He cleared his throat.
“There really isn’t an easy way to tell you what I’m about to say, so I’ll get straight to the point. My apologies if it comes across as a little blunt, but I want you to be clear on the situation. Are you okay with that, Mr Pelling?”
I nodded.
“Miss Franklin has suffered a miscarriage. I’m sorry to say she’s lost the baby.”
A dozen confused questions stormed my mind at once, but my mouth couldn’t deliver a single one. Assuming my silence meant I was ready for more bad news, the doctor pressed-on.
“Mr Pelling, I’m afraid the situation doesn’t end there. Miss Franklin lost a lot of blood before she arrived here and we had to operate immediately to stem that bleeding. She’s in surgery as we speak, and her condition is critical. She’s receiving the best of care and we’ll do everything we possibly can, but she’s a poorly young woman.”
“But she’ll be all right though?” I croaked.
“As I say, she’s receiving the best of care so try to remain positive,” he replied with a weak smile.
Just an hour earlier, my biggest problem was what to have for lunch — but within those sixty short minutes, I’d lost my unborn child and been told my girlfriend was critically ill. There was precious little positivity to grasp.
Dr Renwick showed me to a relatives’ room and promised to update me the moment he had any further news. Before I could ask any questions, he said he had an urgent matter to attend to and left me to my own devices. I stood and gazed around the room which was furnished like a budget hotel. A faded blue sofa sat against a magnolia wall, below a framed print of a rural scene. There was a small TV sat on a shelf, opposite a compact vending machine for relatives who sought solace in a can of Dr Pepper or a Twix. If the room was supposed to provide comfort, it failed miserably. I slumped down on the sofa and wondered just how much grief that room had seen. It was not a room for good news — just bad news or fragile hope.
Painfully long minutes ticked-by as I tried, and failed, to ignore the needles of anxiety peppering my chest. Now and then, a wave of deep panic would descend on me, dissipating just before the urge to flee the room became overwhelming. To distract myself, I picked up a dog-eared magazine from a coffee table next to the sofa. I scanned the words on the pages, but my mind failed to turn them into coherent sentences. I got up, paced the room in small circles, and then turned on the TV, just in time to catch a chirpy advert for baby food. Jesus.
I wanted to grieve the loss of our baby, but my concern for Megan was overwhelming. I thought back to when she first told me about the pregnancy and a damning memory returned — the last thing we needed was a baby. No god had listened to me before, but maybe he had this time. Was I to blame? Trying to avoid the question, I sought further distraction. I walked over to the window and gazed out upon flat-roofed buildings, set against an opaque sky. It was a dreary, sombre view that perfectly mirrored the way I felt in that moment. I turned away from the window just as the door opened behind me.
Dr Renwick entered the room, clutching a black clipboard. He suggested I sat down, so I dropped back onto the sofa and he perched himself on the arm, studying the notes on his clipboard before speaking.
He picked up in the same blunt manner as before.
“Miss Franklin is no longer on the critical list. We stemmed the bleeding in time and all things being equal, she should make a full recovery.”
Before I could let the relief wash over me, the doctor’s thin smile disappeared. His body language suggested my fragile hope was about to be fractured.
“While it’s a positive outcome regarding her condition, I’m afraid the miscarriage had wider implications than the loss of your baby alone. There was extensive, and potentially life-threatening damage to Miss Franklin’s womb. Unfortunately we had no alternative other than to conduct an emergency hysterectomy.”
I heard the words, but like those in the magazine, my brain couldn't convert them into anything that made sense.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“Mr Pelling, a hysterectomy is an operation to remove all, or parts of the womb. There are no long-term health issues relating to the procedure and a woman can lead a perfectly normal life without a womb. However, I’m afraid it means that Miss Franklin can no longer conceive or carry a child.”
I stared at the Doctor, trying to absorb the ramifications of his words.
“We can’t have kids?” I asked in a low voice.
