A Nest of Nightmares

‘Melanie, be quiet! You’re making things worse,’ Sara said in a loud whisper.

Melanie’s screams trailed away into noisy sobs. She was still cowering in a corner, head down and hands protecting it.

The bird flew three more times around the room, finally breaking out of that maddened, fluttering pattern to soar smoothly and surely out of the open door. Sara gazed after it, smiling. Then she turned to her children.

‘Oh, Melanie, what is the matter? It was only a bird and it’s gone now.’ Annoyed but obligated, Sara crossed the room to crouch beside her younger child. ‘Now, what’s all this about?’

Gently she raised Melanie’s face away from her hands and the tangle of her hair, and saw that she was covered with blood.

‘My God! Oh, sweetheart.’ Sara hurried the little girl down the passage to the bathroom. So much blood . . . was her eye hurt? She’d never forgive herself if . . .

A wet flannel, carefully used, revealed no great damage. There were two small cuts, one just above Melanie’s left eye and the other on her left cheek. Melanie snuffled and breathed jerkily. She was obviously content to have her mother fuss over her.

Michael peeked around the doorframe as Sara was applying Band-Aids to Melanie’s face. ‘That bird tried to kill Melanie,’ he said in a tone of gleeful horror. ‘He tried to peck her eyes out!’

‘Michael, really.’ Sara sighed in exasperation. Melanie would be nervous enough about birds without his stories. ‘It was an accident,’ she said firmly. ‘Birds aren’t mean or dangerous – they don’t try to hurt people. But that bird was frightened – it was in a strange place. Unfortunately, Melanie got in the way while it was trying to get out. If you’d both been more sensible, instead of jumping around like that – ’

‘It flew right at her,’ Michael said. ‘I saw it. It tried to get me next, but I wouldn’t let it – I kept waving my hands around over my head so it couldn’t get at my face like it wanted.’ He sounded very self-important and pleased with himself, which annoyed Sara still more.

‘It was an accident. The bird felt trapped and didn’t know how to respond. It’s not something you have to worry about because it’s not likely ever to happen again. Now I don’t want to hear any more about it.’ She hugged Melanie and lifted her down from the sink ledge. ‘Feel better?’

‘Hungry,’ said Melanie.

‘Glad you mentioned it. Let’s go and eat lunch.’

On Monday morning Sara took her children to play with Mary Alice’s children. It was a beautiful day but already stiflingly hot. Sara felt lethargic and faintly sad. After Michael and Melanie had joined the other children in the safely fenced-in yard, she lingered to drink iced tea and talk with Mary Alice.

‘I hope you got a lot of work done yesterday,’ Mary Alice said, settling onto a brightly cushioned wicker couch.

Sara shook her head. ‘Bruce copped out. He called at the last minute and said he couldn’t come – he was in Dallas.’

Mary Alice’s eyes went wide. ‘That . . . creep,’ she said at last.

Sara gave a short laugh. ‘I’ve called him worse than that. But I should know by now that he’s not to be counted on. The kids are starting to learn that about him, too. The worst thing about it is what I lost – or what I felt I lost. I woke up feeling great – I was ready to conquer the world, at least to paint it. I felt so alive. I felt – I don’t know if I can explain how I felt. I think of it as my “creative” feeling, and I haven’t had such a strong one since Michael was born – or maybe even since I married Bruce. It’s a mood in which everything has meaning, everything is alive, everything is possible.’

‘There’s a girl who sits for us sometimes,’ Mary Alice said hesitantly. ‘She’s very young, but responsible, and she doesn’t charge much. You could have her over some afternoons to take care of the kids while you . . .’

Sara shook her head, discarding the suggestion impatiently. ‘They’d still be around. They’d still be – oh, calling to me, somehow. I don’t know how to explain it. Sometimes I feel I’m just looking for excuses not to paint, but . . . there’s just something about being both a mother and an artist. I don’t know if I can manage it, not even with all the good examples of other women, or all the babysitters in the world.

‘Art has never been a part-time thing for me. Art was all I cared about in school, and up until I met Bruce. Then the part of me that was an artist got submerged. For the past five years I’ve been a full-time mother. Now I’m trying to learn how to be a part-time artist and a part-time mother, and I don’t think I can. I know that’s very all-or-nothing of me, but it’s how I feel.’

The two women sat quietly in the bright, sunlit room. The high-pitched voices of their children, playing outside, floated up to them.

‘Maybe it’s just too early,’ Mary Alice ventured at last. ‘In the fall, Michael will be in school. You could put Melanie in a nursery, at least during the mornings. Then you could count on having a certain amount of time to yourself every day.’