Kate had nipped down first thing to say she was dropping the children off for an overnight stay with Alex, and to ask whether I’d like to see a film at the Brixton Ritzy that evening. I suspected her taste in film might not be the same as mine, but unusually I wasn’t put off by that. Perhaps my pregnancy hormones were affecting my critical faculties; or perhaps it was just that I couldn’t remember when I last went to the cinema with another person. I accepted the invitation. After Kate had returned upstairs, I checked my phone for messages and found an email from Mr. Brinkworth. I made myself a mug of tea and sat down at the kitchen table to read it.
I have received your claim form, and have today lodged at court the acknowledgment of service. As you are aware, I refute your contentions, and I am currently in the process of drafting my strong defense and counterclaim.
Your brother attended these offices yesterday. I advised him to instruct his own solicitors; conflict of interest prevents me from representing both myself as executor and your brother as one of two beneficiaries who are in dispute. During the course of our brief meeting, Mr. Green said he had reported your theft of your mother’s ashes and her jewelry box. The police officer told him they would not wish to become involved in a family dispute at this stage, and advised him to raise the matter with me. In an effort to resolve the issue, I propose that we agree a neutral third party hold the items in safekeeping pending resolution of the court case.
I would also point out that, now that proceedings have been commenced, legal costs will escalate. To avoid the possible depletion of your mother’s estate, I suggest that an effort be made to settle this matter through mediation. Kindly confirm your agreement. I will put the same proposal to your brother through his solicitors.
So, formal mediation is it, Mr. Brinkworth? The solicitor wouldn’t be proposing such a move if he was entirely confident of his case. Where was the room for negotiation, though? Either the will was watertight and Edward was entitled to stay in the house, or it wasn’t and the house should be sold. Perhaps Mr. Brinkworth thought my brother could be persuaded to vacate the house by a specified future date now that proceedings had been commenced. Even if that were the case (which I doubted), I wouldn’t want to forgo the pleasure of seeing Edward in court. As far as the jewelry box and ashes were concerned, I couldn’t see what I’d gain by handing them over to a third party. Besides, the casket was valuable to me. I decided not to bother replying.
My phone beeped. A text message from Rob. Just checking in to see how the lady of leisure is getting on. Since New Year’s Day he’s taken to texting or calling at odd times, mostly late at night. I’ve even initiated contact myself, on occasion. The reason is, I’m having great difficulty sleeping in these final weeks of my pregnancy, due to a combination of backache, heartburn, leg cramps and urgent trips to the loo, and Rob’s a night owl. It’s therefore only common sense that we help each other fend off boredom in the early hours. Our conversations tend to meander from one subject to another, until I can no longer remember where we started. I suppose I should come clean. I’ve actually started to enjoy talking to Rob, looking forward to it, even. On the nights he hasn’t rung, it’s felt as if something was missing. Peculiar, I know.
While I was typing a reply to Rob, I became aware of a dull ache in my lower back. There were jobs to be done, however, and nobody but I was going to do them, so I sent the message, grabbed a handful of carrier bags and set off down to the high street with my list. By the time I got back to the flat, I was feeling more off-color—nothing serious, just a headache and odd twinges in my abdomen. I decided it would be sensible to rest after unpacking my groceries; I’d return to bed and read a book. Undressing, I noticed a dark red stain on my underwear, not unlike the start of my period. I rushed to the toilet. More blood, fresh and red this time. I was going into labor. But it was weeks too early, and this wasn’t how it was supposed to start. I grabbed my maternity folder and found the number of the hospital. The nurse was businesslike, asking how many weeks pregnant I was and about the symptoms I was experiencing. My voice was breathless as I answered.
“I think we’d better have a little check on baby,” she said. “There’s nothing to worry about. We just need to make sure everything’s okay. Have you got someone who can bring you in?”
“No. Wait, yes, I think so.”
What was happening? I was so stupid, stupid, stupid to think all would be fine. From the day I’d found out I was pregnant, I’d carried on with my life almost as normal, taking my condition as a given, as something that would run its forty-week course and end in the delivery of a baby. I couldn’t believe, now, that I’d been so naive. I was forty-five years old—an “elderly primigravida”—ancient, in maternity terms. There were innumerable things that could go wrong: with the baby, with the pregnancy, with me.
It must be my fault, I thought. Had I overexerted myself that morning? The shopping trolley had been full, and one of the wheels had been sticking, so I’d had to shove it to get it to move. And then my bags were so heavy I’d had to stop to rest several times on the way home. I should have ordered my groceries online. Or maybe I’d eaten something unsafe—I’d read somewhere that pineapples could bring on labor, and I’d had a fruit salad the day before; or perhaps I’d eaten something that was past its sell-by date—food poisoning can be dangerous in pregnancy; or it could be the result of a virus or an infection—a couple of my colleagues had been ill recently. I tried to calm myself, to order my thoughts, but it was impossible. I stumbled upstairs and hammered on Kate’s door. Thank God she was back from dropping the children off with Alex.
“What’s going on? Is the house on fire?”
“I’m bleeding. I have to get to hospital. I think I’m having a miscarriage.” There. I’d put it into words.
