by Karen Swan
‘Are you kidding? Of course it is! Why would they trust my style if I can’t even dress for the interview properly?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with that suit.’
‘But you just said—’
‘Ignore me. The suit is great. The suit is black. It’s New York – that’s all it has to be.’
‘What? Black?’
‘Exactly. Just look like an angel of death and they’ll love you. More to the point, have you got your portfolio ready?’
Meg got up and walked back through to the main room. ‘You could say that.’ She looked around despairingly – papers were strewn over every surface, her draft desk tilted up in the corner from where she had spent every evening and most of the nights for the past week, trying to come up with ideas. She still wasn’t sure whether she’d got anything yet, or whether she was even supposed to? Perhaps they wanted to meet her before briefing her? That was Dolores’s view but Meg hadn’t been able to stop herself from trying out ideas, playing with designs, motifs, colours . . .
She’d spent hours at the public library photocopying early drafts and photos of the designs she’d drawn for Titch over the years. Of course, she could have asked Tuck for access to the archives and old stock but notwithstanding the fact that she still felt unable to look him in the eye, she didn’t want it getting back to Lucy about this. Her? Going to New York for a job opportunity? She could only imagine the response that would prompt.
‘Oh, hey, wait!’ Ronnie cried suddenly. ‘The black jeans I gave you.’
‘What about them?’
‘Wear those.’
Meg gasped. ‘I can’t wear jeans to a job interview.’
Ronnie sighed. ‘Look, I realize this is an alien concept to you but most jeans now cost more than a suit. The days of wearing them only at the weekends are long gone. And this is a fashion company you’re seeing, remember. You could wear a bin bag just so long as you can accessorize it properly.’
‘But what about the suit?’ Meg asked, looking at her black suit on the bed. It had a fair amount of shine to it.
‘Ditch the suit. Burn it. It’s a crime against fashion.’
‘You just said—’
‘I was being kind. You know, supportive sister?’
Meg grimaced, running back to the spare room – she hadn’t been able to bring herself to move back into the main bedroom – hurriedly pulling clothes out of drawers and looking for the jeans. ‘I don’t know where they are,’ she mumbled. ‘What time is it?’
‘Ten to eleven.’
‘Oh God,’ she wailed. ‘I’ve got to leave here by eleven at the latest.’
‘Loadsa time.’ Ronnie’s grin was audible. ‘And excuse me, but why don’t you know where they are? Don’t tell me you haven’t been wearing them.’
‘I haven’t had time,’ Meg replied in panic.
‘You haven’t had time to wear a pair of jeans?’ Ronnie shrieked. ‘Don’t you know how good your backside looks in those jeans? Have you any idea how much they cost?’
‘Sorry,’ Meg muttered, knowing the real reason she’d discarded them – they reminded her of the day of the fight with Lucy, of the weekend in Toronto which belonged to another sort of life, but not hers.
‘Give them back if you’re not going to wear—’
‘Oh, got them!’ Meg said, spotting them balled up under the desk. She reached for them, her gaze coming to rest on the radio rig. It had been months now since she’d used it. Ever since Jonas had landed, there had seemed to be no point. She didn’t want to speak to just anyone. Only him.
She missed him, far more than she had anticipated – she missed her friend in the sky, her light in the dark – he was now earthed again, lost in the masses, moving amidst the seven billion people who shared this planet.
He’d stopped emailing now. Finally. He’d got the point after three months of silence. She’d been surprised at how long it had taken for him to get the message – at first wondering if her Wi-Fi was down, then his as he embarked on the publicity tour, visiting colleges, schools, societies and speaking at conferences, which was the next step after landing, debriefs and reacclimatization. In effect, the expedition had become a ‘space roadshow’ and though her silence had persisted, one quick Google search and she’d been able to keep track of his movements, clicking on YouTube uploads of press conferences (he’d been right, the very first one, with them dressed in Kazakh national dress, had been a peach) but her favourite was the one of him visiting a school of elementary-grade children – how they went to the loo in space had been their most pressing question, as it had been Lucy’s. It was how she’d discovered he was going to be speaking at a public discussion in New York this weekend.
They were going to be in the same city. Together.
