pink teddy (ip)

http://www.flickr.com/photos/bulhaa/3851575180/

Shit. I didn’t close the door. I meant to, but it’s hard to think clearly when I am carrying her and she’s struggling – she’s quite heavy now. I have to close it when I take her down, because otherwise it kills me each time I walk past and see inside. At first I just tried not to look, but my eyes wouldn’t do it – they just wouldn’t. So familiar – so used to checking – they automatically turned that way.

Maybe it will be better later. It’s only been a few months. Maybe later, my eyes won’t let me down. I hate this. It’s the worst time. Just after she’s left. No – not the worst time – at least I can let the tears out once she’s gone. I can sit downstairs and let them all out.

It’s become a kind of ritual. The goodbyes, the bright mummy smile, “it’s ok. I’m fine. You’re fine. I love you. Have a lovely week. See you on Friday. Don’t cry sweetie. Don’t cry. Look at the lovely painting you did to take home to show Daddy”. The lying cheating bastard. I hope he rots in hell.

“Show me your best smile. Come on – oh there it is! Well done – that’s beautiful! And the gap shows! Have you got the tooth to show Daddy? Safely wrapped up still? Good girl! And how lucky you are! You can put it under two different pillows! No, the tooth fairy won’t mind. She does it specially for girls who live in two places. Isn’t that lovely? It makes you a very special girl!’ Half her fucking class I reckon. I hope the bastard remembers. I wrote it in the email three times. “Yes, yes of course pink teddy will be fine while you’re gone. He’ll look after your room for you and he’ll see you next week. I’ll make sure. Bye! Big kiss, Bye!”

That’s the worst part. Where I have to force myself to stand here, as the car pulls away, smiling, waving encouragingly – even when she hasn’t stopped crying, although it’s getting better – sometimes she doesn’t anymore. It’s not every time like it was at first. Those pleading eyes, they make me feel like I am betraying her. The way she twists and stretches back, the crumpled mouth still wailing, her whole face red and swollen with misery, wet with tears. Almost unrecognisable. Sometimes now, the blank expression replaces the screams, but she still twists and stares until I disappear from view.

And then I close the door. Turn back into the empty stillness of the house. Trying to erase those final moments from my head. I want to break stuff, scream like a five year-old, but I am too exhausted. I feel empty, like the house. I know I ought to do something – get busy – anything – hoovering, loading the dishwasher, ironing – or a run perhaps. Something physical. But I can’t. I haven’t the energy. Instead I go into the sitting room, the clean beige rented sitting room that doesn’t feel like home, and I sit on the sofa that isn’t mine, and I let the tears come; all the tears stored up inside. I never knew, before all this, how many tears there could be inside me.

I sit there until the stream finally dries up, and then I open the wine. That’s become part of the Sunday night ritual too. It does help. I know what works best now – the first glass, I drink quickly, like medicine, which I suppose it is in a way – medicine to take away the pain. Three glasses every Sunday, to be taken instead of food.

Once I am feeling sufficiently numb, I go through each room with the basket, removing all evidence of her. It’s the only way I can get through the week, pretending she doesn’t exist. I take the pictures off the fridge, the stray sock by the washing machine, the crayons from the kitchen table. All go into the basket until Friday when I get home from the office.

I work my way slowly through the house – it’s not very big. Into my bedroom – the storybook, the brightly coloured beaker; then the bathroom – the little hooded towel, the toothbrush – it all goes into the basket, and that’s normally where it ends. I keep it all in the airing cupboard.

I’m not strong enough to put it in her room yet. That’s why I try to close the door when I take her down. It’s where she runs when she hears the car pull up. She thinks she can hide there and somehow it will all go away. And that’s why I can’t bear to look in when she has left, because I still see her little body, huddled in a corner, shaking with misery.