This story takes place in the middle of another of my stories, which is something I've never done before! Insert it between chapters 13 and 14 of "Dress Code," in which there is a two-month gap. According to the beginning of chapter 14, Martha spends some of that time going to caterer tastings with her sister, and investigating the Phlotigo galaxy to find an answer to the computer 'glitch' that has seen several women disappear from the face of the Earth.
I didn't mean for Martha to come out of the end of this story feeling that it's all doom and gloom. I'm hoping that the fact that this story takes place in the middle of another story will convey that - she does eventually snap out of this, and get on with what needs to be done, in the bigger picture. She accepts her new lot in life, as we all must.
This piece is a bit unusual. It is highly personal for me, and was incredibly therapeutic to write. I thought that I could rid myself of some of my demons by getting this thing out onto a page, but as I wrote, I realized the same thing that my story's heroine realizes: this particular demon will never die. That's how we humans are wired (and maybe Time Lords as well), and it's a good thing in the long run.
Flight 1617 from Heathrow to JFK pulled away from the gate at 12:14 – ten minutes late.
"In the event of a water landing, your seat cushion can also be used as a flotation device," a dark-haired woman said, whilst another woman stood further down the aisle and demonstrated by putting her arms through the straps, standard under every airline passenger's bum. "The aircraft also comes equipped with flotation devices for small children and infants. These are available upon request from any member of the crew."
A new mother in seat 17C smiled and looked down at the sleeping newborn resting in her arms.
"Hm, good to know," the baby's father, in seat 17D, said with a nonchalant shrug.
"Mm-hm," she agreed absently. Her biggest worry just now was waking the little tyke in time for a feeding, and not agitating him enough to make him wail and disturb everyone else on the flight.
Little had she known at 12:14 that afternoon that before 3:00, her worries would have increased so significantly. She hadn't known that she and her fellow passengers would have their arms laced through those seat cushion straps, bobbing in the cold Atlantic, with the airline crew trying mostly unsuccessfully to get panicked passengers to paddle away from the plane. The crew was right to fear an explosion, even given the water, water everywhere. There was also fuel leaking everywhere.
When the air hostess had warned the white-knuckled travellers, voice trembling, that the plane was headed for an "aggressive water landing," the new mother had known that she would not be able to keep hold of her baby, and stay afloat herself – at least not for very long. She knew that once they were in the water, if they survived the impact, she and the father would have to work out somehow where to find the flotation devices designed for infants.
And they had. They slowly made their way away from the wreckage, kicking awkwardly with their shod feet, their chests pressed against the cushions, while carefully towing their six-week-old son between them. The flotation device had the baby laid flat, with shallow barriers on the left and right. It was made of smooth, yellow plastic.
"I'm worried that he's too exposed," the mother said of the child wearing only a blue 'Onesie' with short sleeves and no leg coverings. His swaddling blanket had been lost in the shuffle to get out of the plane. "He'll bake in this sun if we don't cover him up."
"Okay," the father said. "Easy enough."
He temporarily let go of the little plastic raft, disengaged himself from the seat cushion straps, and treaded water as he began to wriggle out of his suit jacket. He planned to cover the baby with it. For his part, the little one was remarkably calm. He was not asleep, but he was no longer crying.
In spite of this graceful little family, and a few other cool customers, there was plenty of chaos around them. As the father struggled to divest himself of his jacket, someone nearby began to scream, "No! Get away from me! Stop it! Get your own!"
This person, and another person, flailed about, yelling, causing bits of salty Atlantic to splash the faces of nearby floaters. This included the new mother and her child.
The baby began to cry as the icy water jolted him out of his zen state. The mother's vision was slightly blurred by the briny cold. She reached out with one arm to comfort her little one with one hand, while instinctively rubbing her eyes with the other.
Her hand came down on one of the slightly elevated sides of the tiny raft, putting the balance of weight a bit off. With the splashes and incidental water, the smooth plastic became extremely slick. Before she had a chance even to fully open her eyes, the baby boy had slid off the raft and into the sea.
"No!" she screamed, thrashing free of the straps. Within five seconds, she was diving under the water, chasing the chubby little body into the deep. She opened her eyes. They burned with the salt, but she could see the shape of her precious boy sinking rapidly away from her. He was not moving, as he had been crying when he entered the water, and had likely inhaled part of the ocean and lost his breath and consciousness all at once.
