by Emma Cooper
It’s strange to me that I’m able to function at this level when I’ve just found out this news. I can’t even find the right adjective to describe my reaction (distraught? overjoyed? confused?), let alone understand why I am functioning, why I’m able to consider the technician’s feelings when I am so filled with emotions but at the same time so devoid of them.
‘Would you like a picture?’ I’m momentarily confused and think that she wants me to grin into a camera, but then I understand that she’s talking about the thing on the screen: the swirl of greys that has a heartbeat.
‘Er, I guess?’ Again, her face looks as though it’s about to crumble, like I’ve just told her that Santa isn’t real. ‘Yes, of course, that would be perfect.’ I hear my voice reply, but it seems to be speaking a language that I don’t understand, a language, I suppose, of motherhood.
She smiles at that and I stare at the screen again until the the picture disappears.
The car is a mess, and one side is beyond repair, but it still turns over and will get me to Helen’s.
Deep down, I knew something was wrong . . . I think about the image on the screen, think about the heartbeat: nice and strong. Perhaps ‘wrong’ is not the right word to use? Something was different? That’s better. I knew that something was different.
The car and I limp our way along the roads. We ignore the toots from angry horns as they overtake, laughing at the state of us: one wiper working, an all but flat tyre on the passenger side and a painful screeching sound coming from the engine, until, with relief, we arrive at Helen’s house.
‘Where the hell have you been?!’ Helen exclaims, as she envelops me in a fried-onion-smelling embrace.
‘Long story,’ I mutter into her hair.
‘Where is your stuff?’
‘Can I use your loo first before you give me twenty questions?’
‘Yes, come in, you look awful.’
‘Toilet first, Hel, explanations later.’
‘Right, yes. OK. Kids will be back in an hour!’ she shouts behind my retreating back as I rush up the stairs, past the chaotic array of family photos that pose and grin at me from the walls, and into the bathroom. I dig around in my bag for the test that I bought from the pharmacy and pull down my jeans. Sitting down on the toilet, I tear open the white wrapper with my teeth, take the plastic end from the white stick and wave it in the vicinity of my urine which I can no longer contain.
I have a theory: the test results in the A and E department could have been mixed up with anyone’s, and as for the scan, these things are filmed all the time – what’s not to say that what was on the screen was just a recording of some other unfortunate soul? And the pains that may or not be my uterus growing are probably, actually, just nasty period pains. What I need is proof that hasn’t been tampered with by anyone else.
Purposely, I ignore the pink stain that is creeping across the two clear plastic windows and instead wash my face and hands. From time to time, I glance suspiciously across to the window ledge at the test until I can’t put it off any longer. Replacing the towel on the radiator, I take a step towards the window ledge. I watch my hand pick it up and turn it over. I’m met with two very strong, very clear pink lines.
I am pregnant.
It feels like I’m drowning in this knowledge. I repeat it over and over in my mind, but it can’t seem to anchor. I can’t seem to keep hold of it, as if the word is being pulled by an uncontrollable tide: finally, it sinks, finds ground. There is a baby inside me, right now.
I look down at my stomach and give it a little poke.
‘Hello.’
It doesn’t reply . . . but somehow, I know it’s listening.
A small smile plays at the corner of my mouth as I realise why it is that the coffee Helen has placed in front of me has turned my stomach. I ask Helen for tea instead and she looks at me quizzically; my hand is resting on my stomach.
Looking around at the chaos that fills the kitchen, I stare at the painted handprints that are stuck to the grubby fridge; the smears on the stainless-steel kettle and the plastic plates and beakers that are sitting haphazardly on the draining board: a vast contrast to the sleek lines that shine from my own kitchen. I never feel unsettled here, though, never feel the need to spray anti-bacterial spray over everything, leaving everywhere faultless and perfect, because it is perfect: perfectly Helen.
