“I wasn’t looking for clues. I thought I was dying. I thought that was why I was being sick.”
She exhales. “Of course. But what the fuck?” she scoffs.
“Sorry. Not funny,” she adds.
Our coffees arrive and we sit there, spooning the froth into our mouths. Olivia is smirking.
“So this secret man on the heath. Are you still in touch?”
“God, no!”
“Who is he then?”
“No idea.”
“SHUT UP! You’re having a laugh.”
“If only.”
“Harry must be thrilled.”
“He doesn’t know yet.”
“Awkward!”
“Just a bit!”
“When are you going to tell him?”
“Soon.”
“You mean before he works it out all by himself.”
“Sooner than that. He’s going to California on a long trip. When he gets back, we’re doing an early Christmas before he goes to his mother’s. If I manage to hold on to this little one, I thought I could make it his Christmas present.”
“He might prefer the sweater,” she says, laughing.
“Don’t laugh. You might be right. Oh, Liv! But I really want this baby.”
“More than you want him?”
“I don’t know. Our relationship is good right now. I mean, he’s thrown himself back into work and he’s away a lot, but that was always how it was, only now he keeps in touch regularly, better than he ever did and I’m hoping. . . .” I intuitively place my hands over my stomach. “Hey! Let’s not talk about him.”
“Fine by me. Let’s talk about the man on the heath. What was he like?”
I roll my eyes. “I can’t really remember.”
“Well, try!”
She’s not going to let this one go. “All I can remember is that he was kind . . . and tender . . . and funny. And he smoked.”
“Jennifer! That’s on everyone’s wish list. Apart from the fag breath. Why on earth did you not stay in touch?”
“Because I had a date with destiny and I didn’t feel it fair to two-time him.”
“Don’t you think you should try to find him?”
“Why? As backup?”
“No. Out of fairness.”
“Are you mad? I don’t know his name and I can’t even remember what he looks like. That’s called needle in a haystack. I’m keeping my hopes pinned on Harry.”
“Oh, right! Because he’s always been so reliable.”
“Olivia!”
“I’ll drink my coffee and shut up,” she says.
18
Let me know if there’s anything you want me to bring you back. Text me. Or email me. And give me a clue as to what you’d like for Christmas.” Harry is calling me from the airport. I can hear the Tannoy announcements in the background. I can’t think of anything more alluring right now than jumping on a plane and heading off for a bit of sunshine in California. But Harry never invites me on his work trips. Not even now when I’m free to travel.
“Bring me back sunshine,” I say. “On second thoughts, don’t worry. I’d like a white Christmas.”
“Okay, Bing Crosby!” he says. “And don’t forget. They’re eight hours behind so I’ll keep in touch via email because I’m going to be charging around and might not get time to call when you’re awake. Okay?”
“Okay. Have a good trip.”
Harry’s suggestion suits me. I’d rather communicate over email than talk to him if my conversation with myself is anything to go by. It’s December and I know how many weeks I am—Dr. Mackenzie confirmed it; the dilemma of telling Harry sits firmly at the forefront of my mind.
Head: We’re nearly eleven weeks pregnant. Don’t you think we should tell Harry?
Heart: No. Wait until we’re really sure, when we see him at our pre-Christmas Christmas.
Head: We’re only delaying the inevitable. That’s not fair.
Heart: No, we’re not. We’re being cautious. And we want to see him when we tell him. And there’s never been a convenient time to say anything. Which has been convenient in a way.
Head: We can’t have this baby and have Harry. It’s just not going to happen.
Heart: Who says Harry isn’t going to fall in love with the idea? Who says he isn’t so in love with us he’ll refuse to give us up and agree to father the baby.
Head: Get real.
Heart: You’re just a horrible skeptic.
Head: And you’re a deluded romantic.
And so it goes on. So emails are just fine because my head might say something my heart will regret, but I can keep my fingers from blabbing.
19
She looks like she’s asleep. Peaceful. Content. To be honest, if it weren’t for the vaguely perceptible rise and fall of her chest, for all the wires snaking around her and the beeps and flashing of the equipment next to her, I’d think she was dead. But she’s not. Emily is just in a very, very deep sleep. Let’s not say the coma word. Let’s be hopeful.
* * *
—
The nurse had made it sound so simple. “We’ll go in and you’ll tell her who you are and then you just talk to her like normal,” she says. “Sit and chat.”
“Like normal?”
“Yes. Behave as though you’re having a one-sided conversation. Talk about anything you used to do together. The things you remember about the two of you growing up. You know . . . her favorite music or places you visited, things that made you laugh—”
“Right.” I’ve suddenly forgotten everything about our past. Like I’m on a radio phone-in competition and every thought in my head freezes. “Do you think she can hear me?”
“We believe so. Talk to her as though she can. And watch for a response. Of any kind.”
“Has she responded before?”
She shakes her head. “Not so far.”
I gather my strength. “People do come out of this type of coma, don’t they?”
“We never give up hope,” she says, a placatory smile, opening the door into Emily’s private room.
“Emily,” she trills. “You have a visitor, darling. Aren’t you a lucky girl?” She talks as if Emily’s sitting up in bed, bright as a button.
