the baby still slept with them in their bedroom. Afterwards, she cradled him in her arms, singing softly to him until he fell asleep.
‘It’s not good for him to get into the habit of falling asleep like that,’ James whispered behind her. ‘You should leave him in the cot so he learns to relax and goes off on his own.’
‘He has the rest of his life to do that,’ she said rather brusquely. Then she reflected, and added in a softer voice: ‘Let me pamper him a little, James. You’re right, I know, but I miss him so much … And I suppose I’m afraid he’ll stop missing me.’
‘Of course he won’t, silly,’ said James, picking the sleeping child up and moving him to his cot. He arranged a blanket over him and looked again at his wife. ‘I miss you too, Amaia.’
Their eyes met, and for an instant she felt the urge to fling herself into his arms, into that embrace, which, over time, had become the unequivocal symbol of their union, their love for one another. An embrace that always made her feel protected and understood. But the urge didn’t last. She was seized by a sudden frustration. She was tired, she’d skipped lunch, and had just come from an autopsy … For the love of God! She was forced to rush from one side of the city to the other, she scarcely had time to be with her son, but all James could think of was that he missed her. She missed herself! She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had five minutes to herself. She hated him for looking at her with those mournful, dead sheep’s eyes. It didn’t help; no, it didn’t help one bit. She left the room, overwhelmed by feelings of anger and remorse. James was a darling, a wonderful father and the most tolerant man any woman could wish for, but he was a man, and therefore light years away from understanding how she felt, which drove her crazy.
She went into the kitchen. Sensing him behind her, she avoided his gaze while she made herself a cup of coffee.
‘Have you had lunch? Do you want me to make you something?’ he asked, going over to the fridge.
‘No, James, don’t bother,’ she said, sitting down with her milky coffee at the head of the table. ‘Look, James, a meeting has come up with the judge in charge of the case I’m investigating. I can’t put it off and he can only see me this evening, which is when I’ll have the autopsy report. It’s extremely important …’
He nodded.
‘We could drive up to Elizondo tomorrow morning.’
‘No, I want to be there first thing, so we’d have to get up very early. I think it’s best if you go on ahead with Ibai and install yourselves at my aunt’s house. I’ll feed him before you leave, and be there for the next one.’
James started to chew his upper lip – a gesture she knew he only did when he was anxious.
‘Amaia, I wanted to talk to you about that …’
She gazed at him in silence.
‘I think that slavishly following this schedule to keep him breastfeeding …’ she saw he was searching for the right words, ‘… isn’t really compatible with your work. Maybe it’s time for you seriously to consider weaning him off breast milk completely.’
Amaia looked at her husband wishing she could express everything that was bubbling inside her. She was trying, trying as hard as she could. She wanted to succeed, for Ibai’s sake, but above all for herself, for the sake of the child she once was, the daughter of a bad mother. She wanted to be a good mother, she needed to be, otherwise she would be bad, like her own mother. And suddenly she found herself wondering how much of Rosario was in her. Wasn’t the frustration she felt a sign that perhaps something wasn’t right? Where was the joy all those manuals on motherhood promised? Where was the perfect fulfilment a mother was supposed to feel? Why did she only feel exhaustion and a sense of failure?
Instead she said:
‘I already had this job when you met me, James. You accepted that I was and always would be a police officer. If you thought my job would prevent me from being a good wife and mother, you should have said so then.’ She stood up and deposited her cup in the sink, adding as she brushed past him: ‘I don’t need to tell you, this is a marriage, not a life sentence. If you don’t like it …’
James pulled an incredulous face.
‘For heaven’s sake, Amaia! Don’t be so melodramatic,’ he said, rising and following her down the corridor.
She wheeled around, pressing a finger to her lips.
‘You’ll wake up Ibai.’ She went into the bathroom, leaving James standing in the middle of the corridor, shaking his head in disbelief.
She couldn’t fall asleep, and spent the next two hours tossing and turning on the bed, trying unsuccessfully to relax enough to get some rest, while the murmur of the TV James was watching floated in from the living room.
She knew she was behaving like a shrew, being unfair on James, yet somehow she couldn’t help feeling he deserved it … Why? Simply for being understanding? Loving? She wasn’t quite sure what she wanted from him, only that she felt bad inside, and wished he wouldn’t simplify things so much, that he could unburden her, reassure her, but above all understand her. She would have given anything for him to understand her, to realise it had to be this way. Reaching out to touch the empty half of the bed, she dragged James’s pillow towards her, pressing her face into it to find his smell. Why was she making such a mess of things? She felt the urge to go to him … to tell him … to tell him … she wasn’t sure what, maybe that she was sorry.
She climbed out of bed and padded barefoot across the oak floorboards, which creaked underfoot. Poking her head round the door, she saw that James was asleep, propped up on his side, while a succession of adverts illuminated the room where the natural light had faded a while ago. She studied his peaceful expression, reflected in the TV screen. As she approached him, she stopped in her tracks. She had always envied his ability to fall asleep anytime, anywhere, but suddenly, the fact that he could do that when he was supposed to be upset, at least as upset as she was … What the hell! They’d had probably their worst argument ever, and he went off to sleep, as relaxed as if he’d just got out of the sauna. Two million light years away. She glanced at her watch: they still had to pack all the things Ibai would need in Elizondo. Leaving the room, she called out as she walked away:
‘James.’
After loading the car as if they were about to climb Everest rather than spend a few days fifty kilometres from home, she gave James a dozen instructions about Ibai, his clothes, how to dress him so he wouldn’t catch cold but wouldn’t sweat too much, then kissed the baby, who gazed at her from his car seat, content after his feed. He had slept all afternoon and would probably stay awake all the way to Elizondo, but he wouldn’t cry. He liked being in the car with its soft purring sound, and seemed to love the music James played, a little too loud, she thought, so that even if he didn’t sleep, he would enjoy a relaxed journey.
‘I’ll be there in time for his next feed.’
‘… And if not, I’ll give him the bottle,’ replied James, installed behind the wheel.
She was about to answer back, but wanted to avoid another argument with him. Partly out of superstition, she didn’t want them to part on an angry note. As a police officer she had witnessed all too often the responses of relatives when told that a loved one had died, how much deeper their grief was if at the time of that person’s death they weren’t on speaking terms because of a usually trivial argument that would