She pushed against the force of the water with all the strength she had in her arms and legs, going down, down, down, and she gained on him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone else in the vicinity, pushing just as hard. It was the father, she knew, but she did not stop to look at him. She came within reaching distance of her son, and thrust her arm out to grab him. She caught hold of two of his tiny fingers, which promptly slipped from her grip.
She cried out underwater, as her whole life sank away once again. She could see him, receding into the Atlantic ocean, sinking, sinking. She pushed some more and tried to go deeper. She felt her chest getting tighter, and the pressure of the water becoming unbearable, but she pushed harder.
He's tiny, and helpless, she thought. He has not lived! He's completely helpless. Helpless! If I don't save him, no one will! He'll sink to the ocean floor, lost forever… this giant ocean, among the shipwrecks and creatures and the dark. And he's helpless! He's my life – I will never, ever, ever love anyone or anything this much – I could never! He'll be eaten by fish and I'll fly over this ocean again and know that my little boy is down there forever and ever. I have to get him back, have to get him back!
As the world began to go black, she felt a strong arm around her waist, pulling her back to the surface. She was ten seconds from passing out, but still she fought against it. Have to get him back!
Her head breached the surface and she screamed. The person with his arm around her was not the baby's father, but a total stranger, one of the other few folks in the crash who had been as calm and collected as she had once been.
"Ma'am, ma'am," he said. "Look at, me! Look at me!" He tried to get a grip on her, but she kept thrashing free.
She dove down again, but he caught her and brought her to the surface once more.
"Let go of me!" she screamed. "Get your hands off me and let me go! I have to save my son! He's mine! I have to! Let go!"
She fought and fought, but this man was too strong. He tried to soothe her with his words, but nothing could soothe this panic. Within a minute, she saw the face of her beloved, the baby's father, come up from the water, and he swam toward her.
The man loosened his grip on her, seeing that her partner had surfaced.
"Do you have him?" she asked desperately of the father. "Do you have him? Oh, God, please tell me you have him!" She sobbed uncontrollably now, and it was a struggle to stay afloat.
"No, love, I don't have him," the father told her. His voice was broken and twisted, and tears gushed from his eyes. "He's lost."
"No! He's not lost! He's right here, right below us! I saw him sink, I saw where he went down!"
"Sweetheart, he was dead weight," he told her, trying not to panic himself. If they both lost their composure, they'd both die out here. "He sank like a rock."
"No!" She dove down one more time, but the father went after her. This time he got behind her when he brought her to the surface and took her round the neck. She was screaming protests and kicking against the motion, breaking his heart, but he understood what she could not: there was nothing to be done. The ocean had swallowed the most precious thing in the universe, and he was not about to let it swallow her too, as she tried to retrieve what was lost.
"Martha, Martha," he lulled as she cried. "It's over, he's gone. It's over."
She went limp and let him pull her away, as though rescuing her from drowning. She cried so hard she couldn't form words. But the thoughts were there.
If only I had…
If only they had…
If only we had…
The people around them watched, and many of them cried as well, but there was nothing that anyone…
Martha Jones sat up in bed with a start. Without first thinking or trying to hold back, she burst into tears and hugged her swollen belly. In response she felt a big kick to the ribs.
Not wanting to disturb the Doctor, she climbed out of bed and ran to the bathroom. She sat on the edge of the bathtub and shook.
But Time Lords have heightened awareness, as she now knew first-hand, and that meant light sleeping. Very soon, there was a knock at the door.
"Martha, are you all right?"
She cleared her throat as she tried to get control of her emotions. "Erm, yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just a bit of tummy troubles."
There was a pause. He wasn't buying it. "Tummy troubles?"
"Yeah, I think it was the fish. It might have been bad."
"Martha, you ate a grilled trout that had been caught out of the upper St. Laurence river less than an hour before," he told her. "I don't think it was bad. Now what's wrong?"
"Nothing, don't worry," she assured him. "The baby doesn't like Canadian food, that's all. Just go back to bed."
She briefly toyed with telling him about her dream, but she stopped herself. She couldn't imagine reliving it for any reason, and irrationally feared that committing it to words would make it somehow real. The grief in the dream had been indescribable anyhow – she knew that no mere language could do it justice.
Besides, for some reason, this particular grief felt private, not even to be shared with the father of her child, someone she loved more than she could say, and with whom she had already shared rather a unique loss, not completely unlike this horrible vision she had just had.