I’m shocked to see her from the other side of the glass pane. The horror of her condition seems more real. I pull myself together and try to adopt the nurse’s tone. “Hi, Em!” It comes out shakily. “It’s Jennifer. Um . . . Jennifer Cole. Your old friend. Remember me?” I feel ridiculous.
The nurse smiles at me, then says, “Try to chat. Be natural,” and she closes the door. I’m alone and there’s nothing natural about it. I sit down and look around. It’s a small clinical bedroom. A high bed with white metal frame, neatly tucked in sheets and blankets that remain undisturbed. It’s not dissimilar to the hospital rooms you see in the movies or on TV when there’s someone attached to wires and machines, lying in a coma. Only it’s my friend who’s attached and it’s real. Even though it’s surreal.
In a weird way she looks exactly like she did as a child. There’s something so innocent about her.
I wonder where to begin.
“How are you, Emily?” That’s a stupid thing to say for a start.
I watch her, scrutinizing her passive face the way you can when you think someone isn’t looking. She looks so stress-free and unlined. Not in an Isabelle way, more in a natural way. Like the years have drifted away and left no trace.
I begin telling her the thoughts I’ve prepared. “Do you remember when we used to dance around your room to Queen?” I say. “And Duran Duran. You always said you were going to marry Simon Le Bon.” This feels so bizarre. “Remember your brother’s hair? How he used to make you back-comb it and spray it with your mother’s hairspray until it was stiff as a board? Yo
ur father would go crazy and call him a poof!” I’d almost be enjoying myself if it wasn’t such a one-sided conversation.
I take her hand in mine, watching, waiting. A twitch would be enough. Maybe a flicker of her eyelids. Isn’t that what happens in the movies? I stare at her, willing it. Give me something, Em. Anything.
But there’s nothing. No miracle.
If I stop talking, the room becomes eerily silent. Barring the beep of machines.
The interminable beep.
I carry on. Despite my long rendition of retrieved memories, the things so personal to the two of us, her face doesn’t move. Nothing moves. I’m horribly aware that I’m going to let her mother down. I think she truly believed that I might be the difference. That my letter was a sign. I hear the nurse’s words, we never give up hope, yet I seem to have done precisely that.
Beep
Beep
Beep
“Em? Do you remember that holiday in Ibiza when Anna Maria stayed out late because she met some awful guy and wanted to see where it might go? And when it went nowhere she came home but she’d forgotten her key and had to sleep on the landing because we’d all passed out and didn’t hear her ring?” I check her expression. “Do you remember how we all laughed when we found her lying in a ball in the corridor snoring?
“Em? I wish you’d laugh now. Please. Wake up. You’re one of the only ones left who remembers this stuff. And you’re the only one who remembers my childhood. Well, apart from my sister, of course, but she saw it through different eyes. I’m so sorry I let you down, Em. For getting impatient with you. Can you forgive me? Please? It doesn’t matter that we haven’t spoken. Because like your mum said, we have history. You can’t buy that. You can’t friend it on Facebook. That means something, doesn’t it?”
Beep
Beep
Beep
I’m running out of inspiration.
“It’s Christmas soon. You love Christmas. Remember how we’d sing carols really loudly in school assembly. I bet we were embarrassing.” I snort at the memory. “Remember your favorite? Come on, Em. You must remember that.” Nothing. Not a twitch. Not a blink.
“Well, here’s a little reminder just for you.” I clear my throat. Ahem! Like I’m about to start an important performance.
“O little town of Bethlehem . . .” I gaze into the empty expression on her face. “How still we see thee lie,” I say, bringing the song to an abrupt halt.
This is not working. I have nothing more to give. I squeeze her incongruously warm hand and try and transmit all the love I possibly can.
“Choose life, Emily,” I say. “Please. Choose life.”
20
I’ve told Pattie I’m pregnant. She sounded shocked even though she didn’t say as much—pregnancy is never great news for an HR department— but I think she was delighted for me personally. I didn’t give her the full explanation nor did she ask for one. I’m guessing she thinks it’s Harry’s.
“I can’t believe this crazy turnaround in your life,” she says.
“I’m sorry for throwing this into the mix. I’m so embarrassed.”
“Why? I am aware people have sex, you know. I just wish I was one of them.”
I laugh, grateful for the left of field riposte. “There’s always Tinder, Pattie.”
“I’m on Bumble. Fat lot of use it’s done me. Obviously we’ll have to accommodate your pregnancy in your package, but don’t worry, we’ll sort something.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I hope it’s not going to cause too much grief.”
“Less grief than your previous condition, that’s for sure. Leave it with me,” she says.
Harry is back from California. He wanted time to recover from jet lag, but today he’s coming round for our pre-Christmas Christmas. I’m so looking forward to seeing him, desperately trying to build up heaps of joy and good cheer. And a huge dose of courage.
My gifts are wrapped and ready. Everything for Isabelle’s family is in a big carrier bag by the front door and Harry’s is under an acrylic Christmas tree that I bought at the local pound shop. It’s genius, already decorated with baubles, tinsel, and multicolored fairy lights. You simply plug it in and it’s instant Ding “Dong Merrily on High!”
