In and Out The Washing Line

They wanted to pop over. Pretty much unheard of, I should of said no, I wished I had said no, but as ever, I knew she wouldn`t of accepted it if I had of done, she would of been affronted and indignant and played the wounded Mother, then he would of joined in saying I had hurt her feelings and on our merry way we would of gone. So I didn`t say no, I said OK. Because I just didn't have the energy for the fight.

 I think it would of been after the 4th or 5th miscarriage. I was still off work, soon to go back. And so they came over. I was quiet, understandably so. I had no connection with them, with either of them and yet as they had no doubt told my whole sorry story to anyone who would listen, allowing her some 2nd hand attention and sympathetic status as the grieving {yet to be} Grand Mother, I imagine people then said things like, how is she, give her our love, she`ll need you now....and then she would need to respond in some way. And saying I called her last week wouldn`t really cut it. And so now they wanted to visit me. To be able to say "I`ve been over to Amanda`s". 
 I went through the ritual of making tea.
 "Ow am ya Mand ?"
Like I`d be able to tell you, like you would be able to hear. "Up and down, you know"  I had become master of meaningless, never make yourself vulnerable, responses over the years. Whether she realised I never really answered or whether she was relieved she didn`t have to pretend to engage, I neither knew nor cared any more. I zone out but pick up the odd, tis a shame, and who`s been asking after me, I know hardly any of them, and who she`s been telling, more people than need to know. I feel sort of irritated, itchy almost, like someones picking at a tender wound, I suppose they are. The wounds of my lost children and the wounds of my absent Mother, the Mother who is right before me now. The irony is not lost on me....one desperate to be a Mother..the other desperate never to do any Mothering. I become restless, wishing they would go. But the tragic situation had fuelled a need in her to have a share in the sympathy that feels like its drowning me right now. We move to the garden and quickly the conversation drifts to her.....
I`ve no idea if my responses are at the right intervals because I`m not listening. I offer more tea...... why am I making tea when I want them to finish their tea and leave....well it will give me something to do I suppose, rather than be held captive by her. 

I take the tea out and the washing machine finishes so while I fill the basket with wet laundry, shes hovering and telling me some sorry tale, ailments, doctors appointments, mixed up appointments, Aunt Iris was curt with her and never wants to listen.....and then this and then that. My Father is sitting on a garden chair, watching our interaction intently. Its windy and as I peg the clothes flap about and block her view of me and mine of her, her voice though is getting a little more insistent, her face serious, head on one side....are you listening Amanda, do you understand Amanda, can you hear me Amanda, do you get it Amanda.... She`s not saying those words, she`s is conveying them in micro gestures, facial expressions, tone of voice and I am trained to pick up on them, sit up straight, pay attention and feed her the sympathy she demands, after all I`ve had my fair share of the stuff lately, didn`t I realise it was her turn now ? But I just can`t. I can`t and I won`t because all of my sympathy is still focused on the latest little life that got lost on the way and never arrived and I`m mourning that loss and it is all consuming and I have nothing left for anything or anyone...nothing at all. Nothing for her. But she won`t give up. We find ourselves sharing a little dance, her moving to be in my eye line, me moving to be hidden by the washing billowing about this way and that in the breeze. Her voice is getting louder. 

 I grab the prop and higher the line, I can see her clearly now, shes setting me with a look that says I`m not meeting her expectations, I adjust the prop and my hands linger on it, its a welcome barrier between the two of us. My Father is glowering now, he knows I`m refusing to give her the attention she desperately wants and I`m not sure whether he`s mad about that or mad because he knows he has to go home with her and face the fall out. She becomes exasperated and gives the familiar arm twitch...."I`m sorry to tell you all my troubles Amanda but I`ve got no one else to tell" She pouts like a sulky child who`s been refused a treat. I pick the basket up and reply in some meaningless mumble about troubles and life is never easy...utter rubbish. Politer than telling her to Fuck Off but having a similar effect. I have refused her the attention she craves. I go inside and wash tea mugs. And they take their leave, after all there is nothing here for them, for her. I get a half hearted `look after yourself` as they get into the car, him still glowering, her still pouting. I close the door before they pull away. In my empty house with the empty nursery I stand, feeling far less alone then when they were here.

I hear nothing for a week or two and when she does call she begins with a sharp "Av ya gone back to work yet" I cannot find the right answer. If I told her Yes I would be considered to be over it. If I told her No I would be considered to be wallowing in it. I have no recollection what I did say, when she hung up from the call I doubt she did either.