No, this one she would keep to herself. It would slowly ebb away, as all nightmares do.
The nightmare did not ebb. It recurred, and gave Martha new variations to chew on each night. It became more vivid, louder, longer. The theme was always the same – blinding desperation, and then world-ending sadness. The details changed, however. Occasionally, she lost them both – the child's father would drown while diving down, never giving up the search for their son. Often, she herself would dive down again and again and again, each time going deeper and losing more breath, and seeing her child drift down farther away from her. She would beg to wake up, but could not. And once, when she came up from her dive, stricken, devastated, she found that the plane wreckage and all of the passengers had disappeared. Even her flotation cushion had gone – she was alone, floating in the Atlantic Ocean, grappling on her own with the loss.
The images wouldn't leave her alone. Every time, she would wake up and cry, locking herself away, usually beating away the protests of the Doctor, hollering from outside the door, begging her to tell him what was wrong.
This went on until the nightmare stopped being only a nightmare – it began to interfere with her work and her life – holding on for dear life in the TARDIS, searching for the current alien criminal, helping prep her sister's wedding, attempting to have a relationship with the man she loved. She was distracted. She made concerted efforts to keep the images out, but the harder she tried, the worse they became. She could not shake the image of her helpless newborn, sinking into the ocean with no hope of rescue. Her hopes and heart's desires went with him when he disappeared. All of the work she had put into imagining (knowing) what he would be like, loving him, trying to protect him, preparing, fretting… all of it gone. A great life snuffed out in one careless move. She had to be stopped from drowning herself trying to save him, and always in the dream, she would have preferred to drown, preferred to die rather than lose her son, but she knew that double loss would have been crippling for the child's father, so she stayed and allowed him to take her away. And she would go on living, knowing what she knew, about the treasure at the bottom of the Atlantic…
And the visions didn't stop at The Pond.
On a Tuesday, in a bit of a depression, Martha accompanied her sister Tish to a meeting with a possible wedding caterer. The two tried several scrumptious dishes, and Martha managed to put the drowning visions so far in the back of her mind that she forgot to mention them to Tish, as she had thought she would. She also found that her spirits were lifted, and she managed, once again, to discuss the pregnancy without secretly feeling that it was all in vain because life is so fragile.
As they were leaving, Tish asked Martha if she'd mind if they stopped at the corner store for some broccoli to put in a cheese soup. As they walked, Tish explained how she'd spent a couple of afternoons with her future mother-in-law, and how the older lady had taught her to cook a few of Robert Oliver's favourites, and she had been inspired to take those recipes and create something new, just because of the afternoon's delicious treats.
Martha listened, but noticed distractedly that the pavement was rather uneven. Lots of cracks, presumably from the trees growing on the sidewalk near the street, had formed as the sidewalk had been pushed up. It didn't require that much concentration to navigate it, but if one didn't at least somewhat watch one's step, an embarrassing disaster could strike.
A woman was walking toward them carrying a tiny baby. He was a chubby newborn, just like Martha imagined her own little one; his bum was resting in his mother's right hand, and his head was leaning sideways against her chest. In mum's left hand, she held a mobile phone, and she chatted animatedly with someone about nothing. She moved briskly, and it made Martha nervous. Nothing was supporting the child's head nor back – what if he twitched?
No sooner had Martha made this observation than she saw the absent-minded woman trip on the uneven pavement. The toe of her high-heeled shoe caught on one of the raised cracks, and she went flying forward.
It seemed to happen in slow motion. Instinctively, the woman's arms went out to her sides as she lost her balance, in an attempt to get it back. The mobile phone went flying first, and then the mother seemed to realise in one awful moment what was happening, and she cried out. There were no words, only a horrified scream. The baby was flying, falling, no blanket, no protection, only jagged concrete to break his fall. Her arms went forward to try and catch him, but it was all too late, too clumsy, too fast.
Martha herself stopped in her tracks and screamed as she watched the baby hit the ground with a grotesque, dull thud. She heard him break. She couldn't help herself – she was terrified and devastated, and continued to scream. But then she lost her breath altogether and began to hyperventilate as she watched the pool of blood spread around the twisted little body and flattened head. She started to cry then, and turned away.
She turned and pressed her forehead against her sister's shoulder and moaned, "Oh God, Tish, can we please just go to the car? Please?"