She gulps down coffee that is clearly still too hot, glancing at the clock intermittently as though it will be sucked into a black hole at any minute; her daughters Caitlin and Jessica (ages three and five respectively) will be home within the hour. I have always loved coming here: the way the house smells of cooking and scented candles; the way that Helen and her husband Greg (a huge bear of a man with a mass of curly brown hair that is always a little too long, a little too wild) argue continuously but always end the conversation by whipping a bottom with a tea towel and a giggle, or a one-liner that makes her face light up even though she is rolling her eyes. Helen’s life is something I have always enjoyed – from afar. I have never wanted it to be mine, never been envious, just . . . enjoyed it.
‘I’ve been fired.’ I watch her reaction from over the rim of the cup. She spits out her coffee in a dramatic explosion that showers the kitchen table.
‘Fired?! How the hell has that happened? Did you sleep with the boss and his wife found out? Or did you, you know, sleep with your assistant? And she did you for sexual harassment, because I’ve always said I wouldn’t judge you, but—’
‘Christ, Helen, when was the last time you read a decent book or watched something other than the soaps?’
‘Too tired to read, and back off – the soaps are the only things on telly when the kids are around that don’t involve coloured ponies or presenters that look like they have had too much caffeine.’
‘Point taken, and no, nothing that exciting, I’m afraid. I’ve been accused of stealing information from the company we were taking over.’
‘What? Did you?’
‘Helen! No!’
‘Sorry. Knee-jerk reaction, but you must have done something, or you wouldn’t be sitting here – you’d be demanding your job back.’ Seeing my wobbling lip, her face drops.
‘Oh my Lord, are you about to actually cry?’
I laugh through my tears at that, as she gets up from the table and fetches some kitchen roll with pictures of onions across the bottom. I wonder if the designer had a wicked sense of humour or if they just had a penchant for them. I blow my nose into it as I consider whether it is a pretty enough vegetable to be used decoratively, and decide that, no, it is not. This thought makes me cry a little harder as I realise that I now have the time to consider this useless fact. Six weeks ago, the thought wouldn’t have crossed my mind. Helen is sitting opposite me with a look of utter horror.
‘Oh, Hel . . .’ I rummage into my bag and pull out the test, noticing as I do that the pink lines look even more vivid than they did ten minutes ago. Helen snatches it from my hand and stares at it, biting her bottom lip just like she used to when she was worried as a child.
‘Oh. Wow! I mean, wow! Congratulations?’ she says tentatively.
‘Thanks.’
‘Did they fire you because they found out you’re pregnant and tried to frame the whole stealing thing on you because they didn’t want to pay out for maternity pay? Because I’ve heard all sorts about discrimination against working mothers and—’
‘No. I’ve only just found out. Today. After I crashed my car. They did a routine test because I was having some stomach pains.’
‘You crashed your car?!’
‘Seriously?’ I hold out my hands in exasperation. ‘That’s what you are bothered about?’
‘Well no, obviously, but you know how I love that car.’
‘Helen!’
‘Well, I do, but, oh gosh, come here.’ She kneels in front of me and holds my hands. ‘Who’s the father?’
‘Samuel.’
‘Hot Irish Samuel?’
>
‘Hot Irish Samuel.’ I give a little shrug of my shoulders as though it was a foregone conclusion that it wouldn’t be anyone other than him.
‘I thought you were on the pill?’
‘I am, but I had a sickness bug the week before I went over to DC. It’s not like I was thinking much about contraception then. There hasn’t been anyone since Samuel.’
‘Are you together? Again?’ She looks up at me hopefully.
‘No.’
‘Why not? You said that you were going to sort everything out, tell him about why you couldn’t stay together until that deal was sorted.’
‘Because he thinks I stole his idea.’ I blow my nose again noisily and wipe away the tears before taking a sip of tea – grimacing because there is too much milk in it.
‘But if you explain—’
‘I did, but then—’ I look up at the ceiling and try to control the watering of my eyes. I take a deep breath. ‘He’s the one who got me fired. Slept with me then, well, got his own back, I suppose. I don’t blame him really.’ Helen’s eyebrows shoot up into an angry triangle. ‘Don’t look at me like that, try to see it from his point of view. He thinks I stole his idea and then took over the company that he was going to turn around, took it over with – from his point of view – his own idea.’
