not alright. It's horrible, infuriating, unfair, heartbreaking, terrible! I wish I could make it better, but I can't, not ever. I'm sorry, I'm sorry! How could this happen? How can I possibly comfort you? Do you miss her already, as I do?
Mary couldn't stand any longer or she would fall, but if she sat she feared she would never be able to stand again. Was it possible to feel this heavy? She settled for her closest option, which was to sink down onto the small day sofa, leaning back into the cushions and feeling the wood against the back of her neck. She shifted the newborn so that her little precious cheek rested against Mary's skin just below her clavicle, and the baby kept one arm tucked under her while the other fell onto Mary's chest. She breathed steadily, and Mary's ears hung on to every treasured in and out, her hand moving to cover the baby's back. And then the baby's eyes fluttered shut, and her own little fingers flexed once more on Mary's chest.
Mary counted them. Five. Ten fingers, ten toes. Perfect. She kissed the top of the baby's head and smoothed the soft hair there with her fingers.
"I love you," she said. And God, it was so easy. She loved Sybil (loves, always loves, always in the present), and by extension her child. With Matthew she had finally allowed herself to love, to feel something more than restraint, and now she easily poured it into the baby sleeping on her chest. Mary was helpless, really, in giving it. For how could she not love something so darling, so innocent, so perfect? The tiny person that had reached for her with trembling hours-old arms as if she was the only person she wanted. She loved her helplessly and completely within minutes of knowing her.
"You are not alone, I'm here," she whispered against the baby's head, wishing someone had spoken the same words to her years before when she had awoken to the darkness and realized she was terribly alone in the world.
They stayed that way for hours, Mary closed her eyes. But she didn't dream, and she didn't think. She just felt the constant breathing of the child against her own heart and the rhythm of it underneath her skin, and when she opened her eyes she was greeted with light.
Maybe she had slept a little, for she felt faint when she finally stood and moved back towards the basinet, ever so gently cradling the baby and placing her back in the soft blankets, tucking them around her and immediately missing the warmth of her cheek against her breast. She sat beside the cradle, looking over her shoulder for a moment at the rainy morning and the light coming in from the window, before turning back to the baby. Mary let her cheek rest in her left hand, her elbow resting on the side of the cradle as she looked down at the infant, barely twenty-four hours old, whom she loved so terribly much. And she smiled sleepily as the light grew brighter and lit up the room, and a new day dawned, a day Mary hated to face but knew she must.
A/N: This was inspired by 'Le berceau' (the cradle), a lovely painting by Berthe Morisot. If you have a minute, I'd love to know what you thought!