"Sure," Tish said, hugging her. "Are you ill?" Tish was way too composed, under the circumstances.
"No, I…" she pulled her head away and looked at her sister. One of them had gone a little mad – but which one? She got her answer as the mother walked past, still talking on her mobile phone, completely upright and no harm done. The baby was fine, and certainly not splattered on the concrete.
"Martha, what's wrong?"
"I don't know. Something is happening to me, Tish. I need to talk to the Doctor, like, now. Do you mind if I just catch the Tube back?"
"I'll drive you."
"No – I need to be alone with my thoughts just now. I'll ring you tomorrow, okay?"
On the way to the Tube station, she noticed the obstacles. The cracks, the kerbs, the busy Londoners not watching where they were going. She thought about how often she wore that one sexy pair of high-heeled boots – she'd have to retire them once the baby came. Too dangerous. She pictured herself misstepping while holding her son, her ankle twisting and his little body shattering on the street, all in a split second.
God, that's horrible, she thought. Get a grip on yourself, Martha. You're going to be a doctor, you're not obsessed with the possibility of blood and guts and horror. You have seen all of those things, and you can handle them. And, you know that freakish accidents are called "freak" for a reason.
But like the drowning images, she couldn't shake these. Baby heads cracking open. Little limbs twisting and twitching. The unique look of ugly death marring the face of a perfect, perfect infant.
She stood on the platform and waited for the Tube, and tried desperately not to look at the tracks, and read warnings about staying away from them. She didn't want her mind going there. But it did, and she regretted coming to the station…
All the way home…
Martha, stop it! What's the matter with you?
"Doctor?" she shouted, entering the TARDIS. "Where are you?"
"Here," he said, coming out through the door that led to the hallway. "I've had Fiona Hart's computer open again on the diagnostics table."
His shoes made a tinkling sound on the floor as he stepped up onto the platform. It caught her ear, and she looked down. She stared at the metal grate for a few moments, taken involuntarily by the terrible thought of the damage it could do to a tiny life. They were going to live here? Why had they not talked about baby-proofing the console room?
She shook it off and said, "Doctor, something is wrong with me."
"How so?" he asked, crossing to her, and giving her a soft hug.
She took a deep breath. "I've been hallucinating."
"Hallucinating?"
"Yes!" she said, beginning to pace. "Something has me, I can feel it."
She went on to describe, in colourful, devastating detail, the horrifying images that had been plaguing her sleep, and now her waking life as well.
"I'm telling you, Doctor," she said, beginning to breathe hard. "The last couple weeks, I can't control it anymore. I can't stop it. It's random and vivid and… oh, it's so vivid. It's like I'm living it."
"And you said you think that something has you? Like in its thrall?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest and looking at her earnestly.
She enfolded her arms over her burgeoning belly, and said, "I think so. I mean, I know these things now, don't I ?"
"Probably," he told her. "Your senses will be heightened…" He seemed distracted, and his eyes floated over to the console screen.
"What? What's wrong?" she wanted to know.
"I wonder if we're getting too close," he muttered, moving over toward the controls.
"Too close?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said, tapping some keys, rather harder than necessary. He buried one hand in his hair and said, "Blimey, I should have thought of this."
"Thought of what?"
"Retribution."
"What?" she shouted.
He looked at her with wide brown eyes and a bit of surprise. "No, no, don't worry. It's… nothing. Really."
"Doctor, it's not nothing! I wish you wouldn't say that. Whenever you say nothing it's always the opposite of nothing!"
"Well… look," he said, turning the screen toward her.
The writing was in the Doctor's native language, the big, loopy, beautiful art of Gallifrey, something that should have looked like utter gibberish to Martha. But in her current state, it looked like writing to her, and it was a language she now understood.
"What's this, like an intergalactic database?" she asked.
"Yes, like Wikipedia, only a lot more accurate and infinitely larger," he said. "The Time Lords put it together a while back. The great thing about it: it extends throughout most of time, even beyond the Time Lords' lifespan, which is lucky 'cause they're all…"
"So…" she said absently, pressing the tip of her index finger very lightly against the screen. "A Traumalb is our best bet?"
"I think so, Martha, don't you?"
She read aloud. "A Traumalb is a parasitic being, native to the planet Sietfern in the galaxy of Phlotigo. It is, as is typical of life forms from this galaxy, generally non-corporeal."
