Little Bird (14 page)

Finally I lost my temper. I stood over her and shouted, ‘Maisy, what do you
want
? Just tell me what you want me to do!' I could hear the crazy in my voice. Asking Maisy, a baby who couldn't speak, to tell me what to do was about as useful as telling her to grow up. Suddenly I was worried if I stayed there, looming into her personal space, I might grab her and shake her or something.

I stormed out of the lounge room and down the hall. I sat on the edge of Colette's bed, rigid, trying to calm myself, listening to Maisy cry. I let my head fall into my hands and squeezed back my own tears. Maisy's crying reached a feverish pitch. I pressed my ears closed, trying to block out the sound. This was too much for me to handle. I couldn't be expected to cope with this on my own. And I wasn't even getting paid. I counted to twenty, took a deep breath and went back into the lounge room.

This time Maisy wanted to be picked up – her crying had taken on a new, accusatory, abandoned tone – but in my arms she continued to wail. I carried her to the phone and dialled Colette's mobile, jostling Maisy up and down, trying to shush her. Maisy lurched forward, trying to hit the phone's buttons, forgetting to cry for a moment. A burst of music blasted in the kitchen. It took me a second to realise it was Colette's mobile ringing – she hadn't taken it with her. I swore and slammed the phone down hard, making Maisy jump, and the wailing started up again.

‘Oh, Maisy. I'm sorry. Here's the phone. You can push the buttons, see?' But Maisy continued her desperate crying.

I was ready to howl too when someone rapped hard on the door. I wondered if it was a neighbour, coming to complain about the noise, or someone who thought I must be abusing Maisy to make her scream like that. Maybe it was Mrs Spencer, stalker incorporated. Well, it would serve her – and Colette – right if I just dumped Maisy in her arms and walked out.

I opened the door without even glancing through the spyhole. I was ready to hand Maisy over to anyone, even a passing burglar.

It wasn't a burglar. It wasn't even Mrs Spencer. It was Spence.

15

‘Here,' I said. ‘Take her.' I thrust Maisy, still howling, into Spence's arms and stormed down the hallway to the bathroom, shut the door and locked it. I stood, breathing sharply, in the centre of the room. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I couldn't quite put us together, me and the girl I saw reflected back.
I
felt all quivery inside, but
she
looked hard and as cold as stone. In fact, I rather admired her; there was something immovable and unyielding about her. It gave her an edgy attractiveness I'd never seen in my own face before. I studied her with interest. Maybe I
could
be the kind of girl Spence might be interested in. I wondered which one of us would be going back out there.

At the thought of Spence the icy façade slid and the girl in the mirror looked less certain. Yeah, yeah. It was the same old disappointing me. I looked away. Outside, through the little high window, I saw a flock of birds pass over the grey sky. I wished I could climb out the window and join them, fly far above all of this, higher and higher until the whole of Hobart was just lines on a map, till nothing was real anymore.

That was when I heard the quiet. Maisy wasn't crying anymore. Suddenly a flutter of panic swept over me. Had Spence abducted her? Had she choked on her own sobs?

I opened the bathroom door, dread and guilt surging upwards from the pit of my stomach. I crept up the hallway and listened. All I could hear was a low humming sound. I stood at the entrance to the lounge room. Spence didn't notice, he had his back to me. He held Maisy and she examined his face with undisguised curiosity, a little frown furrowing her forehead. I realised the low hum I could hear was Spence. Spence was singing.

I closed my eyes and listened. He was singing words, but they weren't English; the song sounded Russian or something. I opened my eyes. He was gazing down at Maisy as he sang. Her frown was gone. They seemed captured together in a moment – a moment I was not a part of. Suddenly, irrationally, I felt jealous. I knew Maisy belonged to him in a way she would never belong to me, but it was me who had changed her nappies and fed her and bathed her, who had held her while she screamed. I was the one who had loved her. To Spence she was a mess, an accident, a mistake.

Like an uninvited guest at a party, I crashed their moment.

‘What are you doing here anyway?' I asked Spence.

The song died in his throat. I waited for Maisy to cry again, or to reach for me, but she didn't. She didn't even notice I was there. She lifted her hand and with her fingertips brushed the stubble on Spence's chin experimentally.

‘Are you all right?' Spence asked me.

