The Plastic Seed Read online

  I lean over and set the alarm clock on my phone for 6am. At that time, I will wake up and rewash the floors and wipe the walls before I leave. I put my phone back on the stand, ignoring the five voice messages from my boss. Damn it, I loathe my job.

  The scratching continues. I lift myself out of bed and walk over to the window. I hold the curtain aside to slide the window shut. As I am about to push it, I hear the loud sound of a TV coming from below, from next door.

  In an instant, along with the closing of a door, the sounds from the TV stop. I see the girl; I watch as she walks through the darkness, illuminated by a faint glow that originates from the rear of her house. I can’t see her feet, but I think she is brave to walk through that uncut grass that could be housing an array of poisonous creatures. She pauses as a male voice calls out. Immediately, the girl looks over her shoulder and lifts her face up towards the top storey of her house. Then her gaze stops at my window. That girl, she is me, was me. I can see what she is up to, sneaking out to meet the boy waiting behind the fence. The woman inside the house next to mine is, was, my controlling mother, so controlling that I didn’t want to leave my room every day before 12pm. The sound of her complaining voice was the most irritating of sounds.

  It has always been difficult for me to care about other people, but sometimes a face, a sound seeps like a sliver of light through a crack in my dark exterior. I know what the right thing to do is. I deserve a chance, to make life better for myself and my daughter. She will have a better childhood than I experienced. If this baby I am carrying is a girl I will won’t give her away. Yes, I will be the best mother to my daughter. I slam the window shut and crawl back into my bed.

  I pull the silk sheets up under my chin. Even though these sheets were so expensive, they were well worth the price. Whenever I lie under them, it reminds me of the hotel I stayed in Bali, at the annual real estate conference. It was three months ago. I had had too much to drink and climbed into a bed under luxurious covers with a successful real estate agent from New York.

  I turn over on my side. Once more I can hear a shuffling sound coming from downstairs, outside. It’s still the dog clawing at the back door. I hope he makes no more scratch marks on the wood. Maybe I should let him inside for the night. If he continues scratching that meddling woman will bother me again, tell me again that I am uncaring. No, I won’t let him in, he will dirty the floors. I put my head under the pillow, to shut out the familiar sounds that have started to pound my brain. These are louder, even, than the dog scratching; they are my thoughts, that morph from words into monstrous-sounding noise. I promise I will do better tomorrow. I have made a good choice. I will be kinder tomorrow. The familiar phrases repeat over and over again, and the sounds don’t stop until I promise myself that tomorrow I will be better.

  Jean

  I find the back door slid wide open when I come into the kitchen in the morning. Amy sits at the table, her knees tucked under her chin, she scoops cereal from her bowl with a spoon as she holds her phone in her left hand. I stride to the door and slam it shut, Amy jumps, spilling milk from her spoon. Why is she so jumpy? The news on the TV blares in the background; we stare at each other.

  “I keep forgetting to close the door, sorry,” she mutters and wipes the spilt milk with the back of her hand. “Do you think she will move out soon?” she adds, nodding her head slightly towards the door.

  I shrug, and I walk to stand behind her and place a kiss on her head.

  “Another long shift for me, I’m working until 11pm tonight, so you are on your own until then. Our usual rules apply, do your homework and no boys in the house,” I say, squeezing her shoulder.

  Amy laughs. For all the mess that is my life, I am glad that I have a well behaved and responsible daughter. Fifteen and no teenage angst or rebellion in sight. I look down at Amy’s head. How will she cope if she has to change schools during her final years? I push the thought aside because it’s not happening yet, I don’t have to tell her, yet, I am going to find somewhere to live and she can still go to the same school, we won’t have to leave town. I can fix this, I take a deep breath, one step at a time. Wisely, I will start the day with eating a healthy breakfast, then get through my workday without mistakes, so when the time comes for the medical board to review me, they will see that I am capable, reliable. I may even be able to negotiate a pay rise.

  “Mum, look where Ashley is on holiday, Mammoth Mountain in California,” Amy says, interrupting my sad thoughts, showing me a photo of a girl with red hair holding a snowboard.

