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Authors: Emma Donoghue
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much when trying to book an electrician to fix the furnace thermostat that she had to put the phone down.
Whenever Una slept – for of course she did get to sleep, at certain periods in each twenty-four-hour cycle when Silas took Moya downstairs between feeds (it was just that these tainted, uneasy mouthfuls of unconsciousness bore no relation to the blissful, unthinking seven-hour nights she’d known BM) – whenever she slept, she didn’t have time to dream, and only the cheap digital watch she kept on her wrist at all times convinced her that she’d added, say, another forty-three minutes of sleep to her total. She wept in the night when she slumped over to nurse Moya again and looked down the street where not a single other light was on. She wept hardest in the early morning when she was meant to be catching up on her sleep, when the baby was downstairs with Silas but Una could still hear her shrieks through three wooden doors, could hear them so faintly but persistently that she thought she might be having an aural hallucination.
Delusions of all kinds afflicted her. Again and again in the night she’d hear Moya’s whimperings from the cot attached to the bed, and lean over, pick up the baby, put her to her breast … but why were the cries continuing, getting more frantic? She’d wake properly then and realize that Moya was still lashing about in the cot, so who was this other baby at her breast? Only the balled-up duvet, which fell apart in her sweaty, shuddering hands. And there was Silas, smooth-faced in sleep at her side, like some absolute stranger.
But even to use the terms
night
and
day
was misleading. Day and night were human inventions, Una realized, and Moya – a startled visitor from another planet – had never heard of them. There no longer was any night for Una, in the old sense, the switch-off, shed-your-troubles, knit-up-the-ravelled-sleeve-of-care sense. Hers was a work shift that never really ended even when she was meant to be relaxing, one long day that spun on sickeningly through dark and light, sound and silence. She didn’t hate other people, not even Silas; she lacked the energy, or perhaps it was that she felt entirely cut off from them, marked out by her fated, perpetual punishment.
Una had always got on well with her mother, despite their differences. So when Rose flew in from Cork for a weeklong stay, Una put the baby down on the rug, for once, and fell into her arms.
‘Barry’s Tea,’ said her mother, unpacking her bag, ‘and Bewley’s Dark Roast, and a couple of boxes of Black Magic, aren’t they your favourite?’
‘That’s lovely, Mum,’ said Una regretfully, ‘but I’m off caffeine, in case it keeps Moya awake.’
‘How many times does she have you up at night now?’
Una gave a little shrug. ‘Five or six.’
‘How long each time?’
‘Forty minutes, an hour.’
‘Ah, you poor child! No wonder you look so awful.’
Which, of course, made Una cry.
That first night, Rose took her pill and popped in her earplugs, as always when she was in a strange place. Before she swallowed it, she did register a pang of guilt, but it would hardly do any good for her to be lying awake listening all night, would it?
Rose’s idea of being a good grandmother was taking the baby for long walks, but the hard-packed, jagged snow of an Ontario January made it impossible to get the buggy round the block. ‘Besides, it’s too cold to take her out,’ said Una, putting the wailing baby back against her chest, tightening the sling and swaying from side to side.
Her daughter wore a glazed look, Rose thought, like someone with Alzheimer’s. ‘It’ll be lovely when the weather warms up,’ she said blandly, before remembering that spring here didn’t come till May.
Silas dropped them off at a café downtown on his way to work. Two sips into her decaf latte Una unbuttoned her shirt to feed Moya. This startled Rose, but she didn’t let it show; times change, and sure, why
Whenever Una slept – for of course she did get to sleep, at certain periods in each twenty-four-hour cycle when Silas took Moya downstairs between feeds (it was just that these tainted, uneasy mouthfuls of unconsciousness bore no relation to the blissful, unthinking seven-hour nights she’d known BM) – whenever she slept, she didn’t have time to dream, and only the cheap digital watch she kept on her wrist at all times convinced her that she’d added, say, another forty-three minutes of sleep to her total. She wept in the night when she slumped over to nurse Moya again and looked down the street where not a single other light was on. She wept hardest in the early morning when she was meant to be catching up on her sleep, when the baby was downstairs with Silas but Una could still hear her shrieks through three wooden doors, could hear them so faintly but persistently that she thought she might be having an aural hallucination.
Delusions of all kinds afflicted her. Again and again in the night she’d hear Moya’s whimperings from the cot attached to the bed, and lean over, pick up the baby, put her to her breast … but why were the cries continuing, getting more frantic? She’d wake properly then and realize that Moya was still lashing about in the cot, so who was this other baby at her breast? Only the balled-up duvet, which fell apart in her sweaty, shuddering hands. And there was Silas, smooth-faced in sleep at her side, like some absolute stranger.
But even to use the terms
night
and
day
was misleading. Day and night were human inventions, Una realized, and Moya – a startled visitor from another planet – had never heard of them. There no longer was any night for Una, in the old sense, the switch-off, shed-your-troubles, knit-up-the-ravelled-sleeve-of-care sense. Hers was a work shift that never really ended even when she was meant to be relaxing, one long day that spun on sickeningly through dark and light, sound and silence. She didn’t hate other people, not even Silas; she lacked the energy, or perhaps it was that she felt entirely cut off from them, marked out by her fated, perpetual punishment.
Una had always got on well with her mother, despite their differences. So when Rose flew in from Cork for a weeklong stay, Una put the baby down on the rug, for once, and fell into her arms.
‘Barry’s Tea,’ said her mother, unpacking her bag, ‘and Bewley’s Dark Roast, and a couple of boxes of Black Magic, aren’t they your favourite?’
‘That’s lovely, Mum,’ said Una regretfully, ‘but I’m off caffeine, in case it keeps Moya awake.’
‘How many times does she have you up at night now?’
Una gave a little shrug. ‘Five or six.’
‘How long each time?’
‘Forty minutes, an hour.’
‘Ah, you poor child! No wonder you look so awful.’
Which, of course, made Una cry.
That first night, Rose took her pill and popped in her earplugs, as always when she was in a strange place. Before she swallowed it, she did register a pang of guilt, but it would hardly do any good for her to be lying awake listening all night, would it?
Rose’s idea of being a good grandmother was taking the baby for long walks, but the hard-packed, jagged snow of an Ontario January made it impossible to get the buggy round the block. ‘Besides, it’s too cold to take her out,’ said Una, putting the wailing baby back against her chest, tightening the sling and swaying from side to side.
Her daughter wore a glazed look, Rose thought, like someone with Alzheimer’s. ‘It’ll be lovely when the weather warms up,’ she said blandly, before remembering that spring here didn’t come till May.
Silas dropped them off at a café downtown on his way to work. Two sips into her decaf latte Una unbuttoned her shirt to feed Moya. This startled Rose, but she didn’t let it show; times change, and sure, why
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