"Right," he said. "And as you can probably guess, just as a non-corporeal being can be easily turned into data, it can also easily become a thought or an idea. I mean, not all Phlotigo beings can do it, but it is a fairly typical thing that Sietfernians do. They're excellent at mind control, and they don't use it for good."
She looked at the screen again and read on. "So anyone from that planet can become a thought, can control my mind, but a Traumalb, specifically, does this with nightmarish images."
"Yep."
"So there are other sorts of beings from that same planet that become thoughts and control you with other types of things? Like… the urge to kill, or to eat a peanut butter sandwich?"
"As for example," the Doctor conceded, with an open hand gesture.
Martha, in spite of the fear she felt inside, was immeasurably relieved. They had an answer. Plus, it rather narrowed down the culprits of the wedding dress debacle as well, since likely the Traumalb was acting in concert with whomever was stealing the brides. Probably, the alien they were looking for was from the very same planet.
She sighed. "Well at least we have something more to go on, to help out Tish."
"That's a fair assumption," the Doctor told her. "But let's not forget that it's just an assumption. The Phlotigo beings can travel from planet to planet more easily than most, which means they can be in cahoots with one another. It could be a completely different planet, Martha."
"Okay. Well, then, at least we have someplace to start looking tomorrow when we go ghost-hunting in the galaxy. We don't have to pick someplace random."
He shrugged. "That's true. Something is better than nothing, eh?"
She cradled her baby in her arms, and he cooed sweetly. She could have sworn that there was an "I love you" spoken in that coo, in the language of babies that only mothers understand.
She laid him down on his changing table and spoke softly to him. She told him how much she loved his chubby cheeks and soft skin, his eyes which were dark like hers, and knowing like his father's. The baby seemed to cock an eyebrow at her, which made her laugh. She felt overwhelmed with emotion at that moment, and she planted her lips on his little belly and blew. It made a rude, funny sound and tickled him, and he let out a squeal of delight, a sound that made Martha feel as though nothing could ever go wrong again.
But at the same time, she wished she could take that squeal, take this whole moment, and bottle it. Because she knew that all too soon, he would be articulating words, thoughts, feelings, things he knew and had learned and wanted. Someday very soon, she would hear that squeal for the last time, and it would be replaced with something else. Perhaps it would be something just as glorious, but that heavenly squeal would be gone. And she'd never know it when she heard it the last time; it would just go – lost to the ages.
And someday, she would lay him down on this changing table for the last time. Someday she would bathe him for the last time. Someday, he wouldn't have to open his mouth and depend upon her to put something in it – he would be able to do that for himself.
She tried to focus on the things he would do someday, the things she couldn't wait for. Like, someday he would be able to sit up on his own, and they could play pat-a-cake together. Someday, he'd say "mummy," and look at her and smile. Someday, he would feel the swell of pride, having learned something new, and want to share it with her.
These were the ups and downs of parenthood, and she felt them already, the great ocean of bittersweet.
She told the little boy they were going to a special dinner with Uncle Leo, and he needed to wear something to make him the handsomest boy in the room. He smiled at her as she struggled against the cute little kicks and jabs, and peeled the little white bodysuit off of the little brown body. She turned for a moment to lift up the lid to the hamper. She tossed the tiny garment in, then turned back around to the changing table.
But there was no changing table. There was an armchair of jade-green corduroy, and a young man sat in it. He wore a pair of pressed jeans and a long-sleeved dress shirt, with brown penny loafers on his feet. He was perhaps seventeen years old, and he had an expression of utter boredom on his face.
"Wha-?" she exclaimed. "What happened?"
"What d'you mean, what happened?" he asked, rolling his eyes.
"You were just a baby, and now…" she gestured toward him, incredulously, with both arms.
He rolled his eyes again. "Yeah, I know, time flies and all that. Can we go now, and get this thing over with?"
"No, I mean… you were just a baby! Like two seconds ago! I turned around and…"
"Mum, you're sounding barmy," he interrupted, standing up. When he pulled himself up to his full height, she had to look up to see his face. This made her lose her breath just a little. And still she could see that he had not finished growing – he was not yet as tall as his father, as she knew he eventually would be.
"I… I just don't know what to say!"
"Yeah, well… follow your instinct."
She frowned. "Who are you talking to, young man?"