  “Ashley Harris, didn’t her mum just have another baby? I am sure I saw Mrs Harris’s name on the records at work,” I ask.

  “Yep, you’re right, her mum had a baby girl. Ashley went on holiday with her dad and his new girlfriend,” Amy explains.

  I am still looking at the photos on the phone when my eyes trail off to the time in the right corner of the device. It’s 9:30am.

  What?

  “Amy, why are you still here? Shouldn’t you already be at school?” I ask, thinking that this isn’t possible, because it’s past nine o’clock and I am still standing here in yesterday’s shirt, and I have to be at work in half an hour.

  “My lessons start at 10:30 am today, there is a free period this morning, Mum, to study for the algebra exam tomorrow,” she replies casually.

  “Well, I think you should be studying for it, then, instead of looking at your friend’s holiday photos.”

  Amy turns her head in my direction, and I watch her face crumble. Immediately I am sorry for what I have said. But there’s not a second to waste. If I am not at the hospital on time, my inexcusable tardiness will go on my records, and it will be used against me at my upcoming hearing.

  I race up the stairs and put yesterday’s work pants back on. I sniff under my arm to see if I can manage to wear the same shirt I worked in and slept in. No, it is out of the question; it smells like yesterday’s fruitless efforts, mixed with alcohol.

  “Amy,” I call out from the top of the staircase. “Can you please go outside and bring me my work shirt off the line? Hurry.” I hear Amy walking around downstairs and then she wanders up the stairs and passes me the shirt.

  “Thank you,” I say, and tilting my head I give her an apologetic smile, I mouth ‘sorry’.

  “It’s all right, Mum,” she replies quietly.

  “No, it’s not,” I mutter shaking my head, as I put on my shirt and concentrate on doing up the buttons.

  “Did you close the back door?” I ask. She nods.

  “Shoo then, go study for your test, I’ll see you tonight,” I say, picking up my jacket off the floor, as I simultaneously scan it for the beer I know that I didn’t drink last night. It must have rolled under the bed, it’s too dark under there for me to see it. Running past Amy down the stairs, I slip on my shoes and take the car keys out of the drawer. I hid them in there from myself. I told myself I wouldn’t use the car, to save my hard-earned dollars not having to buy petrol, but there’s no way I will make it work on time if I catch the bus this morning.

  I race out of the door, slamming it behind me, pressing down the handle to be sure that it’s locked. I rush down the steps towards my car, when I sense movement to the right of me. Keeping my eyes focused on my car ahead of me, I resist the temptation to turn my head in the direction of the sound of a door closing.

  It is not until I am in my car that I allow myself to observe her through my side mirror. She is stepping off the bottom step, one more step and she will be on the pavement. I wish that her long legs would twist under her and she would collapse in a pitiful heap. Today she is not dressed in her usual black uniform; today she has swapped her black blazer and pants for a bottle-green dress that wraps around her slender body, her large breasts flow out of the top of the dress. Like other important tasks she probably forgot to do today, it looks like she also neglected to brush her hair, her short sandy-coloured bob is tousled, terrible. Then I notice it, the material stretches firmly ove
r her abdomen, displaying a round bump. My curious eyes affix themselves to her stomach, and it’s too late to look away as her eyes meet mine in my external mirror. Unsuccessfully, I try to put the key into the ignition and miss, irritated by her effect on me; I steady my hand, try again to start the car. It’s not possible that she could be pregnant, I didn’t notice her condition during our last interaction. Maybe I didn’t detect it because I was too concerned about shielding my face as she towered over me and flapped her arms around, attempting to explain what a caring person she tries to be. At once I feel sorry for the unborn child.

  I steer the vehicle onto the main road. I sit behind a car at the traffic lights. Its exhaust omits a dense cloud of grey smoke, which I know is unfortunate for the environment but fortunate for me. Why not use the fumes as an excuse to take a different route to work? The fumes have caused me to run late, and now they force me to take the long way to the hospital by having to drive through the side roads.

