The Cactus

by Sarah Haywood

  The mediator looks from one side of the table to the other.

  “I can’t believe Edward’s pushed it this far, but yes, that’s fine by me,” I say. An understatement. It’s more than fine.

  “Fine by me, too,” Edward says.

  “Thank you all for your levelheaded and practical approach to today’s meeting, which has resulted in a very satisfactory outcome all round. Good morning, everyone.”

  Ms. Coombes picks up her file, rises and leaves the room with a gracious parting nod of her head.

  “Easiest morning’s work she’s ever had,” Edward says, standing and stretching. His nervousness has dissipated. He looks relaxed, content. “Thanks, mate,” he adds, turning to Mr. Iqbal and shaking his hand. “Sorry you didn’t have much to do, but I needed you here in case she tried to pull a fast one. You never know with my sister.” He winks at me.

  Mr. Iqbal says he can just about make the one o’clock train back to Birmingham. After snapping shut his attaché case, and swiftly polishing finger marks from it with the sleeve of his coat, he hurries out. Edward loiters, watching me putting my papers away in my portfolio.

  “So...” he says.

  “So?”

  “So when’s the baby due?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Bloody hell. No wonder you’re the size of an elephant.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No offense.”

  I feel another tightening of my belly, stronger than before. I breathe in, pause, then breathe out. Breathe in, pause, breathe out. It takes a while to pass.

  “Are you stuck? Can you get out of that chair alright?”

  “Of course I can.”

  I struggle up, using the edge of the table for support. We walk out of the solicitors’ offices and take the lift together down to the ground floor. There’s an awkward silence. As we step into the marble-floored lobby Edward touches the sleeve of my coat.

  “You know, Suze, you’re wrong. She did love you, too. Why would she leave you half of everything if she didn’t? You and Mum just had a different sort of relationship. To be frank, I was jealous of the way she treated you—like an equal. It’s not as much fun as you might think, always being cast in the role of the irresponsible child. She knew you didn’t need her help—your life was always going to turn out fine.”

  “That’s not the way I see things. But we’ll never know. I don’t always find it easy to work out people’s motivations.”

  “Join the club.”

  We’ve descended the steps to the pavement outside the office building. We hesitate.

  “Well, good luck with the birth and everything.”

  It feels unnatural, contrived, but I say it, anyway. “Thanks. Good luck with the traveling.”

  This is it. This is the moment I say goodbye to my brother and we go our separate ways, never to trouble each other again. But it seems that that isn’t to be.

  “Oh, no,” I gasp.

  It starts as a warm trickle, quickly becomes a stream, then a gush. It lands on the pavement between my legs, splashing my shoes.

  “You’re kidding me. Is that what I think it is?”

  “Oh, hell.” All I can do is stand there looking at the puddle I’ve created.

  “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you having the baby?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must know. Are you having contractions?”

  “I’ve been having them for a couple of days, mild ones. They’re getting stronger, though.”

  “Okay, let’s not panic. People do this all the time. I’ve got the VW parked a couple of minutes away. I’ll give you a lift to the hospital.”

  He takes my arm and we step over the puddle, which is beginning to trickle toward the curb.

  “Just one thing...”

  “Yes?”

  “If you give birth in my car I’ll be deducting the cost of a full valet from your share of the estate.”

  27

  While I’m trying to reach Kate on the phone, Edward relishes his part in the unfolding drama, delighted to have an excuse to overtake other vehicles on the inside lane, jump traffic lights and make liberal use of his horn. At one point, he leans out of the window and yells abuse at an elderly woman on a pedestrian crossing, telling her to get a bloody move on as his sister’s about to give birth in his car. Formerly, I’d have been both furious and humiliated at finding myself at the mercy of Edward, but—really—what’s the point?

  My contractions have switched up a gear since we set off. The sensation is unpleasant, rather than agonizing; more like bad backache, combined with stomach cramps and period pain. As each one floods over me, my bump becomes hard as rock. I can cope easily, with steady breathing. I’m in control.

  On my third attempt to call her, Kate finally picks up the phone. She says she’ll whizz the kids over to a friend’s house and meet me at the hospital with my maternity folder and overnight bag, which I’ve had packed and ready for at least a month. When the call is ended, I use my phone to time the contractions. They’re roughly every five and a half minutes, and last about thirty seconds.

  “Slow down,” I tell Edward. “I’m not quite at the rush-to-hospital stage. There’s a while yet before the baby arrives.”

  “Are you sure?” His foot eases off the accelerator a little.

  “Believe me, Edward, I wouldn’t lie. You delivering my baby is not part of my birth plan.”

  “Phew. Well, we can take a little detour, then. There’s a record shop near here that I’ve been meaning to have a nose around.”

  I tell him to forget it. I have no intention of sitting in the car, bored and uncomfortable, while he spends hours drooling over rare vinyl. In response, he swerves round a right-hand corner much too fast. I lean toward him, then grab the edges of my seat to steady myself. He pouts for the rest of the journey.