"I'm sorry. Let's just go," he suggested flatly.
"Well," she said, looking around the room. A moment ago it had been a nursery. Not it was some kind of study. "Have you had a bath?"
He exhaled with exasperation. "Erm, yeah."
"Are you sure? Did you wash behind your ears, and under your chin?"
"Under my chin?"
"Yes, where the…"
There was a pause. The boy opened his eyes wide with sarcasm. "Where the what?"
"Where the formula gathers, between the little folds when it drips down your face," she said, trailing off. "And it makes you smell like cheese."
He looked at her blankly for a few moments. "Really, mum. We need to go."
"But, wait. Have you eaten? Let me give you something to eat."
"I had something on the way home with Mnflllllnnnn…." he answered.
It was muffled and muddled, but it was definitely a girl's name.
"With who?" she asked.
"Ugh, come on mum! I don't need this! Let's just go!"
"You don't need this?"
"I don't need you! I can take care of myself! Jesus!" he exclaimed as he stomped out the door.
Martha was left standing in the middle of some young man's study, her breath stolen, her body having lost all impetus.
What had happened to the last squeal? The last bath? When exactly had he said "mummy," and wanted to share his first triumphs with her? When had it happened? When?
She called his name and chased after him. She ran down the hall, wanting to know what he had learned at school that day, and whether he needed help changing his clothes.
She ran into the boy's father in the corridor. "Did you see that?" she asked him, stopping, hands on hips.
"Yeah, they grow up fast," he replied.
"This isn't fast," she told him. "This is the speed of light! Something is wrong!"
"Martha, every mother feels that way."
"No!" she cried out, stomping her foot. "It's not right!"
She sat bolt upright in bed.
"Again?" the Doctor asked. He was sitting with his back against the headboard, tie loosened, working on a four-dimensional crossword puzzle.
"Yeah," she said, wiping her forehead. "Doctor, we have to stop this. I can't live like this."
"Still with the violence?"
"This one was different. Not any better."
"We'll figure it out," he assured her, pulling her in.
The following day saw Martha, knackered, accompany Tish to another caterer. This time their mother went with them. It was not Tish's first choice, as Francine was much more particular about foods (and pretty much everything else) than she was, and her presence at the caterer's "audition" was sure to be tense and frustrating. But she definitely wanted her mother to be a part of the wedding-planning process…
The three of them sat in a small oak-panelled room with a table beautifully set, soft music piping in, and a handsome waiter, attentively explaining in his Spanish accent, what today's fare would entail.
"Today, ladies, we have for you an almond-crusted seared salmon with mango-cilantro chutney, string beans julienne and a risotto with a hint of lime and cumin. And of course for dessert, you have your choice of home-made poundcake with pomegranate reduction, pumpkin crème brûlée or our very popular mocha-hazlenut cheesecake."
Tish tittered with excitement, especially upon hearing the desserts. Martha was far too tired, and Francine just seemed unimpressed.
"Now, what can I get you as a beverage? We have a full array of fruit juices, Coca-cola products, fine teas, and of course, I can recommend a lovely chardonnay to pair with today's entrée," he continued.
Francine and Tish both ordered the chardonnay, and Martha, having inquired about espresso and been regretfully refused, ordered the strongest black tea possible.
When the man was gone, Francine said, "Almond-encrusted? Seared fish? Trendy and tired. It lacks imagination, Tish, a sure sign that the chef is a hack. And I'm convinced that places like this make exotic risotto just so they can say risotto, because it sounds pretty. It's just rice, for goodness' sake."
Trying very hard to smile, Tish said, "Mother, would you like to do the catering?"
"Of course not."
"Then, will you please just enjoy the meal?"
Francine did not respond, but rather turned to her other daughter. "And Martha, what's got into you? You know you're not supposed to have caffeine."
Martha waved off her mother's comment. "It's fine, mum. I can have up to two cups of caffeinated coffee or tea per day if I want. I've just been avoiding caffeine to be safe. But today…" she sighed heavily.
Her mother patted her hand. "Not sleeping well?"
"No, not at all."
"Is the baby keeping you up?" asked Tish. "Doing somersaults at three in the morning?"
"No, it's not that."
"Oh, have the nightmares started?" asked Francine.
Martha's eyes bulged and her head snapped to her right, to stare at her mother. "What?"
"The nightmares. If they haven't yet, they probably will," Francine said, sighing, taking a sip of water.
