Outer Space / Carry On | Michael Clifford AU

17.

I wasn't prepared for the crying. 

Do you know how much babies cry?

A lot. A whole damn lot. Jagger spent his whole first week earth-side with a scrunched up face and endless screaming. Like he was protesting being born and wanted to be back in the womb. Right now.

It wasn't just Jagger, either. I walked past his nursery one day, getting a glimpse of Joan sitting in the rocking chair, cradling Jagger as tiny tears rolled down her cheeks. I stayed up half the night looking up information about postpartum depression.

The stats were overwhelming. Some websites suggested it was 1 in 20 women. Others 1 in 4. And guess what else? Even men sometimes got it.

I sat on this pile of unnerving stats all week, until Friday afternoon when the healthcare nurse came by to check on Joan and Jagger. Apparently these were routine visits to check on the baby and new mother, and to make sure the baby is gaining weight and such.

With my nose in a sketchbook, I sat relatively invisible while the healthcare nurse chatted to Joan. Things went well until she asked how Jagger had been sleeping. Joan burst into tears, and I pretended to be really busy drawing in my sketchbook (really, I was just drawing circles.) while hanging on to every word of the conversation.

Joan: I just don't know what I'm doing wrong.

Healthcare Nurse: Nothing. Nothing at all. Babies cry, that's all.

Joan: All the books say I should be getting him into a routine, but try telling Jagger that.

Healthcare Nurse: All those books are a load of crock.

Joan sniffled. The healthcare nurse patted her back kindly. I was happy she was much nicer than her stern-faced looked. Dad brought in some tea. Poor guy. I think he was feeling a bit useless at the moment. So was I.

"You know what the books don't tell you?" The Healthcare Nurse asked gently. I looked up from my page of circles. "They don't tell you that newborns are hard. They don't tell you that as much as you love your baby, no human being is supposed to function without sleep and so you will cry, and you'll be exhausted, and while right now it feels like you'll never sleep again, you will. And Jagger will. You just have to hold on for a while."

I could relax a little after that.

With Joan and Dad busy with Jagger and swaddling and bed-time routines, I kept myself busy. I wrote in my sketchbook. Googled Rolling Stones lyrics. Made more lists. Sometimes, when I was up late, Michael and I would exchange a few texts. His sleep patterns seemed as screwed up as mine.

I thought about asking what kept him up so late, but it seemed too personal of a question. There were only certain types of people who made company with the hours between two and five am.

One night we had a text-conversation purely made up of photos. Michael's paint splattered hands. The fairy lights above my bed. An album cover. Half of my tired face. Half of Michael's tired face, squashed against a dark blue pillow. It made me wonder about what his room would look like. Did he have posters on his walls? What colour were his sheets? I fell asleep wondering these answers...

And then woke up an hour later to Jagger screaming down the house for his 4am feed.

-

Dad had to go back to work when Jagger was two weeks old. By then, I was onto my second page of the Colours That Aren't Black list.

"Look at you," Michael sat down next to me, his fingers stained with indigo ink. He still wouldn't tell me what he was painting.

I moved my gaze from his fingers to his face. "What about me?"

"Writing," he nodded towards the sketchbook. "You're always writing lately." He sounded kind of proud about this. I think he liked that he'd done something to help me, even if I wasn't actually painting.

I turned the pad over so he could see my list. "Colours That Aren't Black," Michael said in his soft voice. 

"My dad said he'd think about getting a car."

"And you don't want black?"

"Have you seen the school parking lot? Every car is black. Or dark grey," I rolled my eyes just thinking about them all lined up like matching cars shipped from a toy factory.

Michael nodded. "So, not black."

"Not black."

"How about yellow?"

"Like a honey bee?" I laughed. "Not yellow. I'm thinking red. Poppy red."

"Poppy red," Michael said, rolling it around in his mouth like he was trying to figure out if he liked the taste of it. He looked down at his stained fingers. Infinite Indigo, I thought and then added it to your list.

He looked at the new colour on my list, and then down to his fingers, and when he looked back up to me his cheeks were flushed (Had I done that to him?) 

They were Pink Salt and Peach Blush and Cherry Apple, all separately yet all at once.

It made my throat grow this weird lump, and I realised that I missed him. These little lunchtime chats, and the few words exchanged between classes and our late-night texts, they weren't enough. I wanted to actually spend time with him, without it being interrupted by life.

I tugged at the bottom of my navy blue wool jumper. It had the same school emblem as the boys blazers. Then I swallowed the lump down, and leaned a little, like I was telling a secret.

"Do you think Chalkman wants a sidekick tonight?

i'm thinking about making a tumblr for alice (as in from her point of view)