“In the biological sense, I’m afraid not.”
Dr Renwick ensured I understood the situation and handed me a pamphlet to absolve himself of any further questioning. He asked if I wanted to see Megan and led me back along the endless corridor and up a flight of stairs. We entered a ward divided into four individual sections, each containing six beds, occupied by women of differing ages. At the end of the last section were three doors directly ahead of us. The doctor peered through the glazed port hole in the door on the left before ushering me in. With the blinds closed, and the lights off, the room was relatively dark compared to the brightness of the main ward. My unconscious girlfriend was lying on a bed positioned against the back wall, next to a machine with blinking lights and numbers. The urge to run returned.
Dr Renwick left the room, and for while I stood at the end of Megan’s bed, trying to comprehend the view. She had an oxygen mask over her face, and there were various wires attached to her thin body. It was a scene I’d viewed many times on TV; ill-preparation for the distressing reality. I tentatively approached a chair to the side of the bed, taking a seat and staring at the mother of my lost child. She didn’t look much more than a child herself. Her skin was ashen, and they'd dressed her in a light blue smock that hung from her bony shoulders. Her permed hair looked like a bird’s nest, a few unruly strands plastered to her moist forehead.
I sat there for hours, just watching her chest rise and fall in slow, rhythmic breaths. I could hear the faint thrum of activity from the ward beyond the door, but it was otherwise quiet, almost peaceful. My eyelids grew heavier, and just as I was about to rest them for a while, Megan’s forehead furrowed and her eyes flickered. I leapt from my chair and leant over her as her eyes blinked to find focus.
“Megan, it’s okay, I’m here,” I said softly.
Her blue eyes bore a look of confusion as she lifted a weak hand to her oxygen mask, tugging it from her face. Her lips peeled-apart as she tried to talk, but her mouth didn’t cooperate. I’d noticed a jug of water and paper cups sat on a small table in the far corner of the room. I sprung from my chair and half-filled a cup with tepid water. I held it to Megan’s mouth before she lifted her hand again and held it herself, drawing tiny sips into her dry mouth. She emptied the paper cup with one final tilt and let her hand fall to her chest. Her lips smacked as she prepped her mouth and finally whispered a few weak words.
“What happened, where am I?”
I didn’t answer Megan’s question. In one of the most shameful acts of my life, I said that we really should get a nurse to check her over, and I left the room. I didn’t have the fortitude to inflict so much pain on somebody I cared so much about. I scoured the ward and found a nurse who I hoped could do the job I couldn’t. She was in her fifties, and her face was kind, her manner reassuring. In a soft Irish accent she told me her name was Marion, and not to worry, that she would talk to Megan. She patted me on the arm before heading off to devastate my girlfriend. I couldn’t even bear to be in the room when it happened. I found a seat in a small reception area and waited like the coward I was.
Minutes passed as I sat staring at my feet with my head in my hands, guilt rising. Megan would be beyond devastated to hear that we’d lost the baby. If that was the extent of the bad news, at least there would still be enough hope to build upon. But for Megan there was no hope of ever being a mother, and that would be unbearable for her to hear. Yet there I sat, forty feet away, while she went through that ordeal with a complete stranger. What
a despicable little man I was. I stood up, and dressed in a cloak of shame, I walked back to the room.
I entered to find Nurse Marion sat on the chair I’d occupied earlier, holding Megan’s hand. She looked up at me with a smile that I guess was meant to reassure me. Megan looked broken, her cheeks stained by tears, her eyes puffy and red. Marion said she’d give us some time alone, and with a final squeeze of Megan’s hand, she left the room. I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to speak, but struggled for words. Every inch of me wanted to scoop Megan up from the bed and hold her tight — her tender, post-op body made that impossible. Instead, I held both her hands, and gently pressed my forehead to hers.
I finally croaked a few words.
“I’m so sorry, honey.”