"Really?" Martha asked, with interest. The keen look on her face alarmed her mother somewhat.
"Yes, honey – practically every mother has them. Mine started right about the time when I was, oh, about five months along, just like you."
Martha sat back in her chair with her eyes still wide and her mouth open. "Oh…" It was a slow exclamation of realisation.
"When I was pregnant with Tish, oh, I had the most awful dream, almost every night for a couple of months. I dreamed that I left a butcher knife on the counter, and…" she shuddered. "Gracious, I guess I'm still having trouble with it."
Martha's heart was beating a mile a minute, as she waited for her mother to finish.
Francine cleared her throat, and then, "The dream was, the baby was on the floor playing, while I prepared dinner – usually a whole chicken, or several pounds of steak. I set the knife down, and something would happen that would make me nudge it off the counter, directly onto the baby."
Tish winced. Martha felt physically ill.
"Oh, the screaming," Francine said, placing one hand on her forehead. "It's not even real, and I still can hear the screaming, and see the blood… oh."
"Oh my God, mum," Martha muttered.
The waiter came in at that moment and set two glasses of wine and a teapot-for-one on the table. Francine, clearly harrowed, took a big sip of her chardonnay, and continued talking.
"With you, it was the oven," she said to Martha. "I'd be taking something out of the oven, and a toddler would come careening around the corner and trip, go flying and land upon the open oven door." Tears came to her eyes, then, and she put her hand over her heart as she took another drink from her water glass, and then a bit of wine. She didn't have to say it; Martha could tell she was thinking, as before, about the screaming, the horror and blisters abd blood.
Martha was sure she could see her mother trying to catch her breath.
This was exactly how she felt when she thought about the dreams and visions she'd had.
"Oh God," Francine breathed. "Girls, this is the first time I've told anyone about this."
"It is?" Martha asked.
"Well, I spoke to my sister about it, and my mother, at the time, but I didn't tell them what was in the dreams – the nightmares – only that I'd been having them. They told me they had had them too, but they didn't give me details either. And over the years, I've mentioned it to friends and whatnot, but… I've never described it aloud. Never."
"Not even to Dad?" Martha asked.
"No," Francine said sheepishly. "I didn't want to worry him. Didn't want to implant the same rubbish in his head. No need for both of us to be bonkers that way."
"Did you have them with Leo, too?" Tish wanted to know.
"I'm sure she did," Martha answered on behalf of her mother. "But I don't think I need to hear anymore."
Francine squeezed Martha's hand and nodded, a single tear coming down her face.
"How did you keep it from distracting you in your everyday life?" Martha asked.
"I couldn't," Francine said. "Sometimes, it would just appear there in my head while I was at work, or on the Tube and… then it would lead to other really horrible thoughts… I swear half of my so-called 'hormonal' outbursts in the second trimester were just venting tension over this. Just fear."
Martha sighed heavily and stared at the wall in contemplation.
What she was feeling was good, old-fashioned, simple fear. Her adventures with the Doctor had been so crazy, so life-changing, she had been looking for aliens where only life existed. No malevolent being was giving her visions, there was no retribution from a faraway galaxy, no wisp of ectoplasm invading her very complex mind.
She was just a mother.
And suddenly, she could understand her own mum ten times better.
This was a warm realisation to her.
But at the same time, the sinking feeling of hopelessness set in. Francine's children were grown, and having children of their own, and she still felt breathless when she thought about the dreams. Nearly thirty years down the line, and the nightmares still held power.
"Mum, when did the dreams stop?" she asked, feeling like a child herself.
"After a month or two. The dreams do quit and let you breathe a bit before the baby comes, but the fear never goes away. That's for life, girls," Francine said. She smiled sympathetically at Martha. "You must be having them too."
Martha nodded.
"Want to tell us about them?"
Martha shook her head. She didn't dare speak then.
"Have you told someone about them, honey?" Francine wanted to know. "You really should."
Martha nodded again.
"Have you told the Doctor?"
Martha nodded.
"Good," Francine said. "You know there's nothing he can do about it, but it can help just to get things off your chest."
There's nothing he can do about it, Francine had said.
Of course, involuntarily at that moment, the image of a perfect, helpless child, sinking into the sea invaded Martha's thoughts.
She sat back in her chair, poured herself some tea, and settled in for the long haul.