The Dinosaur Feather

wouldn’t look at you when she fed you. You looked at her. You could barely open your eyes and yet you were trying with all your being to get her attention. But she looked out of the window, at the birds on the feeding table. When she had fed you, she would put you down quickly. In your cot or on a blanket on the floor. She would sit down to read. I’m just tired, she would say, whenever I summoned up the courage to challenge her. After only a short time, Cecilie said her milk had dried up and I believed her. But then I saw her in the shower one day. Her eyes were closed and the water jet was aimed at her face. I happened to be in the bathroom to fetch something. And the milk was running down her belly, dripping into the drain. When we went to bed that night, I confronted her. It was mid-January, you were about a month old, I think, and she freaked out, like I had never seen her before. She screamed and she shouted, she slapped her own face. “I’m a bad mother. Is that what you’re saying?” You were in your cot, crying and crying. In the end I took you down to my study. It was awful. I settled you down, but you woke up in the middle of the night, hungry. I went back to the bedroom where Cecilie was sleeping, but she didn’t want you. Take her away, she said. I didn’t know what to do. I ended upfeeding you milk with a spoon. We had nothing else. No bottle, no formula. Cecilie had been looking forward to breast-feeding you all through her pregnancy. The next day, I went shopping for everything, bottles, dummies and formula. I left you at home while I did it, it was still freezing cold outside. Cecilie was sitting by the window, staring at the garden, when I left. You were lying on a blanket with your duvet over you. I remember asking Cecilie if she wanted to pick you up. “Not now, she’s asleep,” she snapped. I drove into town and bought what I needed. I was gone an hour, maybe. You were still asleep when I came back, but Cecilie wasn’t there. I looked in all the rooms, I called her name. She returned two hours later. Covered in powder snow, her cheeks flushed. She was in a slightly better mood. I prepared a bottle for you and asked Cecilie if she wanted to feed you, but she preferred to have a bath. “You do it,” she said. “I already know how.”’ Jens breathed in deeply. ‘A few days later I went back to work.’
    Anna could see his Adam’s apple bob up and down.
    ‘It was fine,’ he said, and his eyes grew dark. ‘No, it wasn’t, not at all. But I couldn’t bear it, Anna, I couldn’t bear watching it. I don’t know how else to explain it. When you were five weeks old, the health visitor returned. She had been there, twice, the first few weeks, while everything was still new. She had told me not to pressure Cecilie into breastfeeding. That bottles were okay. That most mothers got the baby blues. That you were a healthy little girl. To call her with any worries.
    ‘On her next visit, she raised the alarm. You hadn’t gained enough weight and she couldn’t get you to respond properly.Our lives changed that afternoon. Cecilie didn’t like feeding you. She told the health visitor to her face. She thought it was disgusting when your nappy needed changing, when you puked up milk. Our house was a total mess. I was at my wits’ end. The health visitor asked so many questions. A doctor arrived soon afterwards. Cecilie said that yes, she often wished she had never had you. Sometimes, she would leave you on your own, she said, bluntly. That was when I realised how thin Cecilie had become. Scrawny, like a twig. The health visitor gave me a look I’ll never forget. It said: Don’t you realise that children can die through lack of love? They can die!
    The doctor examined Cecilie and spoke to her. They left shortly afterwards. I held you while the health visitor packed up your things.
    ‘We need to look into this,’ she said. ‘We need to decide the best place for your daughter to be. It might be a while before you get her back.’ Her eyes were a mix of condemnation and compassion. Then she took you away. It wasn’t until then I snapped out of my trance. I ran around the house, howling like an animal.’
    Anna wiped away a tear, and Jens looked at the floor.
    ‘The system took over. Your mother was hospitalised. She didn’t want to see you. She would barely see me. She was far away, didn’t care. For a long time it looked like I wouldn’t be allowed to keep you. Three, four weeks. I