‘Did you explain that to him, before you, you know?’
‘Of course I did, but, well, it seems that he didn’t believe me. I understand why he would do it. He’s hurt and betrayed. Don’t forget I buggered off and didn’t tell him anything.’
‘I told you! I told you to ring him and apologise.’ She purses her lips and crosses her arms.
‘Again, Helen, really? I told you so? Bigger picture, Helen, bigger picture.’ I reach into my bag again and let my fingers run along the edge of the cardboard frame. ‘Speaking of which . . . do you want to see it?’ Her face lights up and she claps her hands as I pass the picture with a shy smile. ‘It’s apparently the size of a baked bean.’
‘Bean . . .’ she smiles at the picture, ‘nice to meet you.’
Week Six
Samuel
SPRING
Week Seven
Sophie
As I lie in Jessica’s bed, covered in pink cartoon ponies, I listen to the sounds of Helen’s house: the hum of the central heating, the click and hum of the fridge below and the gentle snores of Caitlin lying opposite. I look up at the fluorescent stars on the ceiling and place my hand on top of my stomach. Can I do this? Can I have this baby, this Bean? I turn on to my side; the bed creaks and springs twang in resistance to my adult weight. My eyes close and I breathe in the smell of fabric softener mixed with something else, something sweet, something which is alien to me.
I replay the last time I saw him. I think about the way he looked at me and I feel his betrayal cutting deeper than it did before, because now I have Bean. Do I want a man who can do that? Sleep with someone, make them believe that they were loved, only to betray them the next day? I meant what I said: I do understand why he would do it and, as crazy as it sounds, I could forgive him for it, but now . . . now there is Bean and I can feel that forgiveness – that understanding – slipping through my fingers.
The night is spent drifting in and out of sleep, like all the nights over the past week. At half past three I creep downstairs, pausing next to Caitlin for a moment, watching the rise and fall of her chest; the way her cheeks are slightly flushed and how her chubby hand remains gripped around her snowman doll even though the rest of her body is relaxed. She looks so vulnerable and precious that the realisation of Bean becomes ever more threatening. I leave the room quickly, trying to discard this terror that feels heavy and brittle, but it does not stay in the room with the sleeping child. This terror follows me into the kitchen. It won’t be quietened, but becomes louder, irrepressible; it spreads its thorns into hidden places and panic fills me. I wander quietly into the lounge and pull the cord on the lamp, filling the room with a sepia hue.
The room is mismatched. Pieces of odd furniture are marked with fading felt-tip pens; toy boxes line the edges with dead-eyed Barbies making a bid for escape. The book shelf is filled with dog-eared stories of rabbits and tigers, pirates and princesses; among them I spot a few familiars, a few glimpses of the Helen I grew up with, but they are few. The real Helen has become suffocated, smothered and pushed back, retreating behind the urgent needs of these garish books. My stomach cramps, a reminder that Bean is here and with me . . . is this what it will do? Will it suffocate me? Turn me into something, someone I’m not?
I wander over to the fireplace and pick up one of the photos of me, Mum and Helen; it can’t be long after she’d moved in with us. We are standing in the garden; the wind is blowing my hair and I remember that it had smelt of candyfloss . . . Mum had been trying to make fudge and the sugar had burnt so we had to go outside because of the smoke. He had taken this picture. I close my eyes and prod the memory until it hurts: the smell; the sound of the sea in the background and her laughter. Grief hits me like a wave; I let it crash over my head, let it fill my ears and my lungs until I can’t breathe. I collapse on to the floor and cry, for the injustice of what happened to my mother and for the injustice of what is happening to me. Like glue, the memories ooze through me, thick and profuse.
