The Other Side of the World by Stephanie Bishop

“ Now! Now! Now! ” Lucie screams, as the dull thwunk, thwunk of the stick continues, its pace increasing. Lucie’s separate cries blur into one long, loose-ended wail.
    As Charlotte works, she feels the labor give rise to a certain glory. The girls will not come near her while she strikes at the carpet. She is alone, free. This second is hers, goes the stick. And this one, and this one and this . “No, I cannot come now!” she yells at Lucie. “No, not yet!” There is only one stream of time and somehow it has to be divided into her time and the children’s time. She knows thewaters cannot be parted like this, she knows it is useless, struggling to keep the minutes to herself. But that is all she has; there is the brightness of the outside world and then the starved, dark space of her own consciousness. It used to be wider and deeper, voluminous and rich. This moment is hers, thwack, and this one, thwack, and this one, thwack, thwack, the stick whistling through the air. She feels them, these severed moments, piling up like sandbags to hold back a deluge. The children will break through any second now.
    There’s a flash of color as Lucie steps forwards. She stands to the side, her face a mottled gray and red, streaked by the clear lines of tears. As Charlotte keeps on—thwack, thwack—Lucie screams, a wobbling, grating sound, half cry, half yell. Dust has stopped rising from the carpet. Charlotte sees this and knows that the job is done, knows that she keeps on now only to spite her child, only to prove that she will not bend to her. It is wrong. She understands this even as she continues. Lucie’s breath quivers and hiccups as she steps closer again, her chin held up towards her mother.
    Charlotte stops and lets the stick hang at her side. She turns to Lucie and shame washes through her like acid. She feels her grip weaken. The stick drops to the grass; she is a selfish woman, she thinks. Lucie should turn away and be cross with her. It would be proof, she thinks, that she is not fit for this after all. It would be a blessing, to have the truth made plain. But instead of turning away, Lucie dives at her, clutching at her legs and pressing her face into Charlotte’s thighs, into the rough fabric of her mother’s skirt. Charlotte sways like a tall tree struck by the wind, then bends down over Lucie’s small body, slips her hands under her daughter’s arms, and hauls her up. Lucie twists her legs around her mother’s waist and buries her hot wet face in the curve of Charlotte’s neck. Her little hands pat her mother’s back as though she is the one in need of comfort.
    â€œThere there, there there,” Charlotte says, stroking Lucie’s head. “Mummy’s here now, Mummy’s here.” She presses her face to her child’s sun-warmed hair. She feels Lucie’s belly expand and shrink with deep, trembling breaths. She smells her long, fuzzy hair, sweet like wax and biscuits and fresh hay. Loose strands cling to Charlotte’s cheek. She is always surprised by the relief she feels when her child is close, by the strange peace of feeling themselves joined, one creature once more. It is the struggle to be separate that pains them. Now their single, tall, bulging shadow moves slowly over the grass as they walk towards May, who remains in the dirt, cooing excitedly at her mother’s approach: she bobs up and down, then throws herself forwards into a crawl. Lucie continues to pat Charlotte’s back. Tears prickle in Charlotte’s eyes; she must be good to them, she must be better. They are so small, Charlotte thinks, holding one child and looking down at the other. Tiny. In her mind they seem so large, simply because they take up the whole of it.
    â€œCome here,” she says, bending down and pulling May towards her. “Shall we go for a walk?” she says. “Shall we walk down to the river?”
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    Over