The Locked Cupboard by Keely O’Shaughnessy

At thirty-five weeks, when the life inside me is roughly the size of a honeydew melon, my mother arrives with a Chicken-Arugula salad.

In the living room, a damp washcloth spread across my swollen belly, I place an ice cube under my tongue. The numb ache is refreshing. My screen door is open, and from my place on the couch, I can see children having a water fight in the parking lot.

They hoard balloons of different sizes in large Tupperware dishes. A balloon ruptures on someone’s windshield and my baby kicks. The counter barrage is launched releasing a slick of water onto the parched concrete.

While the fight rumbles on in the summer warmth, Mum tells me, ‘It’s packed with prenatal nutrients.’ A phrase she’s lifted from a new-age motherhood blog. Trying her best to ignore the neighbourhood kids’ noisy joy, she puts the salad away in the refrigerator.

She’s always taken it upon herself to regulate my food. When I was younger, we were only allowed all-bran cereal, the kind that keeps you regular, and the kitchen cupboards were locked.

‘Rachel swore by avocados,’ I say. ‘I heard they’re full of folate and vitamin B6, which promotes healthy tissue and brain growth for the baby.’

My sister, Rachel, city slicker turned yogi, has always had what my mother terms lean and shapely carves. When pregnant, she commissioned a set of photos in monochrome: her draped in soft tulle, and her husband’s head pressed against the bump.

Mum smiles. ‘It’s probably time you started listening to your sister. She’s always been the smart one. Her Larry’s such a good provider. He’s reliable. That’s what you need in this life.’

I don’t say that Larry’s boring. That he’s the kind of man who believes you can only wear brown shoes with a grey suit and housework is divided simply into pink and blue jobs.

‘He’s a good father too…And when do we get to know anything about this baby’s father?’ she says, gesturing towards my stomach.

Outside, a child steps through the yellow, crisp grass. I wring out the washcloth and let droplets of water pool around my distended navel.

I selected the father for what the clinic cited as strong moral fibre. In the picture attached to his file, he was smiling widely in that uninhibited way kids often do. He’s Canadian and I’m sure he wears plaid shirts on lazy Sundays. And the audio recording of his voice was smoother and more comforting than any physical guy I’d been with.

My mother knows about my decision to conceive this way but refuses to let it be, and the lack of patriarchal role model is a topic we’ve been circling since my first trimester.  

‘I’m everything my baby needs,’ I tell her.

‘I just think…have you really thought this through…children need—’

‘I am everything my baby needs.’

Mum opens her mouth to speak but closes it again.

‘Everything,’ I repeat. Slightly surprised by my unspooling intensity, I decide not to remind her that Dad left before Rachel and I were even ten.

In the fifteen or so seconds of silence that come next, Mum’s jaw tightens and her shoulders sag, and I wonder if she’s back there anyway in those nights after Dad, when her sobbing was muted only by the double thickness plywood of her bedroom door. This was the only time I’ve thought of her as something fragile.   

‘It’s beyond hot in here,’ she announces, finally. ‘Staying hydrated? And I bet you haven’t been practising your antenatal breathing either.’

She hands me another ice cube. I chew it this time, savouring the sting in my teeth.

‘And those children out there. What a ruckus. I can’t stand it.’

I picture the smallest boy in the group, sandy haired and sunburnt. He’s gap-toothed, like me at his age. If he were mine, I’d call him Kiddo, and ruffle his mop-top hair with my palm like they do in films. I’d tell him, throw another balloon. Pitch it skyward. Watch it soar. I’d say: I’m here for you. Aim high.

‘That could be your grandchild,’ I say.

‘Those terrors? This is what happens these days when women choose a man based on some well written paperwork.’

I don’t reply, but instead, I breathe deeply releasing a practiced hee-hee noise, as I exhale.

Sometimes, I do wonder if my baby will have this stranger’s face, his father’s face, or my own. His nose or eyes, and my mouth. Sometimes, I think about travelling to Canada, when my boy is grown, and meeting this man. Hugging him and saying thank you. But for now, I’m just happy that this child is surviving and growing strong because of me.

Before she leaves, Mum asks if I want anything, and I tell her no. Reaching out, I touch her shoulder, goodbye. She steps back slightly and then relaxes letting my hand rest there for a moment. I know that somewhere, some part of this woman understands that I will give my child everything I have.

She tells me not to waste her salad.