Tears of a Bluebird

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

My name was scored off from the hospitals register on a scorching day nearing the end of June. I was released straight after I had cleared away my things, got dressed, packed my suitcase, and most importantly, packed away the only memory I had left of my son; his little penguin teddy.

When I held it, I brushed my nose against the face of the penguin. Inhaling the scent of it, I could still smell the aroma of complete youthfulness from my boy. It took all I had not to cry. I didn't want to cry, because if I did then the sisters would claim that I was suffering from the Baby Blues again, even when I wasn't. And anyway! if I did cry, it would've been because they had taken my child from me, giving me no authority whatsoever. With that specific thought inside my mind, I still didn't cry. Not yet. To be honest I think I hadn't any cries left in me... now. I wept the remaining of them that very morning.

I remember thinking, when I had finally discharged myself out from the hospital altogether, "What am I to do now?"

I repeated my question in my mind straight after Mr. Crookston said farewell to me, which comprised of a tender and lingering goodbye embrace. I was surprised by such human contact – I had only expected a quick good-bye hug – but deep down it made me feel warm.

Then, alone, I had momentarily told myself that nobody would have come to collect me, but astonishingly, I was greeted by my mother. She was waiting in an impatient manner next to a taxi with opened doors.

Her approach to me was her most famous grimace of disgrace. The muscles were working hard beneath the flesh around her throat — showing her thin features most conspicuously — and when I stood before her more closely, her lips bore backwards from her teeth as if she was inhaling a ghastly scent of some kind.

"Get in!" Mother ordered. I had stupidly hesitated about getting into the taxi for I was scared of the woman who stood before me. I was scared of her for the very reason that she was the woman who ruined my life and took my son from me. Mother, always having been a very quick and observant woman, never disregarded my hesitation. Her eyebrows made an unusual effort as if to get lost up behind her fringe while she ordered me more strictly, for the second time, to get inside of the taxi. Being the obedient daughter I once was, I got in, soon followed by my mother, who grudgingly sat in the back-seat of the taxi next to me. Saying that she sat next to me would have been underestimating it though, for she sat so far away from me, touching the window with her elbow, that her breath imprinted against the glass. It was as if I had some transmittable infection. Some contagious, sinful disease! I sighed inwardly, whilst the taxi driver threw my suitcase into the boot and began driving. He started humming along to the smooth voice of Rosemary Clooney singing on the radio. I wished that I could have sang along too, but I couldn't. I knew the lyrics and all, but I just couldn't. I guess I wasn't in the singing mood to be honest. But it was no wonder, though.

* * *

We drove for what felt like hours. When I sat behind the passenger seat, which was on the left side of the taxi, my head was ironed against the cold glass of the window, like mothers. I couldn't focus correctly. The scenery of the city and then the countryside fled by disregarded. All I could do was observe, making sure I analysed everything; every sing detail and movement within the car in such nervousness that I was close to passing out. I observed from my mother that she reacted to me as if I were scum, a murderer, a rapist, a foreigner, a thief, or even worse in her books — an atheist. That was my own mother thinking of me as those horrible things. I observed from the never-ending journey that with each movement the car made, more blood flowed out from me. The pad which I was wearing, invented to soak up the blood, was preventing any spillage. Even then I could still feel it. It was so ghastly. Mr. Crookston said it should be stopped no later than Wednesday, two days from now. I then observed, when the taxi at long last came to a halt, that the meter reached four pound and five shillings, which was rather expensive during the age of the early 50's.