The Legacy of the Bones

Amaia had also read the advice of a host of celebrated paediatricians determined to indoctrinate an entire new generation of children into the ways of suffering: don’t pick them up too often, let them sleep alone from birth, don’t comfort them when they have a tantrum because they need to learn to be independent, to cope with their fears and failures. Such stupidity made Amaia’s stomach churn. It occurred to her that if any of these distinguished doctors had been obliged since birth to ‘cope’ with fear the way she had, they would have an entirely different view of the world. If her daughter wanted to sleep in their bedroom until she was three years old, that was fine by her: she would comfort her, listen to her, take seriously and allay her childish fears, because as she herself knew only too well, they could loom large in a child’s mind. But evidently Clarice had her own ideas about how things should be done, which she didn’t hesitate to share with everybody else.

Three days earlier, Amaia had arrived home to discover that her mother-in-law had given them a surprise gift: a magnificent nursery complete with wardrobes, a changer, chest of drawers, rugs, and lamps. A superabundance of pink fleecy clouds and little lambs, all wreathed in ribbons and lace. Amaia had been alarmed enough when James had opened the door, given her a kiss and whispered apologetically: ‘She means well.’ But when she was confronted by this profusion of pinkness, her smile froze as she realised she was being made to feel like a stranger in her own home. Clarice, on the other hand, was thrilled, gliding amidst the furniture like a TV presenter, while Amaia’s father-in-law, impassive as always when faced with his wife’s enthusiasm, carried on calmly reading the newspaper in the sitting room. Amaia found it difficult to reconcile the image of Thomas at the helm of a financial empire with the way he behaved towards his wife, with a mixture of submissiveness and apathy that never ceased to amaze her. If only because she knew how uncomfortable James felt, Amaia did her best to keep her composure while his mother extolled the marvels of the nursery she had bought for them.

‘Look at this lovely wardrobe, all her clothes will fit in there, and there is room in the changer for nappies as well as everything else. Aren’t the rugs cute? And over here,’ she said, grinning smugly, ‘the pièce de résistance: a cot fit for a princess.’

Amaia had to admit that the huge pink cot was indeed majestic, and big enough for her daughter to sleep in until she was at least four years old.

‘Very pretty,’ she forced herself to say.

‘It’s beautiful, so now you can give your aunt back her log basket.’

Amaia left the nursery without a word and went into her bedroom to wait for James.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart, she doesn’t mean to interfere, it’s just how she is. They’ll only be here a few more days. I know you’re being incredibly patient, and I promise you that after they’ve gone we’ll get rid of everything you don’t like.’

She had agreed for James’s sake and because she didn’t have the strength to argue with Clarice. James was right: she was being incredibly patient, even though it went against her nature. This was possibly the first time she had ever let anyone control her, but in this final stage of pregnancy, she had noticed a change come over her. For days now she had been feeling unwell; all the energy she had enjoyed during the first months had given way to an apathy that was unusual in her. Clarice’s domineering presence only brought that fragility to the fore. Amaia glanced again at the baby clothes in the shop window and decided they had quite enough with everything her mother-in-law had bought. Clarice’s extravagances as a first-time grandmother made Amaia feel queasy, but there was something else: secretly she would have given anything to have the same intoxicating love affair with pink that afflicted her mother-in-law.

Since she had become pregnant, all she had bought for her daughter was a pair of bootees, a few T-shirts, some leggings, and a set of Babygros in neutral colours. She told herself that pink wasn’t her favourite colour. When she browsed the shop windows and saw frocks, cardigans and skirts bedecked with ribbons and embroidered flowers, she thought they looked lovely, perfect for a little princess, but no sooner did she have them in her hand than she felt an intense aversion towards all those tasteless frills and ended up walking out, confused and irritated, without buying anything. She could have done with some of the enthusiasm shown by Clarice, who would dissolve into raptures at the sight of a frock and matching shoes. Amaia knew that she couldn’t have been happier, that she had always loved this baby, from the time when she herself had been a brooding, unhappy child dreaming of being a mother one day, a real mother, a desire that had crystallised when she met James. And when motherhood threatened to elude her, assailed with fears and doubts, she had considered undergoing IVF treatment. But then, nine months ago, while investigating the most important case of her career, she had become pregnant.

Amaia was happy, or at least thought she was, and that puzzled her even more. Until recently she had felt fulfilled, contented, self-assured in a way that she hadn’t for years; yet over the past few weeks, fresh fears, which were actually as old as time, had started creeping back, infiltrating her dreams, whispering familiar words she wished she didn’t recognise.

Another contraction, less painful but more drawn-out, gripped her. She checked her watch. Twenty minutes since the last one in the park.

She headed towards the restaurant where they had arranged to meet. Clarice didn’t approve of James cooking all the time, and kept hinting that they needed staff. Half-expecting to arrive home one day to find they had an English butler, she and James had decided they should lunch and dine out every day.

