by Nandhitha Hariharan
I hold him close to my chest and pray that he does not hear how fast my heart is beating. ‘We will be okay,’ I whisper into his ears.
It is an inherently maternal quality to hide your own fears and insecurities and be strong for your child. I wonder if women develop this reflex when they realise they are pregnant or when they deliver a child. Is it when they smile at this tiny new life they created despite knowing that their body has just survived damage that possibly cannot be reconciled?
If labour pain is when maternal qualities are sown and breastfeeding is when they are nurtured to grow, I am doomed. I am not a mother – not biologically anyway.
There are very few days I console him. On most days, we run into each other in different corners of the house and catch each other crying.
His breakfast plates always remain untouched. He has a far distant look in his eyes that almost makes it impossible to decipher what he is thinking. I even let him eat all the chocolates he wants.
He is a strange child because he enjoys only lemon candies.
He closes his eyes and with a swirl of his tongue devours these lemon candies as though they transport him to a world I know nothing of. I wouldn’t be surprised if he believed that these candies contained a golden ticket to Wonka’s factory because his excitement while eating them is infectious.
He rarely says more than he needs to and the only time he spoke to me this entire week was when I was making his sandwiches and he said ‘Not that way.’
I wasn’t sure if I should be offended because a child was giving me instructions, or just politely use this opportunity to make more conversation. ‘Maybe we should buy a sandwich maker!’ I said, trying my best to feign some enthusiasm.
He paused but nothing about his distant look changed. He finally gathered his voice and said ‘Just cut them in triangles please.’
Bedtime stories were always my favourite part of childhood. I want to read to him because it makes me feel safe more than anything else. I wonder if most people who have children really do so only to have another shot at their childhood.
‘This is a story about a family of cows!’ I say as I pull him into my lap and snuggle him as close as possible.
‘Have you brushed yet?’ he asks.
‘No… I will after I read to you!’
It is a story about a family of cows that live on the moon and the father of the family travels to earth so that he can sell the milk. You might wonder how much more absurd this story can get. Why do we tell children stories of things that absolutely don’t exist?
Because we cannot possibly tell them stories of things that do exist. Like people falling out of love, death, destruction… So we tell them one lie after another, desperate to cover up the mess we have created.
He does not say anything until the last few lines. He nods at a few places but he finally breaks the silence.
‘So…do you think people actually live on the moon? I did not take grandma too seriously!’ he says.
I hold him close to my chest and pray that he will not hear my heart thump.
‘Why is your heart beating so fast?’ he asks as his tiny fingers run near my chest.
‘Not that side, silly!’ I say and guide his hands to where my heart is, hoping that sixth-grade biology won’t fail me.
A few months pass but nothing about our situation really changes except that he talks a lot more to me now. He still has a distant look in his eyes and eats too many of those disgusting lemon candies.
And then one day he asks me if I will take him out to a birthday party. That reminds me that this child will also grow a year older. There will be cakes to bake, invitations to send out and parties to host. I grow a little lost in thought but the reminder that his friend is turning a year older tells me that this world is moving on. With or without us.
The party is a welcome change for me as well. I stand in a corner with the other moms and watch the children run around in glee.
‘Wow! You don’t look like a mother,’ a lady remarks.
I am a little taken aback and it takes me a while to understand that she is talking about my body. ‘Thanks.’ I murmur and try not to replay her words in my head.
How do you look like a mother? How do you act like a mother? I wasn’t given ten months to prep, for god’s sake.
When we drive back home, he looks at me and asks me if I enjoyed the party. I nod and smile because I really cannot remember what I used to do before all of this happened. Is the first step to being a good parent repressing your inner child and smiling when you want to cry?
That night, when I tuck him into bed, I read him a story about an elephant that escapes into the city. The poor elephant falls in love with a toy elephant who refuses to leave the city and move into the wild.
Somehow the tragic romantic escapades of elephants make him laugh like he has not done in ages. It just makes me sick because I realise that even in real life some elephants don’t want to move in with you when they realise that you have responsibilities.
‘Can I have some candy?’ he asks.
I bite my lips and the words ‘You don’t look like a mother!’ run in my head. It is not good to let this kid do whatever he wants. I am responsible for him now. But things are just getting better and I do not want to ruin it.
‘No. It’s not good for you,’ I manage to whisper.
‘I always have candy before I go to sleep,’ he pouts
My heart starts beating faster because I was never aware of this habit and also because I don’t know what an appropriate response would be.
And then that look crops up in his eyes. That distant look which seems to say he is pulling away from me. I sigh and walk to the fridge.
We have run out of those lemon candies. It suddenly hits me how many candies a day this boy must have been eating to finish three entire boxes.
Thank god there are still other chocolates, untouched. I carefully pick up a delicious caramel candy – the ones that are so smooth and round that even the heat off your fingertips would melt them.
‘Just one,’ I say. I am getting a hang of this mom thing.
‘I want the lemon ones,’ he whispers.
‘We don’t have any.’
And just like that, his eyes tear up and he turns to the other side of the bed and shuts his eyes.
We battle a few more days of untouched breakfast and distant looks.
One day, he walks up to me and says ‘Can you read that story about the family that lives on the moon?’
I drop my nail paint on the dining table without even bothering to close it.
‘Yes I will,’ I smile.
‘But… you were doing something,’ he says.
The most painful thing about this world is the way that it makes children grow up too soon – much before their time.
‘It doesn’t matter. We can do what you want!’ I add and pull him closer.
I read the story all over again.
He asks me the same question again.
‘Do you think people live on the moon?’ his eyes slightly gleaming with hope.
‘Yes. Your mother is there. She is watching us from there,’ I say and pull him closer.
‘What if they run out of lemon candies there?’ he asks me.
From the worst days that he saw of his mother – the treatments, the nausea, the disappearing hair and that frail body – the only good memory that he has is the scent of lemon candies.
‘Why don’t you eat something?’ I would ask my sister and she would just roll her eyes and pop one more of these god-awful candies.
‘They would never run out of lemon candies there. I promise!’ I say.
My nephew giggles a little and tells me ‘Your heart is not thumping fast!’
‘This side silly” I guide his hands again.
‘It is not,’ he laughs.
I pull him closer and tell him again, ‘They won’t run out of lemon candies there and it is time for you to sleep.’
‘Can I have some c…?’
‘No! It’s bedtime,’ I say.
Picture from http://www.kurandacandykitchen.com.au