  * * *

  By the time we manage to find a space in the patients’ car park, I’m finding the discomfort more of a challenge. A contraction of unexpected intensity hits me as we cross the busy foyer area of the hospital; I stop and grab Edward’s arm.

  “Er, that actually hurts,” he says.

  “Same here.”

  When the moment has passed, we join the queue for the lift, and just about make it down the long corridor to the birth unit before the next contraction strikes. I clutch Edward’s arm again as he explains the situation to the woman behind the desk. A dark-haired midwife, who introduces herself, with a Spanish accent, as Claudia, leads us to a small room and asks me to make myself comfy on the bed. Edward slumps onto a chair in the corner, relieved to be handing me into someone else’s care. Once Claudia has timed my contractions and taken my pulse, temperature and blood pressure, I explain my birth plan to her. Completely natural: no medical interference, no artificial pain relief and no other drugs, under any circumstances. I know how doctors and midwives like to take charge, and I’m determined to avoid a cascade of intervention. She smiles to herself as she makes notes. Next, she asks me to change into a hospital gown, after which she’ll feel my bump and give me an internal examination. I tell Edward to wait outside.

  “It’s fine for your birth partner to stay, if you’d like him to,” she says.

  “He’s not my birth partner, he’s my brother.”

  “Perhaps not, then. It’s lovely to see a brother supporting his sister, though.”

  She kneads my abdomen, then uses her fingers—without even looking—to check how far my cervix has dilated. Three centimeters, she tells me. I’ve got a long way to go. She’ll pop back to see how I’m getting on. Edward returns as I’m having another contraction. I hold on to his arm once more and breathe steadily. In the distance, I can hear a woman screaming, and another making mooing noises. I have no intention of behaving in s
uch a manner. I’ve always been very good with pain. Whenever I grazed my knee as a child, I would find the first-aid box, clean my own wound and apply a plaster. Edward, in the same situation, would be squealing for his mummy.

  “Funny, me helping you when you’re in childbirth, after all we’ve been through,” my brother says when I let go of his arm.

  “I’m finding it hysterical.”

  “I’ve missed you, you know, in a strange sort of way.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “I have, as a matter of fact. Mum was the glue that held us together. I’ve been thinking in the last couple of months that, now that she’s gone, we might never see each other again. And when I think that, I feel a bit, you know, kind of sad. Who am I going to argue with, if not my own sister?”

  “I’m sure you’ll have no problem finding someone. And by the way, not all siblings fight. It doesn’t have to be like that.”

  “I know, but we never stood much chance from the start. We were preprogrammed to fight, with Mum fussing over me nonstop and you being such a daddy’s girl.”

  “I was never a daddy’s girl. He treated us equally badly.”

  “It was obvious you were the apple of his eye, though. You were academic, like him, and quiet and thoughtful and well behaved. I was a troublemaker, as far as he was concerned. I could never compete with Miss Goody Two-shoes.”

  “He wasn’t bothered about either of us, Edward. All he cared about was where his next drink was coming from.”

  “Seems we remember things differently yet again. But truth is subjective—everyone has their own versions. Maybe both of ours are equally valid.”

  Uncharacteristically deep for my brother.

  “Perhaps,” I say. “But my truth is just a little bit more valid than yours.”

  * * *

  After the next contraction, I tell Edward he’s played his part by conveying me to the hospital; there’s no point him hanging around. He says he doesn’t think he should leave, that I need someone with me.

  “Alright,” I say. “But only until Kate arrives, absolutely no longer.”

  “Great. I’ll just shoot outside for a quick ciggie, and be back before the next contraction.”

  He isn’t. I bend over, clench my teeth and grip handfuls of sheet. I’m not going to make a noise. I’m really not. Women’s bodies are designed for childbirth, so the pain can’t be more than we can bear. Mind over matter. As the contraction ebbs away again, I notice, through the small window on the other side of the room, that it’s dark already. I feel alone. Edward’s right, I need someone to help me through this. I don’t want to do it all by myself.

  It goes without saying that I want my friend Kate here with me; she’ll be a calm, capable, reassuring presence. Not only that, she’s been through it before, she knows the score. I can’t stop thinking about Rob, though. I know he won’t be much use in practical terms, but he makes me smile, in spite of myself. I think of all he’s done for me over the last few months: helping with my mother’s belongings, storing furniture, driving me around, looking after me when I was devastated by the news of my adoption, phoning and texting me when I couldn’t sleep, being steadfast, despite my coolness toward him and despite Edward’s disapproval. I wonder whether I’ve ever thanked him for any of it. It’s obvious to me now: I want him by my side through this, and afterward, too. It’s not exactly a revelation. I suppose I’ve known for a long time, but I didn’t want to admit that I, just like everyone else, might be subject to such irrational feelings, feelings that shave away your outer layer of protection and render you exposed and vulnerable. Can I really allow that to happen?

  * * *

  What seems like hours later, but is probably only minutes, Kate comes running in, throwing my bag onto the chair. She looks keyed up.

