baby showers

Lace-patterns of light and dark played over my face; I blinked, awake in the predawn quiet, nestled snugly in the white depths of my duvet. Beyond the window-pane a branch swayed in the wind, bumped against the rain-spattered glass; the leaves clinging there glistened in the harsh orange-yellow glare of the streetlight. Dan mumbled something into his pillow behind me, sighed in sleep. I hardly heard.

It was looking at me, the baby in the flowerpot, frozen within the walls of its wooden picture-frame on my bedside table. Anne Geddes was a master of her craft; the wide blue eyes peered into my own as if alive. I couldn’t tear my gaze away. Unconsciously my right hand strayed to my swollen belly; something fluttered there and I shuddered, suddenly cold. I closed my eyes.

Wrong, all wrong.

I had a good life. I had a husband who loved me, a comely house in a decent neighborhood, a lime-green iMac in my home study where I could create freelance graphics in my bathrobe and run to the kitchen for tea.

I buried my face in my pillow and sobbed.

Eventually the tears subsided; a minute, an hour, who knew. I turned my head towards my sleeping husband. His chest rose and fell, peaceful.
I lifted the feather quilt, hesitated, slid out from underneath it. My bare feet rested on the cold hardwood. I stood quietly and padded towards the door.
It hung half-open; I slipped out into the hall. Cold moonlight streamed in through the bay window, bathing the landing in white. I made my way to the top of the stairs and stopped, clutching at the banister. My gaze fell. The spiral staircase wound away out of sight.

How easy it would be.

I had always done what was safe, what was expected. I’d gone to university, earned good grades, met a boy, settled down. He was a good man; I’d thought I loved him. Maybe I did.

I was twenty-six years old and trapped, trapped in my own young life. I hadn’t seen the world, hadn’t seized the moment. Now it was gone, or would be soon.

My shadow on the wall was bulbous, distorted. My telltale belly swelled out beneath my ample breasts; my legs were like sticks, my shoulders strangely narrow. I looked back towards the stairs.

How easy it would be. My knuckles whitened.

“Trish?”

My head whipped around. Daniel was leaning against the bedroom doorframe, squinting groggily out at me in concern. “You okay?”

My grip on the banister loosened. “Yeah,” I said with a weak smile, turning back towards him and stepping away from the edge. “Just thirsty.”