Her body shook, followed by an inevitable explosion of grief. Deep, raw, unadulterated grief. I wrapped my arms behind her shoulders to bring her close, her head buried in my chest. I held her as tight as I dared until she cried herself out, then slowly let her fall back into the pillows. I took her hands again, while trying desperately to keep my own emotions in check. This was a time to be strong, no matter how hard it was.
“I wish there was something I could say, something I could do to make it better.”
Megan gazed into my eyes, struggling to keep herself from breaking down again. Her voice weak, she found some words.
“Why us Craig, why me?”
“I don’t know honey, god, I wish I did. I’m not going to pretend this will be easy, but I’ll be here for you, always, I promise. We’ll get through this, you know that?”
Her eyes dropped, and she replied with a faint nod.
“I want my mum,” she said quietly.
It hadn’t even crossed my mind to tell Megan’s parents what had happened. Somewhere, they were going-about their daily business without a care in the world. I now had to tell them their daughter’s life had just been torn apart. When I thought it couldn’t, the day just got worse.
I promised Megan I would be as quick as I could and darted out of the room. I eventually found a pay phone back on the main corridor. A gaunt man in a red dressing gown was making a call, so I leant against the wall and considered what I would say to Megan’s parents. I had to tell them about losing the baby, but was it appropriate to tell them over the phone that their daughter would never bare them a grandchild? I decided it wasn’t. The gaunt man finished his call and shuffled back along the corridor. I picked up the receiver, dropped a coin into the slot, and dialled their number. After six rings, Megan’s mum picked up the phone.
“Hello Sally, it’s Craig.”
Before I could say anything else, Sally started wittering-on cheerfully about a cot she’d seen that morning. Without drawing breath, she gave me a full description of the cot and a detailed set of instructions for finding the shop.
I interjected, maybe too bluntly.
“I’m sorry Sally, Megan has lost the baby.”
Her verbal onslaught stopped mid-sentence.
“What? No, she can’t have,” she replied in obvious disbelief.
“I’m at the hospital now, Sally. Megan is asking for you, so please get here as soon as you can.”
She said they’d be with us in ten minutes and hung up.
True to her word, Sally, and her husband Martin, arrived ten minutes later. I stood at the back of the room while both parents comforted their daughter. I felt like an outsider, a macabre voyeur watching in real time as a family shared their grief. I made an excuse about going to the toilet and left them to it. They didn’t need me there, and I suspected Megan’s parents didn’t want me there. Somehow the fact I’d also lost my unborn child was inconsequential to them. If I wanted sympathy, I’d have to find it elsewhere. I headed back to the pay phone and called my mum. She listened to me cry again.
Megan would spend ten days in hospital, and with little else to do, we talked a lot. She tried to focus on a new future, one that didn’t involve parenthood, but might involve the zealous pursuit of a stellar career and all the associated trappings. Her aspirations seemed unconvincing, but if it gave her something positive to look forward to, I was happy to go along with it. But lurking beneath Megan’s resolve, something negative had seeded. A toxic combination of resentment and bitterness that would fester in the years to come, eventually defining her.
We married within a year, the wedding a welcome distraction from the reality of our relationship. We may have looked like any other newly wed husband and wife, but we left the church as two people who had lost a baby and faced a future without children. It would become the only bond holding us together. I never thought about it too deeply, but I suspect guilt and misguided loyalty were the real foundations of our marriage.
It would never be enough.
PART TWO
1
Holding a mug of coffee, I open the door to the spare room where Dave is sprawled across our futon, snoring loudly. The duvet I gave him last night is on the floor, and he’s still wearing his shorts and t-shirt.
Our evening at the Fox & Hounds ended early after Dave tried his hand at karaoke. His horrific rendition of ‘Karma Chameleon’ virtually emptied the bar, and the landlord made it clear it was time for us to leave. Dave claims that since he started his fitness regime, his enhanced metabolism has rendered him unable to handle his drink. It’s not uncommon for him to become paralytic after only five or six pints. He had seven pints last night. With Dave in such a mess, and Megan out with her work colleagues, I thought it best to deposit him on the futon in our spare room.