James had chosen a modern restaurant in the street next to Calle Mercaderes, where they lived. When she arrived, Clarice and the taciturn Thomas were both sipping martinis. James stood up as soon as he saw her.

‘Hi, Amaia, how are you, my love?’ he said, planting a kiss on her lips and pulling out a chair for her.

‘Fine,’ she said, wondering whether to mention the contractions. She glanced at Clarice and decided to keep quiet.

‘And the little one?’ James smiled, resting his hand on her belly.

‘The little one,’ repeated Clarice derisively. ‘Do you think it’s normal that a week before your daughter’s birth you still haven’t chosen a name for her?’

Amaia pretended to browse the menu while looking askance at James.

‘Oh, Mom, not that again. We like several, but we can’t decide, so we’re waiting until the baby arrives. The moment we see her little face we’ll know what to call her.’

‘Oh!’ Clarice perked up. ‘So, you have thought of some names. Is one of them Clarice, maybe?’ Amaia heaved a sigh. ‘Seriously, though what names are you thinking of?’ Clarice persisted.

Amaia glanced up from the menu as a fresh contraction gripped her belly for a few seconds. She looked at her watch again and smiled.

‘Actually, I’ve already chosen one,’ she lied, ‘only I want it to be a surprise. What I can tell you is that she won’t be called Clarice: I don’t like names repeated within families, I think each person should have their own identity.’

Clarice grimaced.

The baby’s name was another missile Clarice fired at her whenever she got the opportunity. James’s mother had harped on about it so much that he had even suggested they choose one just to shut her up. Amaia had snapped. That was the last straw: why should she be forced to choose a name simply to make Clarice happy?

‘Not to make her happy, Amaia, but because we have to call her something, and you don’t seem to want to think about choosing a name at all.’

As with the clothes, she knew they were right. Having researched the subject, she’d become so concerned about it that she consulted Aunt Engrasi.

‘Well, not having had babies myself, I can’t speak from personal experience, but at a clinical level, I gather it’s fairly common among first-time mothers and fathers in particular. Once you’ve had a baby, you know what to expect, there are no surprises, but with a first pregnancy some mothers, despite their swollen bellies, find it hard to relate the changes in their body to the realities of having a child. Nowadays with ultrasound and listening to the baby’s heartbeat, knowing if it’s a boy or a girl, expectant parents have more of a sense that their baby is real, whereas in the past you couldn’t see a baby until it was born; most people only realised they had a child when they were cradling it in their arms and gazing into its little face. Your misgivings are perfectly natural,’ she said, placing her hand on Amaia’s belly. ‘Believe me, no one is prepared for parenthood, although some people like to pretend that they are.’

Amaia ordered fish, which she hardly touched. She noticed that the contractions were less frequent and less intense when she was still.

As soon as they’d finished their meal, Clarice returned to the offensive.

‘Have you looked at crèches?’

‘No, Mom, we haven’t,’ said James, setting his cup down on the table and gazing at her wearily. ‘Because we’re not putting the baby in a crèche.’

‘I see, so you’ll find a child-minder when Amaia goes back to work.’

‘When Amaia goes back to work, I’ll look after my daughter myself.’

Clarice’s eyes opened wide. She looked to her husband for support, but received none from Thomas, who smiled and shook his head as he sipped his rooibos.

‘Clarice …’ he cautioned. These gentle repetitions of his wife’s name in a tone of reproach were the closest Thomas ever came to protesting.

She ignored him.

‘You can’t be serious. How are you going to look after her? You don’t know the first thing about babies.’

‘I’ll learn,’ James replied, smiling.

‘Learn? For goodness’ sake! You’re gonna need help.’

‘We have a cleaner who comes regularly.’

‘I’m not talking about a cleaner four hours a week, I’m talking about a nanny, a child-minder, someone who’ll take care of the child.’

‘I’ll take care of her. We’ll take care of her together, that’s what we have decided.’

James seemed amused, and, judging from his expression, so did Thomas. Clarice sighed, smiled wanly and adopted a calm tone, as though making a supreme effort to be reasonable and patient.

‘Yes, I know all about this modern parenting stuff – breastfeeding children until they grow teeth, having them sleep in your bed, dispensing with a nanny – but, son, you have to work too, your career is at a critical stage, and during the baby’s first year, you’ll scarcely have time to draw breath.’

‘I’ve just finished a forty-eight-piece collection for the exhibition at the Guggenheim next year, and I have enough works in reserve to enable me to devote myself to my daughter. Besides, Amaia isn’t always busy. Yes, she has periods of intense activity in her job, but she often comes home early.’

Amaia could feel her belly tense beneath her blouse, more painfully now. She breathed slowly, dissimulating as she glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes.

‘You look pale, Amaia, are you feeling OK?’

‘I’m tired. I think I’ll go home and lie down for a while.’

‘Good, Thomas and I are going shopping,’ announced Clarice, ‘otherwise you’ll be using vine leaves instead of baby blankets. Shall we meet back here for dinner?’