I was fifteen when she died. When he took her from us. My life was torn apart, but not in the way that Helen’s was. The community tried to support us, especially when the journalists started hounding us, trying to get an insight into the mind of a killer. The guilt Helen felt almost ruined her. She had always been a good girl, always dotted her ‘i’s and crossed her ‘t’s’; she couldn’t cope with the shame. She thought people were looking at her, pointing the finger; she lost her friends, she left university, she lost everything except me. Even now, Helen is always wary of strangers, always suspecting that they may be after her story.
We left Wales, we left the house that eventually became mine once I turned eighteen and we started again. To everyone other than Greg, she is just Helen Yates; they have no idea who her father was.
‘Aunty Sophin?’ I’m pulled back from the memories. I try to quickly compose myself as Caitlin stands by the door frame. Beneath sleepy lids, her wide blue eyes look tired; the battered and bruised snowman dangling from her hand. ‘Why you cryin’, Aunty Sophin? Did you fall over and have a bump?’
I nod as I try to silence the aftershocks of my tears which are still shaking my body. She scampers towards me, chucks the snowman to the floor and cocks her head to one side. ‘What is broken?’ she asks with her hands on her hips.
‘My heart,’ I say quietly and give her a brave smile.
‘Oh, I kiss it better. Put your arm like this.’ I follow her instructions and stretch my arm out where she plants a kiss on my wrist. I laugh despite myself.
‘Why have you kissed my arm?’
‘I didn’t kiss your arm, silly Aunty Sophin, I kiss your sleef.’
‘My sleef?’ I question.
‘Yes. Mummy says I wear my heart on my sleef.’ She climbs on to my lap and begins to twiddle her blond hair. ‘I like it when you live in my home, Aunty Sophin. Are you going to live here?’
‘No, sweeetie, I’m just visiting.’
‘Oh, then you go back to your home?’
I hear Mum’s voice as she crouches in front of my grazed knee, my cries turning into hiccups.
‘It’s just a scratch. Let’s get you home – you’ll feel better once you’re home.’
I kiss the top of her head and marvel at how, in the space of a minute, a three-year-old has managed to bandage my old wounds and help me back on to the road of recovery.
Week Seven
Samuel
‘Samuel? Can you open your eyes for me? Samuel?’
Week Eight
Sophie
I flick through Helen’s pregnancy book. By week eight, according to The Book, if I could see inside my stomach, I would be able to make out the tip of Bean’s nose,
the folds in the eyelids. Bean’s arms and legs are stretching out and bending towards where a tiny heart beats. It looks like a little person – albeit with a giant head.
I put the book down, grab a mirror and sigh at my pallid skin and lank hair, and begin to put my hair up and add some make-up.
‘Right then, Bean, this is the plan.’ I open my mouth into an ‘o’ and begin adding mascara to my lashes, then replace it in my make-up bag. ‘We’re going to go on a road trip – if you’ll let me off the hook this afternoon, that is.’ I swallow down another wave of nausea. ‘We’re going away, just me and you. I’m taking us home. My real home . . . our home.’
I haven’t been back to the cottage since just after Mum died. I own it outright and yet it has been sitting empty for the last fifteen years. I’ve made arrangements for the gas and electric to be reconnected and called a local odd-job man (Handy Huw) to visit it and make sure that the water is safe and that the heating is working after being shut up for so long.
‘But surely you’d be better off staying close by? Renting something here so I can help you?’ Helen asks as she pulls a pile of damp washing out of the washing machine. ‘Do you think this will dry on the line yet?’ She peers out of the kitchen window where petals of daffodil light fall intermittently through the clouds.
‘It’s supposed to rain later, I think,’ I tell her. She sighs and begins putting half of the laundry into the tumble dryer. ‘I’ve thought about it, Helen. I can’t face going back to London, not for a while, at least. I’ve registered the house with a renting company – fully furnished, so I only need to get my clothes and stuff out. They’ve already got a couple interested.’
‘Won’t that be weird? Having some stranger living in your house?’ She slams the door with her hip and presses buttons that whir the machine into action.
‘Strangely . . . no. It’s just a house.’
