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“Drink up, Kevin.”
Alisa knelt beside him. He took the mug into his hands, where the hot ceramic provided a warm comfort to his cold palm and trembling fingers, and steam billowed upward in ever moving clouds, which caught at his exposed cheeks and added an element of colour. Kevin drew in a deep breath, before he pressed the cup to his dry and chapped lips. The ginger tea tasted sweet against his tongue. It quenched a thirst deep within him, something that wrenched and ripped at his stomach, but – as he gulped down the liquid – a burning sensation overtook him.
He retched and coughed, as tea burst forth from his throat. It sprayed out over the blanket, which weighed heavy against his legs and abdomen, and – as he struggled for breath – Alisa took the cup from his hand and patted him firmly on his back. He soon regained his breath. A few deep inhalations allowed him to wipe away the tears at his eyes, as he slunk back into the plump cushions and many pillows, and let them mould to his muscular back.
“Small sips,” said Alisa. “Start small.”
The mug was handed back, but this time he sipped slowly at the liquid. He lay back with half-closed eyes, while Alisa busied herself about the bedroom . . . clothes picked up from the floor, dust wiped down from the drawers . . . curtains opened, windows opened . . . the stifling and stuffy atmosphere was at once pulled away by the burst of fresh air. It soothed his lungs, while taking the sheen of sweat from his soaked forehead. Alisa eventually sat beside him on the bed, dropping down onto the mattress, which dipped beneath her weight. He moaned out:
“How long does it last?”
“Morning sickness?” Alisa sighed. “It started very early for me. I would get nauseous from only a few weeks after you were conceived, with any kind of strong smell making me choke, and I couldn’t avoid the smells. It was like everything was amplified! I used to adore your father’s cologne, but – when I was pregnant – I would sometimes retch as soon as he entered a room.”
“Funny, he has that effect on most people.”
“Anyway, my mother recommended arrowroot biscuits to me. They worked a treat, and are devilishly moreish, but sometimes it just wasn’t enough. I was put onto ginger by Bibimba, who used to brew me ginger tea and make me gingerbread, and – well – it took some getting used to, but it always used to settle my stomach and make things right again. I know Nikolai does what he can for you, but sometimes nothing beats a mother’s touch . . . or her cooking!”
Kevin winced. He pulled his legs up to his chest, as much as able through the swell to his stomach, and hooked his arms around his lower limbs. He turned his head away from her, even as she took a small bowl of water from the bedside table, and her long fingers took a wet cloth and mopped at his brow with soft and gentle touches. It was enough to lull his eyes closed once again, as the bright light outside was diminished by his eyelids, but her words played over and over in his head, even as his brow furrowed and lips pursed. He mumbled out in a cold tone:
“A mother, eh?”
It was Alisa’s turn to wince. The smile faltered, as she brought a hand to her lips. There was an almost imperceptible tremble, one that betrayed her attempts at a stoic façade, and her other hand – restless and acting from instinct – reached towards his stomach. Alisa paused. She pulled back her hand and dropped it with its sister onto her lap, and she twisted and pulled at her fingers, while her lips opened and closed in a rapid succession of aborted words. Finally, Alisa regained her bright smile and her eyes lit up with a beautiful shine, as she chirped out:
“Well, nothing beats a father’s love, either.”
“Ha!”
“Why do I feel this is a catch twenty-two situation?” Alisa teased. “Look, it’s not easy being a parent, especially when you’re the birthing parent. Your body is going through a lot of changes, which aren’t easy at the best of times . . . I’m just saying that I’m here for you, that’s all.”
The muscles in his shoulders relaxed, as Kevin slumped forward. He dropped his head onto his knees, while he looked out towards the open window, and Alisa – taking the mug from his hands – placed the ginger-tea upon the bedside table. The scent lingered in the air between them, as he watched a few birds perch upon a branch. They chirped and sung sweet melodies, bringing a further smile to Alisa, whose lines about her eyes deepened with pleasure, and her hand came out to stroke at his upper back. He hummed a low sound, before he whispered:
“I just feel . . . stuck.”
Alisa leaned close against him. A soft kiss was placed to his crown, where she breathed deep the scent of apple-scented shampoo, and – letting her eyes close – she was momentarily brought back to his youth, where he was nothing more than a babe in her arms. It took all her strength to pull back, but her arm remained around him. The warmth from his skin was prominent even through his yellow t-shirt, but so was the sweat that caused it to cling to him like a second skin, and – with a soft chuckle – she made a mental note to get him into a shower. Alisa asked:
“Why is that, honey?”
“I used to be defined as this strong wrestler,” said Kevin. “I was the guy that you turned to in a crisis, and I was the guy that took down impossible opponents. I had women throwing themselves at me, I had men wanting to be me, and . . . I suppose . . . well, I sort of became defined by my accomplishments. It’s what I did. It’s who I was. I – I liked that . . .”
“You resent being forced to be someone else?”