She had the advantage – she could sit there anonymously because she was still faceless to him, of course. She could be in the same room and he would never know. She could listen to his experiences without a time delay or static getting in the way; she could watch his face and see his mannerisms as he talked. It had even crossed her mind that he might talk about her and that night he’d become caught up in an emergency on Earth . . . And so the possibility had taken root. It was an idea that wouldn’t quite go away. She didn’t dare to meet him, but that was different from listening to him – wasn’t it? She had been dithering and fretting about it for weeks. If only the gods could give her a sign as to what to do!
She realized suddenly that Ronnie was still talking to her. ‘Huh? What?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I – I dropped the phone. So how’s Jack?’ she asked, rolling the jeans into a ball and stuffing them into her bag. ‘Oh, shit, wait – what should I wear with them?’
‘White T-shirt or shirt. And plain white, I mean, no frickin’ mountaineering companies on the front. And plimsolls. White as you can get ’em.’
‘Really?’ Meg asked, sceptically picking up a pair of her beloved Stan Smiths and a Gap shirt.
‘Trust me.’
Meg did trust her, so in they went. ‘Jack?’ she prompted, zipping up the bag.
‘So Jack’s good.’ Meg heard her sister take a deep breath. ‘In fact, it’s why I called. We’re moving in together.’
‘Holy crap!’ Meg exclaimed, falling still. ‘Are you sure? I mean, it’s a bit soon, isn’t it? What’s it been? Three months?’
‘I know, but you remember that thing you told me about you and Mitch? When you know—’
‘You know,’ Meg sighed. ‘Wow. Well, I can’t believe it . . . I’m so pleased for you.’ And she was. She felt a glow of happiness for her sister that she too would get to feel what Meg had been telling her about for all these years. How strange, she thought, that their lives were beginning to pivot – Meg’s towards a possible career; Ronnie’s towards love. Was the world correcting itself? Had they been on the wrong paths?
‘But listen, we’ve got a bit of time off and thought we’d come up for a week or so. Can we stay with you?’
‘Of course!’ Meg said, flattered they’d want to. As much as she loved the little cabin, the deafening silence from Lucy and the cabin’s non-stop solitude were beginning to get to her and she had found she was spending more and more time with Dolores after work, before making the lonely trek back up here. ‘When were you thinking?’
‘Is next week any good for you? The film festival’s on and Jack’s a pretty keen climber.’
‘He’ll be spoilt rotten then. I’ll get tickets to some of the events, shall I?’
‘Fantastic.’ Ronnie sounded pleased. ‘And listen, you really go for it in New York, OK, sis? This opportunity, it could be once-in-a-lifetime – it could be your sliding-doors moment when you step into the life you really want. And before you say it, that is not a diss on Banff,’ she added quickly.
Meg smiled. She knew that now – she knew that Ronnie wasn’t looking down on her, only looking out for her.
‘And call me when you get back. I want t
o hear every last detail – down to what perfume they’re wearing, you hear me?’
‘Loud and clear.’ Over and out. Copy that. Jonas Solberg . . .
They hung up in a flurry of blown kisses, Meg dropping the phone on the bed and swearing viciously under her breath as she caught sight of the time. She needed to get herself and Badger down the mountain and Badger dropped off with Dolores in time for her to catch the 12 p.m. bus to Calgary.
She ran back to the kitchen and checked the window was shut, the back door locked . . . her ears straining as they picked up the sound of an engine revving up the mountain, and then, moments later, gurgling to a stop outside.
‘What the—?’
Meg ran out, coming to an astonished stop on the porch as she saw Lucy sitting astride Tuck’s quad bike.
‘Oh, my God, what are you doing on that thing?’ she cried angrily, hardly able to believe she was lecturing Lucy about quad-bike safety. She knew perfectly well Lucy could handle one of those machines as well as she could, but the risks were always high – no seat belt, no roll cage, no windscreen, the gradients up here steep – and to have driven it, alone and heavily pregnant . . . ? One mistake and both she and the baby could have been killed. ‘Lucy?’
She noticed Lucy’s pallor – she looked peaky, a film of sweat on her face even though it was a crisp day, the first leaves beginning to curl on the bough.
‘I thought . . . we should . . . talk.’