‘I'm fine,' I snapped. So not fine.

‘Why was Maisy crying like that?'

You tell me and we'll both know. ‘Um, because she's a
baby
?'

‘Oh. Does she cry like that often?'

I stared at him. ‘Why? What do you care?'

‘Look, I can see you're upset. I should go.'

It struck me that Spence always did this. As soon as there was any hint of confrontation, his face would take on the tired, browbeaten expression I'd seen him wear with his mum and he'd back away.

‘What are you doing here anyway?' I asked again. ‘Sneaking around behind Colette's back? You're going to get me into trouble.'

‘I don't want to get you in trouble.'

Spence offered me Maisy, who was very quiet and small now, compared to how enormous and loud she'd been earlier. I gathered her into my arms and she curled into me.

I gasped. ‘Does Maisy feel hot to you?' I asked Spence. She felt alarmingly hot, her whole body radiated heat.

He touched her forehead tentatively. ‘I guess.'

Suddenly Maisy's mouth opened slightly and out spilled warm, clear vomit, splashing over my arms and to the floor. Maisy was sick! I felt even more guilty for losing my temper with her, but it was a relief to know that she hadn't turned against me, that there was a reason for all those tears.

The next hour passed in a blur. Maisy threw up again, three more times. I expected Spence to scuttle away at the first opportunity, but to his credit he stayed. He scrubbed Maisy's vomit out of the beige and brown flecked carpet, while I looked after Maisy in the bathroom, sitting on the floor with her, and trying to hold her over the toilet to vomit. When she seemed to have finished, I ran the second bath for her that day. This time she was happy to be in it. Despite all the vomiting, she was remarkably cheered up.

‘Shouldn't we ring Colette?' Spence asked when I came back in with Maisy, in fresh, clean pyjamas.

‘I tried. She didn't take her phone.'

‘Should we take Maisy to the after-hours service?'

‘It's just vomit,' I said doubtfully. ‘She seems okay. Feel, she's not so hot.'

Spence lay his hand on her forehead. ‘She does feel cooller. Better out than in, as they say in the classics.'

‘I guess you should go,' I said, not really wanting him to. ‘Colette'll be home soon.'

Spence was reluctant to leave too. ‘Maybe I should wait. In case Maisy gets sick again. You might need me to drive you both to emergency or something. Can I . . . ? May I . . . ?' He put his arms out tentatively, as if worried I might say no.

‘She might vomit on you,' I warned him.

This time I felt no jealousy when Maisy nuzzled against Spence's chest. I remembered how, when I was a little girl, Dad would sleep in my little kid-size bed with me when I was sick. I'd forgotten about it till then. His body had curled around mine, his warm breath tickling the wispy curls at the back of my neck.

Spence sat with Maisy on the couch and I sat next to them. He began to sing again. Maisy drifted in and out of sleep, not quite closing her eyes for good.

‘What is that song?' I asked.

‘It's called
By the Wayside Stands a Tree
. It's a Yiddish lullaby. I learned it when I was studying to be a music teacher. It's about a little boy who wants to become a bird and comfort a tree that's been abandoned by the other birds in winter. The mother cries and begs him not to because he'll freeze. He tells her not to cry, that soon he'll be a bird. And then she dresses him in so many clothes that he's overburdened and he can't fly, so the tree has to be alone after all, and the little boy feels betrayed by his mother's love.'

‘You speak Yiddish?'

‘Only in song. A friend translated it for me.'

‘It's sad.'

‘I always thought I was that boy,' said Spence, dreamily. ‘That I could have flown further without my mother's love.'

‘Mmm.'

‘And then Colette, and then Maisy . . . Sometimes I feel like there are all these women, clipping my wings. Even you,' he added.

‘Me?'

Spence leaned his head back on the couch and closed his eyes. ‘Sweeping in with your big-eyed, lofty ideals.
You're
the reason I'm here.'

My heart pounded. Suddenly I wished Maisy wasn't between us. Spence kept his eyes closed, but I could feel warmth passing between us. If I'd been brave I would have reached out and touched him.

‘Will you sing that song again?' I asked. I leaned against the couch and closed my eyes and let his voice travel through me, deep into my bones. I breathed it in, his lullaby, listening to words I didn't know, filled with longing and disappointment and little birds and love.