“Well, not resent . . . and it’s not like I’m ‘someone else’. It’s more like . . . ah, how do I put this?” Kevin ran a hand through his hair. “It’s like I’m no longer able to be myself, because everything I was – my whole identity – was tied up in this sporting persona, and now that I’m unable to fight . . . unable to be strong . . . if I can’t fight, just who am I? I don’t resent our baby, but I do feel like I’ve been knocked for six by them. Who am I now?”
“You’re Kevin Mask. You’re the Olympic Champion, and –”
“See, even you do it! I’m the ‘Olympic Champion’. I mean, that’s good . . . great . . . I fought my whole life not to be just ‘Kevin Mask: son of Robin Mask’. I like having accomplished something, but at the same time . . . am I now just going to be ‘Kevin Mask: father to Baby Mask’? I don’t want that. I don’t want to stop being me so they can be them.”
He pulled away from Alisa. Kevin slid to the other side of the mattress. He lay on his side, with some difficulty in scooting down the sheets to find the perfect position, and dropped his head onto his pillow with a huff of breath. He brought his knees up to his stomach, where one hand ran circles against the taut skin. It was as if he were touching his baby . . . reaching them through the womb, connecting with them despite the distance . . . a good minute passed, but eventually he used his free hand to pat the mattress behind him. Alisa lay down next to him.
“I used to have the same concern,” said Alisa.
“You did? You seem so . . .”
“Confident?” Alisa looked down. “I feel confident now, but back then -? I lived every day scared throughout the pregnancy; I worried about the pain of childbirth, I worried about eating the right foods, and I worried every day about what might go wrong . . . it seeped into every aspect of my life. I started to just feel anxious all the time. I loved you so much, even when you were the smallest of specks inside my uterus, and that love made me so terrified of losing you . . .
“We already had names picked out for you, and we had such plans for you! We were so much in love with you, and you had yet to be born, but that love came with the fear. I never thought that love and fear came so hand in hand . . . for a while, I thought the worst thing would be never having you, but then I realised the worst thing ever would be losing you.”
“You’re not making me feel better . . .”
“Well, there’s a lot of pressure on the birthing parent, Kevin. It started small at first, like when the midwife would ask how ‘mummy’ felt, and then it started to get bigger . . . people would look to my stomach and ask how ‘baby’ was today, but never how I felt, and they would buy presents for ‘baby’, but never for me. I started to feel like a walking incubator.
“I was like you, I suppose. I never once resented my baby either, but I longed for my own identity and to be seen more than just a ‘mother’, but as my own person . . . I wanted people to ask about me, and I wanted to do the things I usually did. I used to manage your father in his career, and I’d take charge in the household with various odd jobs and cleaning and overall organisation. I used to be useful, but suddenly I couldn’t even cut my toenails. I was so -!”
Alisa rolled onto her back. She crossed her legs at the ankles, while her hands clasped over her stomach, and her blue eyes stared up at the ceiling, where a large crack spread out like a spider from what was once a small faint line. Kevin breathed a little slower, like one on the verge of sleep . . . it was like those nights when he slept beside her, where she listened to his teeny tiny breaths, and when she would count the cracks in the ceiling, until – finally – she fell asleep with a wide smile and warm heart. Alisa stroked at his upper arm, while he half-slept.
“You’re doing a miraculous thing, Kevin, but it’s okay to also be frustrated. The important thing to remember is that you have Nikolai, and he’ll do anything for you. It’s not easy for the non-birthing partner, either, and it also comes with its own challenges, but I think he’s smart enough to know that it’ll be harder for you . . . he’ll want to help you.”
“I – I know . . .”
“Then you’ll know he is probably one of the few people that will see you as a complete person. I know it can be hard, but I promise you that this will only make him love you more . . . you’re no longer just his husband and best friend, but you’re the person who made a miracle happen. You’re giving him a family. You’re not alone, and you’re never less of a person. If you ever feel like you’re sacrificing yourself, remind yourself that you’re still his world. He loves you.”
Alisa rolled onto her side. She threw her arms around him, while he lay with closed eyes and loud exhalation, each one bordering between ‘cute breaths’ and ‘obnoxious snores’, but with a perfect rhythm that could easily lull her into a sleep in turn. He was still covered in sweat, and still moaning every so often from the nausea, but he was content . . . rested . . . he lay so still, with muscles so relaxed, that it eased something inside Alisa. Even curled up with nausea, and even so far along into his pregnancy . . . he was still her little boy.
“I love you, too, son,” said Alisa. “You’re not alone.”
Alisa made to pull away, to give him space, but she was stopped. He took her hand. It was a weak hold, one with the slightest of touches and barely any pressure, but it kept her in her embrace of him, as he continued to half-snooze and half-rest. Alisa held back a gentle laugh, as she pressed her lips to his temple, and – humming an old lullaby from his youth – settled in beside him for his inevitable slumber. Just before he slept, he uttered a barely audible:
“Thanks, Mummy.”