Stand. Walk. And she does, moves down the hall to their bedroom, and when she’s by his side, Eleanor leans into her husband’s mouth, waits for warm breath on lips. Breasts are full; the warm drip of herself down her stomach, down between her legs. There is no way to stop the flow of yourself once the body accepts release.
Eleanor quiets to the bathroom, switches the light on, lifts her top, wipes herself clean: right breast and stomach and water between her legs gives her the urge to urinate and so she does, a slight sting from having held on overnight. All quiet in the house, all quiet in the blue hour. Move quicker, Eleanor.
She heads back down the hallway, opens the door to her daughter, the blue lava lamp in shadow play on walls. Eleanor goes to the cot, scoops up Amy, scoops up blankets, and the sight of her daughter’s mouth brings a drop of milk, the way all feeds do. Eleanor, leave now so you can get to safety before nightfall, and she whispers, ‘Everything will be better soon, Amy.’
There in the first yawn of daylight: dishes stacked by the sink, pumpkin soup splatter on the wall near the telephone, broken chips of the earthenware bowls from Kitty. Mother’s wedding gifts.
There: a baby rattle in the middle of the lounge room floor, an open cupboard door. Last night’s leftovers, never tidied. Things are the same until you’re not, she thinks. Eleanor feels her way along the walls, navigates past dining chairs, through the obstacle course of day-in-day-out. The smear of dried pumpkin soup on the wall, the phone cord, cold wallpaper, the humming fridge. Open it, Eleanor, and she does, lights up the room with artificial light. Be quiet. On the kitchen counter: her husband’s black box, brought home from Vietnam. She holds Amy closer, kisses and kisses…
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