Meg frowned. Lucy’s speech was patchy, her breath coming in small pants. ‘Lucy, are you OK? You don’t look so good.’
‘I’m . . . fine,’ Lucy murmured, swinging one leg over the seat and clambering gracelessly down, her face crumpling with pain suddenly, her hand clutching her belly as her feet touched the ground.
‘Oh, my God, what’s going on?’ Meg gasped, running over to her and clutching her by the elbow. But even as she asked the question, she saw the dark stain on Lucy’s jeans and understood. ‘Your waters have broken,’ she whispered, feeling a trickle of fear ripple down her spine. ‘Oh, Lucy, the baby’s coming.’
‘Where are they?’ Meg cried as she stood at the window, staring down the slope. ‘It’s been forty minutes already.’
Lucy moaned again and Meg went running back towards the bedroom. She had managed to get her onto the bed – her and Mitch’s old one; the spare room she was now using was too much of a tip to get to the bed – and had propped her up with every pillow in the house. She had put a bucket of water on the floor for dipping towels to mop her friend’s brow.
Meg didn’t like the look of Lucy’s colour as she came back into the room. She looked bloodless and the contractions seemed to be coming far too fast, with only a minute or two between them now. Lucy was struggling with the pain and was currently on all fours, her forearms gripping the brass bedstead as she moaned, frantically circling her hips.
‘What can I do? Tell me what I can do?’ Meg asked desperately. She was all out of ideas. She had called the paramedics, called Barbara, called Tuck – constantly, but he was at that Ski and Snow Show in Toronto, and Meg knew from experience of trying to get hold of Mitch in previous years that there was no cell reception inside the exhibition hall.
She raked her fingers through her hair, feeling helpless as she watched the pain wrack Lucy’s body, her face contorted in a silent scream.
‘Here, hold me, hold my arm,’ she said, rushing forward as she saw the way Lucy’s hands blanched white as the contraction took hold.
Lucy, who couldn’t open her eyes, grappled for her and Meg caught hold of her just as the contraction seemed to hit its peak and she let out a scream that sent Badger diving for cover in the furthest part of the cabin.
Meg thought she was going to faint from the pain in her arm, half convinced Lucy was trying to break the bone but she didn’t say anything – whatever she felt, it was clear Lucy felt it a thousand-fold.
‘Just count slowly,’ she managed to say. ‘One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .’ And then Lucy’s grip loosened suddenly and her entire body fell slack, her great belly swaying almost to her knees as she dropped her head down, exhausted, onto her forearms.
‘Are you comfortable?’ Meg asked anxiously. ‘Would another position be better?’
Lucy shook her head. ‘Tuck,’ she whispered.
‘He’s coming. He’ll be here soon,’ Meg lied. When was he likely to pick up the messages? The show went on till 6 p.m. tonight, EST.
‘Tuck.’
‘Yes, he’s coming. He’ll be here.’
‘I’ve got to push!’ Lucy said suddenly, tensing again as though an electrical current was coursing through her.
‘What? No! No! Don’t push, Lucy! It’s too soon. The doctor’s . . .’ Oh, God, the doctor wasn’t here. ‘Just hold on. Don’t push.’
‘I’ve got to!’ Lucy grimaced, her neck stretching as she faced the ceiling, like a wolf howling to the moon. ‘I can’t . . . stop.’
Meg wanted to cry. This baby was going to die. This baby was going to die, just like Mitch had, because she lived in this godforsaken, unreachable place, where there was no help, no safety . . .
‘Give me my arm back. Lucy. Give me my arm,’ Meg pleaded, trying to make herself heard as Lucy withdrew inside herself again. ‘If you’re going to push, we need to get your jeans off and get you turned over . . . Give me my arm, Lucy.’ She prised Lucy’s fingers, one by one, off her forearm, rubbing her skin tenderly and wondering exactly how she was going to turn her friend, who was gripping the bed and clearly didn’t want to be turned.
She reached down and slid the elasticated jeans down to Lucy’s knees, blanching as she saw a couple of old, but bad, bruises on her thighs. She needed to get Lucy into a better position.
‘Lucy, lean against me,’ she said authoritatively. ‘Put your weight onto me.’
‘No,’ Lucy moaned.