Harry’s present looks lonely, but I have the surprise gift to save till last. Of course it could end up being a bad joke from a cheap cracker. But let’s think positive. The man loves me. He is more committed now than he’s ever been.
The Christmas pudding jumper is wrapped in black-and-gold foil, tied up with gold ribbon and a gold foil rosette, making it appear fabulously expensive. I want him to think I’ve made a supreme effort and think it’s something extravagant. Then he’ll get the joke.
It’s one of those gray, foggy days when the sky feels like it’s about to fall in on you because the clouds are so low. I bet Harry can’t see the top of the Shard. I just hope he can see his way over here. Hopefully the fog will start to lift and it will be fine before gathering again as night falls, meaning, with a bit of luck, Harry will have to stay after all. He’s intending to head off to his mother’s straight after our little party for two (or three) and has to hit the road by six because the motorways will be empty at that time, he says.
Even though it’s miserable outside, I’ve made it cozy inside. I’ve draped loads of red and green paper chains everywhere. There are plastic holly and berry garlands and trailing tinsel that I’ve taped to the walls. There’s a sign that lights up flashing HoHoHo, which I’ve propped against the window ledge. And there are a few strategically placed bunches of mistletoe. All from the pound shop. I even bought a fan heater but it seems to only manage to heat the area of the room directly in its path. I have to keep changing its position.
I’ve laid out a Christmas picnic on a rug in front of the sofa. Chicken wings, cocktail sausages with spicy tomato sauce, and mince pies with a can of whipped cream to add to the fun. There’s a CD playing Christmas songs on repeat. I refuse to be shortchanged on atmosphere.
Harry’s bringing prosecco. I’m going to allow myself a glass. Special dispensation. Then we’re going to watch It’s a Wonderful Life, a Christmas classic, for a change. I don’t think he’ll mind a bit of schmaltz. I’m alive and we’re together! That’s what matters.
I’m thrilled I’m nearly thirteen weeks along. I still have moments of tears from time to time. It’s silly, but I can’t seem to help it. Sometimes, I feel more emotional looking back at what I went through than I did when I was going through it. But I’m becoming less retrospective and starting to look to the future. I’ve seen the doctor and put arrangements for the birth in place. I’ve been assigned a midwife at the hospital. It’s significant. Particularly for me. I’m so thrilled to have scraped past my danger zone. I still worry it’s vulnerable, but I’ll probably worry about that the entire pregnancy. And in between worrying, I tell myself it’s going to be okay. Everything is going to be great. Because it’s the most wonderful time of the year.
I’m wearing a onesie. It’s a good solution when you don’t know what to wear and you’re about to tell the man you love you’re pregnant. With someone else’s baby.
So I’m dressed like a bunny, with big white and pink ears and a bobtail that I have to move every time I sit down because otherwise it feels like I’m sitting on someone’s foot. Yes, I look silly but why not? It will make Harry laugh, and I might need all the laughs I can get.
Harry stands on the doorstep, a big bag in his hand and studies me like he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry. “Nice outfit,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say. “It’s a bugger when you need to go to the loo, but it does mean I can eat all the pies.” I hold out the pink fluffy fabric of the tummy, proudly demonstrating the amount of spare room.
“Impressive.” He doesn’t sound impressed. He takes off his overcoat, strolls past me into the sitting r
oom, looks around, checking out my decorations, taking in the picnic. “What’s with the oh oh oh in your window?”
I point to the illuminated sign. “Now read it from inside!”
“Oh, right!” Not even a chuckle.
He’s odd. Definitely odd. He’s certainly not ready for Christmas.
“Hug?” I say. “Nice to see you, too.”
“Sorry,” he says and gives me a hug. He smells different.
“New aftershave? It’s nice.”
“It’s what I always wear,” he says.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Okay. It isn’t.”
What’s his problem? I think but I don’t want to know. Not today. I don’t want to know about another bad week. Or his failure to secure the painting in Santa Barbara. I don’t want to know anything bad. I want this to be a wonderful day of happiness and laughter and goodwill to all men. And women. And babies. Especially babies.
He’s wearing a thick-ribbed black polo neck sweater and black wool trousers. He’s come prepared for my freezing house. He’s probably wearing thermals. He opens the bag, pulls out a couple of bottles of prosecco without any fanfare, and says, “Jesus, it’s stuffy in here,” running his hand around his polo neck, loosening the ribbing.
“Voilà!” I say proudly, pointing at the whirring heat monster in the corner. “Pound shop. I blew the budget. Bought everything there.”
“Yeah,” he says, looking at my HoHoHo and then my flashing tree. “I guess I know what to expect in that then.” He points to the lonely parcel.
“Not that!” I say, sounding appropriately insulted. “I didn’t get your present from the pound shop.”
“Here,” he says and he hands me a small purple gift bag with a silver bow. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas!” I say, shaking it. “Don’t tell me. It’s a gold Mallomar?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Silver then. Perhaps gold was being greedy. Oh, come on, Harry, laugh.”
“It’s actually a beautiful gift. I went to a lot of trouble to find it.”
Death and Other Happy Endings Page 23