I place the coffee mug on a small table and kick Dave’s outstretched leg, in an effort to wake him.
“Oi! Rise and shine Boy George.”
Dave slowly comes round, and judging by the look on his face, vague memories of last night gatecrash his first thoughts.
“Fuck, I feel horrendous,” he grunts.
I pick up the mug of coffee and hand it to him.
“Cheers. Where’s Megan?”
“She left for work five minutes ago, but not before telling me you pissed over the bathroom floor last night. She’s not best pleased with you, mate.”
Dave rolls his eyes.
“She's a ray of sunshine isn’t she? Why do you put up with her constant whinging, mate?”
I don’t answer.
Time has hardened the way people think about my wife. Their sympathy has ebbed away, and the reason she is the way she is, long forgotten. It seems a lifetime ago that she was that poor girl who lost a baby and the chance of motherhood. She’s now regarded by many of my friends and colleagues as a moody harridan. It's hard to defend her sometimes, but the picture of a young, broken woman in a hospital bed is forever a reminder I'm partly responsible for her being the way she is. I created, and now have to live with, this particular monster.
I tell Dave to lock the front door on his way out. He nods and returns to his coffee. I leave the house and start the journey to work, accompanied by a dull headache and furry mouth. I turn on the radio, just in time to hear the news. Another celebrity, who I assumed was already dead, has died. I change the station hoping to find something a little less depressing. My search only finds a succession of inane breakfast DJs. I turn off the stereo and wallow in the silence.
I arrive at work and head straight for the staff room, in dire need of coffee and painkillers. One-by-one, the staff arrive, and the chatter becomes too much for my aching head. I ask Lucy to open up the store and head for my office, under the ruse I’ve got some urgent paperwork to attend to. What I’m actually attending to is Marcus’s plan to close our branch, or more specifically, an idea that might derail his plan.
My inspiration came last night at the pub, roughly around the fifth pint. Our alcohol-fuelled drivel centered on a question about Arnold Schwarzenegger films, and which one was our favourite. I went for ‘Terminator 2’ and Dave chose ‘Total Recall’, which was also the movie of choice for a certain customer at Video City many years ago. That customer got me out of
a hole back then, and it struck me that he could do the same again now.
I close the office door and put my coffee on the desk. I rummage through my desk drawer, trying to locate an item that might well hold the key to our collective futures. I eventually find what I’m looking for — a single business card. I hold it out in front of me as if I’d unearthed The Holy Grail. Printed below the RolpheTech logo is the name of our potential saviour. I smile to myself and triumphantly read the name out loud.
“Brian Carter.”
This is the same Brian Carter who hired a copy of ‘Total Recall’ from Video City in 1990 and subsequently offered me a job. A few years after I started at RolpheTech, Brian secured promotion to area manager, and then director. Despite his rise up the corporate ladder, we remained friends, and we’d occasionally meet for a few beers when he was in the area. Although Brian retired from the board several years ago, I know that he retained a small shareholding in RolpheTech, and is still well-connected with many of the current board members.
I grab the phone from my desk and dial Brian’s mobile number. He answers almost immediately.
“Hi Brian, it’s Craig, Craig Pelling.”
“Good morning, young man. How the devil are you?”
We spend ten minutes idly chatting before I get down to the matter in hand.
“I have to be honest Brian, there is an ulterior motive behind my call.”
“Okay, I’m listening,” he replies hesitantly.
I explain the situation with the branch and give him the lowdown on Marcus.
“Sounds like you’ve got yourself in a pickle there, young Craig.”
“That’s putting it mildly. Unless I can get somebody to fight our corner with the other board members, I’m screwed. Is there anyone you can talk to?”
The '86 Fix: A 1980s Time Travel Novel Page 8