  Once I have navigated the narrow roads and find myself on a main street again, I press the accelerator with too much force but I don’t realise how fast I am driving until I see a police car parked ahead on the side of the road. No, I cannot pay a speeding ticket. I slow down both the car and my racing mind. Why should it affect me that my next door neighbour is pregnant? It doesn’t, but it interests me keenly, though; it might mean she won’t be working as a real estate agent for much longer, I think with a small sense of hope as I pull into the petrol station car park.

  ***

  I shuffle down in my seat and look across the car park of the petrol station and over at the bottle shop beside it. I am pleased that the door in the corner of the bottle shop wall is slightly ajar. I note it hasn’t been spared from the graffiti that covers most of the wall. There are no windows for me to look through, to observe if there are any customers in the store. I almost chuckle out loud to myself, because I don’t think there will be any expectant mothers here buying alcohol in the morning. There is a very slim chance a patient that will catch her midwife purchasing liquor. But on the other hand, this is West Glassport. Mothers in this suburb pour alcohol into their babies’ bottles.

  I switch off the car, take my wallet out of my bag and walk casually past a lady who, I notice, is not wearing any shoes while she fills up her vehicle; I feel superior already and saunter in the direction of the bottle shop door. A bald cashier lifts his head briefly from the newspaper he is browsing through. I step across to the aisles at the end of the store and take a pack of eight beer cans from the fridge, the same brand I drank yesterday. They were excellent. Also, the design on the box could be easily mistaken for the packaging of lemonade.

  I swipe my credit card with the cashier. I watch in frustration as he takes out a stack of plastic bags from under the counter, sloppily licks his thumb and opens the bag, putting in the beer cans. My legs are shifting with impatience. I must already be late by now. No one will see me if I sneak into the hospital, my supervisor will not notice, just like she didn’t realise when I sneaked in yesterday. Apart from being late several times recently, I have been trying to be so reliable for the last couple of weeks. They will not be checking on me, not as they did straight after the incident.

  I grab my beer and run back to the car. I put the beer on the seat beside me and give it one last thirsty look, imagining how it will taste. What was the purpose of driving here and being late if I don’t drink it? Of course, there are reasons, it allows me to have five minutes to myself, and that will make me more productive when I am delivering babies and secondly, it’s warm. It’s winter but the weather this morning could be mistaken for a summer morning, I need to stay hydrated. But no, I am not going to drink the beer parked at this service station. I am responsible. I don’t drive after drinking, though I could possibly catch the bus from the bus stop, just over there opposite the liquor store, the bus stop I had made a pit-stop at on the way home from work yesterday. No, I will wait until I arrive in the hospital car park, I justify, proud of myself for being sensible.

  ***

  Perhaps if I am fortunate the staff room will be empty when I sneak in there, I assure myself as I impatiently push the up button in the elevator. All I have to manage to do is to go into the room and attach my name badge to my work shirt. Next, I will sign the timesheet book, solving all my problems by writing the time that I should have started work. I look at my reflection in the elevator mirror and push the clump of hair that escaped my bun during the night behind my ears. No one should notice that I have been drinking this morning; I stopped myself at one can. If I’d had more time, I would have had another.

  The elevator doors slide open, and I step directly into a welcoming sunlit pre-natal waiting room. All of a sudden I feel dozens of eyes on me like they all know why I am late. Though it doesn’t take long for the mothers-to-be with their varying sized bellies to lose interest, and go back to reading the hospital’s mothering magazines, hoping someone will advise them how to be a good mother.

  Once they have all looked away, I notice one set of eyes still on me. She is sitting in front of a floor-to-ceiling window; unlike the others, she is not reading a magazine. She is perched in the plastic seat with one hand on her belly as if she is a protector, a nurturer, but she’s not fooling anyone. Her intense gaze stays firmly planted on me. I dash past her without meeting her focus, willing myself not to trip, because suddenly my legs feel unstable.

