Martin rings on Tuesday to ask if I can
babysit Lio Saturday night. I say yes without
hesitation (knowing that I never do anything on Saturday night
these days). Half an hour before I have to leave the house
reality sets in and I begin to feel
anxious (I am going to have to change out of my
pyjamas and face the
world).
I arrive just after 6:30. I knock on the door
knock knock
and from inside I hear Martin approaching, telling Lio (in Italian) that Amy's here. Martin opens the door (his hair is wet but he's otherwise smartly dressed), and over his shoulder I see Lio, shrieking happily behind the baby gate at the top of the stairs, rattling the bars like an angry zoo inmate, bouncing formidably.
Martin fetches him downstairs and we kick a plastic ball around while Sasha gets ready. Lio lurches confidently after the ball, shunting it forward with whichever foot is less vital for balance, a far-away expression betraying the feat of concentration this requires.
Martin scoops him up and carries him upstairs - "Let's find out what Mommy's doing". I hear them speaking to him (again, in Italian), telling him they are going out. They come downstairs together. Sasha takes a chair next to me and asks me if I need to know anything. They have bought food for me; I can warm it up when Lio's asleep.
They leave, and Lio doesn't stop crying for an hour. He scorns any attempt to lighten the mood. Favourite toys and books provoke increasingly loud screams; my sympathy meets a reproachful stare and a shove on the shoulder.
I switch on the television. It's a documentary about early country music singers. I sit on the floor. Lio is standing on my lap, crying into my shoulder. I ignore him, and it seems to work. He also becomes quieter whenever music is played on the television.
It's still early but he seems
tired so I take him up to bed, and he falls asleep almost immediately. After 20 minutes lying in the
dark, listening to the rhythm of his
breathing gradually become slower and deeper, I fall asleep too.
I wake up after half an hour. I try not to disturb Lio as I leave the room to go downstairs and make my dinner. I pour myself a glass of pink grapefruit juice and set out my food and cutlery. Just as I am about to sit down, the baby monitor crackles and emits an unnerving disembodied wail. I set Lio's milk to warm up and then go upstairs. His nappy is damp so I change it, then fetch the milk. He drinks for five minutes before settling down again.
I eat, watch tv - this time a program about Titian - and then clear up the kitchen. I go to check Lio is sleeping ok. His sturdy body is curled into a C like a fat caterpillar. His expression is serious, his translucent skin seems to radiate a pale light in the darkness. His eyes are red-rimmed from crying.
Martin and Sasha return at about 12.30 am. They've been to see a comedian at the Gardner Arts Centre, and they've been to a restaurant in Brighton. They've had a good time. Martin gives me a lift home. Although I'm tired I can't sleep. That which briefly gave my life purpose has suddenly disappeared but the sense of responsibility hasn't.