“Hang on a sec, I’ll get my car keys.”
On the way to the hospital, I voiced my concerns to Kate. What if something had happened to the baby? What if I walked out of the hospital alone and no longer pregnant? What if all this had been for nothing? On the other hand, what if I was about to give birth to a living, breathing infant? I wasn’t ready. I’d hardly thought about it, really, in practical terms. I hadn’t bought any clothes or equipment. I hadn’t read the manuals on how to look after it. I was planning to do all that next month. Kate reassured me.
“If you’re in labor I’m sure nothing bad will happen. You’re over thirty weeks now. And the baby’d be kept in the hospital for a while. I’ve got everything you could possibly need for a newborn, up in the loft. But it’s probably a false alarm, so stay calm.”
* * *
“We’re just going to listen to baby’s heartbeat, darlin’,” said the rotund Afro-Caribbean midwife as I lay on a bed in the small room. My own heart was pounding. She pressed the ice-cold monitor against my belly and moved it up, down, left, right. “Ah, that’s it. Would you like to hear?” I nodded. She turned up the volume on her device, and I heard a deep, regular thud. What a lovely sound.
“I’m going to give you a quick internal now, if that’s alright,” she said. “Slip your undies off and put this sheet over your lap.”
I never expected to find myself lying naked from the waist downward, legs akimbo, with a neighbor sitting next to me. I suppose I could have asked Kate to leave, but I discovered I didn’t actually care. That’s what pregnancy does to a woman.
“Well, I can’t see any signs you’re going into labor,” the nurse said, snapping off her rubber gloves once the examination was concluded. “But we’ll need to observe you and the baby for a while.”
A fetal heart rate monitor was strapped in place and wired up to a machine next to the bed. Listening to the hypnotic sound, I put my hands on my belly and felt a small bulge appear and disappear. A fist, perhaps, or a foot. Please, I thought to myself. Please help me keep my baby safe. Kate headed off to find the café, and returned shortly afterward with two cardboard cups with plastic lids.
I’m not the sort of person who enjoys eating or drinking from disposable containers. That is, I never used to be. Maintaining such standards, though, is tumbling down my list of priorities. I shuffled up the bed and accepted the cup.
“I keep meaning to ask, have you decided on a birthing partner?” Kate asked me, removing the lid and blowing on her drink.
“I don’t need one.”
“Don’t be crazy. Nobody should go through it alone. I’ve given birth twice, so I know the ropes. I’m applying for the role.”
As if to display her credentials she described, in gruesome and intricate detail, the births of her own two children. It was like listening to a war veteran recounting his part in a particularly hard-won battle. I’ve always known I’m perfectly capable of enduring labor and childbirth without someone to hold my hand, metaphorically or otherwise, but, to my surprise, I found it reassuring to think of Kate being there.
“Okay,” I said. “You’ve impressed me with your firsthand experience—the job’s yours.”
Eventually the midwife returned with a tired-looking junior doctor who, after checking the notes and charts, asked me a few brief questions.
“Right,” she said. “Baby seems fine at the moment. But there’s no obvious reason for the bleeding and I don’t want to take any chances, particularly in view of your advanced age. We’ll keep you in overnight for observation and see how things develop.”
It’s difficult for me to admit this, but, as the doctor turned away, I cried. Proper tears, rolling down my cheeks and landing on the starched white pillows of the hospital bed. Kate leaned over and put her arms around me. I buried my face in her long hair. She smelled of warm milk and clean laundry. I can’t remember the last time I cried. In fact, now that I come to think of it, I have no recollection of ever having done so, although I suppose I must have, as a small child. It’s strange how something you never planned or desired can have such an effect on you. As you know, I never wanted to be a mother. More than that: I positively recoiled at the idea. If you’d told me a year ago that in twelve months’ time I’d be in the late stages of pregnancy, I’d have been horrified; I’d have done everything in my power to prevent it from happening. And how do I feel now? Now I feel that my world has changed.
If it had just been my own health at issue I’d have said the medical profession was making a lot of unnecessary fuss, and discharged myself. But my desire to escape had to be balanced against other considerations, and those considerations weighed more heavily. A stay in the hospital was what it had to be. I gave Kate my front door key and a list of items I’d need: nightwear, toiletries, reading materials, etc. I wondered how I would have coped with these practicalities without her.
The ward to which I was transferred was small; just six beds. Jen, the woman in the bed to my left, was a teacher in her late thirties, quick-witted and loquacious. She helped to take my mind off my situation by relating her own story. Like me, she’d made a conscious decision never to have children. A few months ago, she’d had a contraceptive coil fitted, but, unknown to her, she was already pregnant. She continued to have periods, and it was only when she went to the doctor to complain of feeling bloated that a pregnancy test was carried out. She was over six months pregnant. The coil couldn’t be removed, and she was at serious risk of miscarriage, so she would have to stay in the hospital until she gave birth. Considering it was less than a week ago that she discovered she was pregnant, she was coping with remarkable equanimity.