  I turn the corner, thankful for the relative security of the staffroom. I breathe a sigh of relief when I find no one in the room and promptly open up my locker to put away my bag and scan the shelf for my badge, pinning it onto my shirt. I shoot back into the hallway intent on altering the time I started work. Once I have established that yes, I began work at 10am, I take hold of the patient files from my pigeonhole and read through the names of the mothers-to-be that I will attend to today.

  The first part of my insufferable work day today is administration. No births to attend to until after 6pm. I will do the paperwork, then I have a prenatal check-up on a patient at 12pm. What a long day ahead of me. Then they wonder why I make the mistakes I do. I flick through the patients’ names written on the folders. Initially, I was just a little curious, but now I am pleased that I do not see the name ‘Carlana Land’ on any of my patient paperwork, as that would make for an unpleasant appointment. Admittedly, I would love to have a secret peek at her records; I wonder which one of my colleagues is managing her unfortunate pregnancy. I look into the pigeonholes and decide to take the files out of Nurse Mark’s compartment. I flip through his patient’s folders, but I can’t see the name ‘Carlana Land’.

  Frustrated, I am about to slide the file back in Mark’s slot, when a stern voice behind me speaks. “Jean, there you are, I couldn’t find you this morning.” I jump and let go of all the files I am holding; both mine and Mark’s patients for today fall to the floor, the papers mixing at the feet of Nurse Liz.

  “Oh, they slipped,” I declare.

  “Typical,” I hear Nurse Liz grumble as I crouch down to gather all the sheets into one pile. My spirits sink at the thought of how much time it will take to sort these papers out into the correct folders. What if Mark comes looking for his files right now? Nurse Liz taps her foot and watches me.

  “What I wanted to tell you earlier… can you please just stand up when I talk to you?”

  I stand up, stepping on the paper beneath my feet, and watch Nurse Liz’s thin lips move.

  “What I was saying is that I have scheduled a home visit for you to attend next week. I am trying to help you with your upcoming tribunal next month, and perhaps you can refocus on doing some work out of the hospital. It might also be beneficial for you and others to work with babies that have been born and are already at home. Impossible to mix them up with another baby then,” She mutters the last part of the sentence under her breath.

  “Yes, I agree,” I answer obediently, eager for her to go away and leave me so that I can pick up and straighten up this
mess of sheets. Once she has spun on her heel and walked away, I wonder if I should still search through the other midwives’ pigeonholes to find Carlana’s record, but I decide against it, I have too much work to do. It will be easier to access the computer system and look up Carlana’s file.

  I enter the modest office fitted with abrasive lightning that I share on a rostered basis with the other midwives, and in dismay throw the folders on my desk. I think about the seven remaining drinks warming on the floor of the passenger’s side of my car and wish they were here with me. Reluctantly I begin to sort through the task at hand. For a moment I can’t care less if I get Mark’s patients and he gets mine, but then I remember my job is on the line. Finally, when I have the two piles of folders sorted, I access the database and enter my password, even though I know that every sign-in to access patient data is being recorded. I type ‘Carlana Land’ and her Obstetric Data Record opens on the screen. My heart gains pace as I prepare to read through her secret details. I slide my finger along the screen:

  Patient’s Age: 29.

  Patient’s Address: 31 Gaia Street, East Glassport: extremely close to me.

  Patient’s Occupation: Real Estate Agent.

  Patient’s Weight: 65 Kg.

  I scroll through her medical history information until I find the comments that a midwife has written about Carlana. I read if there are any complications recorded about the pregnancy, then close the file, unsatisfied. I am tempted to alter the data, to write in the patient notes that she a history of abuse, because I can prove that she does, but no, I can’t, the alteration could be traced back to me. Once her check-up has ended, I will access her file to see when her next appointment is scheduled.

  Five Years Later

  Jean

  Plonking two differently-sized shoes into the papery blue box, I am proud of the solution I’ve come up with after I wasn’t able to find a matching-sized pair of shoes; sizes nine and six are easily confused. Troublesome customers will not know the muddle waiting for them in this carton until they lift up the lid.