16

That was how we were when Colette and Ed walked in some time later: sitting together on the couch, chatting amiably, Maisy drowsing against Spence's chest, me stripped down to my black woollen singlet, while my long-sleeved top, which I'd hand-washed after Maisy had vomited on me, dried in the bathroom. I admit, it probably looked bad.

I didn't even hear the door. To me, Colette was simply standing there, as if she had materialised from nowhere, the air crackling around her. Ed hovered in the background, car keys in hand, waiting to drive me home.

‘What the hell are you doing here?' She turned to me. ‘What is he doing here?'

‘Maisy threw up. I asked Spence to stay—'

‘What do you mean to stay? Why is he even here?'

‘I . . . I don't know.' I said.
Because of me
, I whispered inside
.

Colette stalked over to Spence. ‘Give Maisy to me.'

‘She's almost asleep,' Spence said.

Colette took hold of Maisy firmly and wrenched her away from Spence. ‘She's
mine
. You didn't want her, remember? You don't get to . . . you don't get to do this.' She wheeled around to face me. Maisy started to whimper, clinging to her mum. ‘Why didn't you ring
me
?' Colette demanded, ignoring Maisy.

Her anger made me defensive. ‘I tried. But it's a bit hard when your phone is in the kitchen!'

‘Did you ring my mum and dad? Did you ring any of the numbers on that list?'

‘No! I was busy looking after Maisy. And Spence was here.'

Colette stormed out of the room, Maisy in her arms. Spence, Ed and I glanced at each other nervously.

‘We should go,' Spence said.

‘But what about Maisy?' I said.

Colette came back without her. Maisy's quiet, tired grizzle echoed down the hall.

‘Seriously, Colette, Maisy's been sick. I don't think she should be left on her own.'

Colette brushed my words away like a whining mosquito. ‘Get out,' she spat at Spence. ‘And take your trained puppy with you.'

‘Colette, please. Calm down,' Spence said. ‘Let's just calm everything down a notch. Let's think about what's best for Maisy.'

‘Don't you dare. Don't you dare suggest you know . . . What, one afternoon, and you're a hero? You're father of the year? Where were you all those other times Maisy was sick? Where were you all those sleepless nights and early mornings? Where were you, day in, day out?
Every
damn day. Where were you when I couldn't pay the rent and the bills?'

‘Colette,' I ventured. ‘Can I just go and check on her? She really was sick and . . .'

‘What?' Colette said. ‘What did you say? Did the little mouse squeak? I saw the way you were looking at him.'

Spence broke in. ‘Maisy's my daughter too.'

‘What?' She laughed, a dull, horrible sound. ‘She's yours now, is she? When Ruby-lee's here, Maisy's yours. What, you show up and play the dutiful, wronged father, is that it? But when I . . . when
I
needed you . . .' Colette picked up a glass vase from the low bookshelf and threw it at Spence – it missed and shattered against the wall.

Actually, I envied her, the righteousness of her rage. She was dazzling. And she was right about Spence. She was right about me too. I'd betrayed her, all along. By letting Spence in and his mother too. By keeping their secrets. Even the way I felt about Spence was a betrayal.

‘Come on, Ruby-lee,' Spence said. ‘Let's get you home.'

‘Yeah, go on Ruby-lee. Run away with your boyfriend. He's so dashing, isn't he? He's so bloody charming.' As I walked past, Colette shoved me hard. I stumbled and Spence caught me. ‘Don't you ever come near me or Maisy again,' she snapped at me. ‘You're finished here.' Her words stung me, even more than the bitter winter air when it hit my bare shoulders and arms.

We nearly fell on Ed, who leapt up from his seat on the icy steps. He must have crept out here at some point during the fight. I could still hear Colette in the apartment, shouting, throwing things. Ed, Spence and I stood on the step, all of us shocked into silence.

‘I'm supposed to give Ruby-lee a ride home,' Ed said finally in a low voice. I was sure he must hate me too.

‘I'll run her home,' Spence said. ‘It's the least I can do.'

‘I think the least you can do is go and clear up your mess with Colette,' Ed said. He seemed to have forgotten Spence was a teacher and he was a kid. Well, hadn't I forgotten that too? ‘You can't just leave her like that.'