Jen introduced me to the other women on the ward. The girl in the bed to my right was fifteen—obese, pale and puffy—and had just been diagnosed with preeclampsia. The doctor had told her they needed to deliver her twin babies by cesarean section as soon as possible. Her tiny, wrinkled grandmother was a constant presence at her bedside, other than when she went for a cigarette break. Neither of them looked very happy. Two of the three women on the other side of the ward were experiencing complications in the late stages of their pregnancies and were being closely monitored. They had been there for several days, and already appeared to be the best of friends. The third woman—the saddest case—had been told that her baby’s heartbeat had stopped. She was due to be induced and give birth, knowing that her baby would be stillborn. She kept the curtains closed around her bed most of the time, not wanting to converse with the mothers-to-be.
Inevitably, Jen asked about my own situation. There was something about the sisterly atmosphere in that ward—diverse types of women going through different kinds of adversity, but leveled by what our bodies were doing to us—which made me feel I had nothing to hide. I told her the whole story. She said I was “one tough mama.” A strange way of putting it.
“But—and tell me to mind my own business if you like, I’m a nosy so-and-so—why were you so reluctant to let this Richard have some involvement in the first place? It’s going to give you a break now and then. And why would you have any doubts about taking the money, if he’s offering? Most single mums have to chase dads to pay.”
“Because I’ve never wanted to be reliant on anyone else,” I explained. “If you have sole charge of your own destiny no one can let you down.”
“Yeah, but we’re about to become mothers, touch wood. We’re stepping onto an emotional roller coaster. We’ll never have complete control of our own lives again. But sometimes you have to lose something to gain something.”
Kate returned at visiting time with the items on my list. At last, I could get out of the horrendous hospital gown I’d had to put on when I was transferred to the ward. Jen introduced Kate and me to her slightly dazed-looking husband, who seemed to be dealing with the news of his imminent, unplanned fatherhood with good humor equal to that of his wife. I actually passed a not unpleasant couple of hours in the presence of these three people.
When the visitors had gone, my fellow patients settled down to read, listen to headphones or sleep. The thoughts of earlier that day came back to me: what if my body wasn’t up to it? What if I was just too old to carry a baby to full term? Even though there were a few weeks left to go, perhaps it would be better if the baby was delivered now. An incubator would do a better job of protecting it than me. I asked the nurse, who was making the final checks before lights-out, if that was possible.
“Don’t be thinking like that. Signs are, everything’s going to be okay. Your body knows what to do.”
The next morning, I woke up feeling much better. The baby had been wriggling all night, which had reassured, rather than annoyed, me. When I went to the loo, I found that the pad I’d been told to wear was spotless; the bleeding had stopped. Maybe things would be alright, after all. Jen, on the other hand, had woken with pains in her abdomen. She’d been given painkillers, and the curtains were pulled around her bed so she could rest. In the absence of my companion the day dragged. The woman whose baby had died inside her left the ward early to be induced. A nurse packed her belongings into a bag and the bed linen was soon changed. Just before lunch, the girl with preeclampsia was wheeled out for her cesarean section. Following the operation, she would be going to the postnatal ward, along with her twin babies. It was odd to think that within the hour she would be a mother, at fifteen. I wished her the best of luck for the future.
Just as I was thinking I’d have to spend another night in the hospital not knowing what was going on with my body, the consultant appeared at the end of my bed. He was tall, thin, authoritative. After examining my notes and charts, and muttering to the nurse, he finally turned his attention to me.
“Right, Ms. Green, would you like to go home?”
“Is it safe? For the baby?”
“Oh, yes. It seems a small blood vessel burst inside you, which caused your bleed, but I have no concerns. The baby is obviously happy, and you’re a picture of health, so I can see no reason why I shouldn’t discharge you. Go home, take it easy and enjoy the rest of your pregnancy.”
I must admit that, as h
e moved away to the next bed, I felt tears welling up in my eyes once more. I wiped them away with the edge of the sheet.
Kate turned up as I was finishing getting dressed. She helped me pack my things. Jen, who was feeling a little better and had pulled back her curtains, expressed jealousy at the fact that I was going home; she would probably be in the hospital for weeks. She asked me where exactly home was. It turned out she lived only a few streets away.
“We can go on pram walks around the Common when the babies arrive,” she said, scribbling down her phone number on a scrap of paper. I liked her. It wasn’t as horrendous an idea as I might have thought a few months ago. “By the way,” she added, as I was about to leave, “I never asked. What’re you having?”
I hesitated. Why not? “A daughter,” I said. “I’m going to have a daughter.”
21
It was gone midnight when Rob called me on my mobile phone, in a state of high excitement. He told me that, to his delight and amazement, Alison had accepted his Facebook friend request, and they’d exchanged a series of messages. She’d confirmed she was recently divorced, and told him she had three grown-up children, all of whom had left home for university and work. Her own career in hotel management was flourishing. Rob said that, when he subsequently spoke to her on the phone, it was as if the intervening years and the falling-out had never happened. James had been asking questions about him, apparently, and Alison thought it was time to consider a reconciliation between father and son. She invited Rob up to Edinburgh so they could meet first, without telling James, and then decide how to proceed. Rob was ecstatic. He was traveling up to Scotland that weekend.
The Cactus Page 24