  “Here we are again. How’s it going?” she asks, plonking herself on the edge of the bed. “You look hot. Wait a minute.” She gets a flannel out of my bag, wets it in the sink and places it on my forehead. Another contraction; she lets me grip her hands, hard. I hear myself making strange little grunts as I hold back the screams. When it’s passed, I relax.

  “I thought your brother would be here. Has he just dumped you and run?”

  “No chance. He’s not one to miss out on a bit of free entertainment. He thinks he’s going to be hanging around for the whole performance.

  “Speak of the devil,” I add, as Edward slouches in. My brother and my friend haven’t met before. He looks her up and down appraisingly; she looks him up and down disapprovingly. An expression of resignation crosses his face, as he realizes she knows too much about him.

  “You can go, now Kate’s here,” I tell him.

  “I just asked the midwife,” he replies. “She says you can have two people with you.”

  “Bugger off, Edward. The thought of you supporting me through childbirth is so grotesque it’s almost comic.”

  “Well, shall I just wait outside, in case you change your mind?”

  I decline; he looks thwarted. As he’s sloping out of the delivery room, I call after him, asking if he’d mind letting Rob know the baby’s on its way. His face screws up into an instinctive sneer of disapproval, but he must do as I request, because within minutes my phone’s ringing. I’m in the throes of a wrenching contraction, so Kate delves into my handbag and answers the call. She relays to me that Rob’s chucking some stuff into a rucksack and jumping into the van. I say to tell him he shouldn’t put himself out, but he won’t be deterred. Admittedly, it’s an odd time to be making a life-changing decision, but perhaps there’s something to be said for choices based on instinct rather than on meticulous design. I have a sense that I won’t regret it.

  “Tell him yes,” I pant to Kate, as she’s about to end the call from Rob.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Just yes.”

  * * *

  There’s a change of midwife, as one shift finishes and another one starts. Claudia wishes me the best of luck for the future. The thin-lipped new midwife looks old, tired and bored; she can’t be far off retirement. She introduces herself as Ann as she flicks through my notes, barely glancing at me. The contractions are continuing to intensify; they’re every three minutes now, and lasting almost a minute. After a brief examination, Ann says I still haven’t dilated much. All that effort for nothing.

  Kate offers to massage my shoulders and back. It doesn’t help at all; it just annoys me to be pawed and pummeled, and I tell her to stop. I have an electronic nerve-stimulation device in my bag, which will distract me from the pain. Kate gets it out, attaches the four sticky pads to my lower back, and passes me the controller. I switch the machine on and feel a mild tingling sensation. The next contraction is building up. I press the boost button on the machine. The contraction floors me, and I find myself making strangulated animal noises.

  “It didn’t work,” I pant, as the contraction subsides. “It did sod all.”

  “Maybe you need to turn it up to maximum strength. Here, give it to me.” She twists a knob, and the tingling sensation intensifies. It’s as infuriating as Kate’s massage, but I stick with it. While we’re waiting for the next contraction Kate roots around in my bag to see what I’ve packed.

  “Oh, Bananagrams. That’s a good idea.”

  “No, it’s not,” I cry as the pain starts to build again. “Throw it out the window. I don’t want to play any silly bloody games.” I hold down the boost button as the contraction reaches its climax. Compared to the power of what my body is doing to me, it has about as much effect as someone tickling me with a feather. My breath comes fast and shallow.

  “Remember your breathing techniques,” Kate says. “Look at me. In through your nose, out through your mouth. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

  I ignore her. I know it’s panic breathing, that I should listen to my birth partner,
but I can’t. I feel light-headed. The contraction passes, and I pull at the wires attached to the sticky pads.

  “Get these stupid things off me. This machine’s worse than useless. Whoever makes them should be sued. I’ll have to get by with nothing at all.”

  “You don’t need to. You can ask for pain relief.”

  “No way. Birth is a natural process. Women managed it in the olden days without anesthesia, and there’s no reason why we shouldn’t do the same nowadays.”

  “Yes, but some things have improved since then. People used to die in childbirth.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  As the next contraction starts building, I grip on to Kate again. I’m starting to feel overwhelmed by wave after wave of pain, each one getting bigger and longer and stronger.

  An eternity passes, then Ann comes in again, this time accompanied by a male student midwife.

  “Hmm. Still only four centimeters dilated,” she says to the student after examining me. “Minimal progress. Of course, there’s a much greater risk of a long and difficult labor with older ladies. The muscles of the womb don’t work so well.”

  “Is everyone deliberately trying to undermine me?” I shout. “Has anybody got any positive words of encouragement here?”

  “You’re doing a great job,” Ann says, unsmilingly.

  * * *

  After what feels like another eternity there’s a knock on the door and Rob enters. I’m pleased to see him—much more than pleased—but, for some reason, that feeling expresses itself in the form of copious tears and snot. It occurs to me, as I wipe them away on the sleeve of my hospital gown, that I’m not at my most attractive. Rob doesn’t seem to notice; he comes striding over to the bed, bends down and puts his arms around me. The skin of his stubbly cheek feels cool in comparison to the stuffiness of the room. He smooths the hair back off my face, and I realize it’s drenched with sweat.