‘Yes. If you’re going to push, we don’t want the baby to drop, do we?’
‘No,’ Lucy moaned but not in agreement to her question. She still didn’t want to move.
‘I need you to lie back for me, can you do that? Lie back.’
Lucy moaned again, tears streaking down her cheeks. ‘I can’t do it.’
‘Yes, you can. You can do this, Lucy,’ Meg said in her most confident voice. Lucy needed someone to trust right now. Even if Meg couldn’t do this right, she could at least try to assuage her friend’s fear. ‘I’ll look after you, I promise. Just trust me.’
Lucy opened her eyes, a film of fear drawn across them. ‘Help me.’
‘I will. Just hold my shoulders.’
Lucy gripped her hard, bruising her skin almost immediately, but Meg didn’t flinch; instead she managed to get Lucy to lie back on the pillows, her knees up. She drew a sheet over her legs and reaching underneath, managed to pull off her jeans and knickers.
She ran to the bathroom and washed her hands with soap again, knowing she’d need to be scrupulously clean, and then grabbed the last remaining towels from the cupboard. If this baby did come before the doctor, they’d need to keep it warm, that much was obvious.
Lucy screamed again and Meg, taking one last frantic look out of the window – please God! Where were they? – ran back into the bedroom.
‘It’s coming!’ Lucy cried, her face as red now as it had been white earlier, her fingers gripping the sheets. ‘I . . . can’t stop . . . it.’
Meg stood rooted to the spot for a moment, realizing this was it. There was no one else here to help them. The paramedics weren’t going to make it in time. She was going to have to deliver this baby.
‘Meg!’ The scream was like a war-cry, deathly.
‘Yes, I’m here, I’m here,’ she gasped, running forwards and sitting at the end of the bed. What should she do? She didn’t know the first thing about babies, only what they’d shown on Grey’s Anatomy, but there was no time to think, to dither. Lucy’s body tensed again, her hips lifting off the bed as a moan began to build, coming from deep within her co
re. She sounded like an animal.
‘OK, Lucy, next time you feel the urge to push, go with it, OK?’ Meg, seeing how her hair was plastered with sweat to her temples, reached for the towel in the bucket and mopped her face and brow again. ‘How are you feeling?’
Lucy’s reply was a cry that concertinaed her body as she folded inwards – her face, her stomach. Meg looked beneath the sheet and gasped.
‘Oh, God, Lucy, I can see it! The baby’s head is coming. Keep pushing!’
Lucy cried again, her hands twisting the sheet as she gripped harder, as though trying to stay anchored to the bed. ‘I can’t.’
‘You can! Just push, Lucy!’
Lucy strained again, her face becoming berry-red as she tried and tried, but after a few seconds, the tension left her body like a shadow slipping away.
‘You’re doing brilliantly,’ Meg said urgently, her arms outstretched under the sheet and trying not to panic that the baby’s head was now out and resting on her hands – could it breathe? Was the cord being squashed?
But a moment later, Lucy tensed again.
‘That’s it. Now push,’ Meg ordered. ‘Push, Lucy. Push.’
Lucy strained and pushed and panted and then, with a pitch Meg would never forget, screamed.
‘Yes! You’re doing it!’ Meg cried as she felt the baby propelled towards her, the shoulders coming free and then the rest of the body slipping silkily into her outstretched arms.
‘Oh, my God,’ Meg sobbed as Lucy dropped her head back on the pillows, gasping for breath, crying, exhausted. She pulled the baby to her, away and out from under the tented sheet. Was it breathing? It looked bluer than she’d expected, its hands and feet tightly scrunched, eyes opaque-looking . . . Was this right? Was she supposed to do something now? Why wasn’t it crying? Wasn’t it supposed to cry? Babies were always crying, weren’t they?
The baby’s sudden wail startled her. Oh, thank God.
‘My baby, my baby,’ Lucy moaned, her head lolling back on the pillow as she panted, trying to recover. ‘What is it?’
Meg realized she hadn’t even checked. She looked down at the child in her arms – wrinkled skin that was a mottled blueish colour turning pinker with every lungful of air, fingers as slender and tiny as matches, a head of dark, almost-black hair, and quite the most enormous pair of testicles!
