Mechanical Platitudes

He screams. It sets my teeth on edge, and my heart racing. I hate this. Hands locked on the steering wheel in a slick grip, and wet patches blooming on the front of my top, I call out, "Won't be long now, sweetie!"

Orla pipes up from her booster seat, "Can I give him his suckie?"

"No, honey, it fell on the floor. It needs sterilising."

Orla squints at it.

"It doesn't look dirty," she says, reaching out and aiming for her brother's pink maw.

"No!" I shriek, and she goes pale and drops it again.

Howie loathes car journeys. I'm jealous of the parents who use driving as a trick to get their baby to sleep. It would never work for Howie, unless I found an open stretch of motorway and really floor it. The moment I slow down for my exit, though, he'd be awake and bawling. It's like Speed, but with less Keanu Reeves, and more blobs of seedy mustard-coloured crap staining everything.

I don't often come to this part of town. I know that makes me sound like a snob, but the fact is I'm not a hundred percent on where I'm going. This means I have to slow down, peering at street signs and looking for my turning. Howie screeches his protests about this strategy from his car seat.

At last, after wending my way deeper and deeper into this pitbull-lined labyrinth, I pull up outside number one hundred and nine. There's no car outside, and no lights on that I can see. One of the windows is boarded up. The front lawn is overgrown. It doesn't look like anyone lives here at all.

I make a decision.

Unsnapping my seatbelt, I turn to face Orla.

"Right," I say. "I'll only be a minute. Maybe less. You stay here. Got that?"

Orla nods, and I scramble to get out of the car, already in a rush to get back to them. Especially (I'm not a snob, I swear I'm not) round here.

+

Crunching up the unswept path, I cast my judgemental eyes over the ill-kept lawn. The paint on the front door is peeling and faded. I knock, half-believing there will be no response. It's the wrong house. It must be. There's no one here.

The door opens a little way, and a round face peeps out. Spotty skin framed by lank hair, a cold sore languishing at the corner of her mouth. I balk.

Pet-free, smoke-free home, the ad said. These magic words conjured up images of a place you would be happy to purchase a travel cot from. Somewhere clean.

"Err... Sonya?"

"Yeah," she says, a smile blooming on her face when she realises who I am. "You here 'bout the cot?"

I smile back, trying to ignore her crusty-looking teeth. "Yes," I say, trying to make it sound warm and friendly, though god knows why.

"You should come in," she says, and I discipline my feet to hold their ground and not carry me backwards, like a coward, or worse, a bitch.

"I can't. I've left the kids in the car."

Sonya smiles wider.

"Bring 'em in," she says. "It's in the loft. Don't want you hanging around on the doorstep."

"Oh," I say, "Well, I can always come back. I don't want to put you to any trouble."

"Bring the baby in, at least," she says. "I can hear him crying from here."

"Oh no," I lied, "My husband is in there with him. It's just he's breastfed you see, and-" I glance over my shoulder to check whether she can see I'm lying. We can't see the driver's seat from here. Phew!

"You could feed him," Sonya's staring at me in an odd way. "I wouldn't mind."

I resist the urge to shake off her gaze, and the sense of unease it paints on my skin.

I don't want her to think I'm judging her, even if I am, I realise.

This must be why, when she opens the door wider and beckons me inside, I squash my better judgement and step gingerly over the threshold. The door swings shut behind me. The click sounds ever so loud.

It's dark in here, and cluttered. It stinks. I wonder if she was lying about no pets. Is that a litterbox I can smell?

I can barely move for large cardboard boxes stacked roughly along the walls. My claustrophobia kicks in, and it's all I can do not to punch her, yank the door open and leap back outside into the fresh air.

I try not to breathe.

"Come on through," she says. I follow her, my feet sticking to the cheap lino on every other step. "I'll make you a drink while I dig the cot out." She's already ferreting in the cupboard for a couple of chipped mugs. Thinking of Orla and Howie out there by themselves (round here) I want to protest. I've just told her my husband is in the car with them, so it's difficult. I've lied myself into a corner.

"Tea, then." At least the water has to be really boiling for that. Kill any germs. "Only, we really can't stop long. Sorry to rush you, but you see-" (more lies!) "We're on our way to the beach."

She fumbles with the mug she's holding, and it drops with a crash.

"Oh! Sorry," I leap up to help her pick up the smashed crockery, and her bad breath washes over me. When she pushes herself back to her feet, she leans against the sink for support. Her knuckles are white.

"You shouldn't- Joshy can't- I mean- the beach isn't safe for the baby. You can't take him there."

I'm non-plussed. I almost reassure her that we aren't going there after all, but I don't want to look like a liar.

"So," I say, in an effort to lighten the tension and change the subject. "Where's your little one? Is it naptime, or are they in nursery?"

The silence goes on a second too long, and during that second Sonya is looking out of the window at a garden even more overgrown than out front.

"Born still," she says, and oh boy now do I ever feel like the world's biggest shit.

"I'm sorry to hear that." It's sickening, really, how fast I am willing to take refuge in mechanical platitudes. "When?"

Why? Why did I ask? Why did I pretend I cared?

"Couple of weeks," she says airily, popping teabags into mugs and stirring about in the murky sinkwater for a spoon.

I'm not drinking that.

Sonya chatters on. I tune most of it out, instead thinking how I can extricate myself and get back to the car... until she says she needs my number.

"Sorry, what?"

"Your number. So we can meet up. You know."

I think I stare blankly at this.

"And you can feed your boy in front of me, you know," she carries on. "It's nat'ral. Only... you mustn't mind if my..." she gestures at her flat chest, "You must mind if mine do that." She points at my blouse, and I feel my face face hot. I tug my coat across my front.

"Listen," I say, backing away to the door, "I'm so sorry, but I really do have to go. I'm sorry to have put you to the trouble-"

I fairly fly back down the sticky corridor and out the door. The air outside is sweet and clean. It's glorious. I hurry back to the car, fancying I could feel her eyes on my back every step of the way there. Howie is screeching so much, guilt wrings me out like a wet dishcloth. Orla is poking the dirty dummy at his mouth.

I should feed him now, but I can't bring myself to do it right outside Sonya's house. I snap at Orla to put that bloody thing away will you, and the tires squeal.

Something seemed off about that whole thing. Some nagging thing made me doubt there was a still born baby. I wondered what would have happened if I'd caved to her suggestion and brought the kids inside. I shuddered.

Howie falls asleep blessedly quickly, and I resolve never to use Facebook Marketplace again.

+

Thank you for reading!

CW: pregnancy loss mentioned

Mechanical Platitudes will totally be the name of my metal band, btw.

See you tomorrow!