How Not to Disappear

by Clare Furniss

  ‘What would you do if you were me?’ I’d said to Gloria as we drove back to the cottage.

  She’d tutted impatiently. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘If I were me in your situation I would choose not to have the baby. But that’s utterly irrelevant. I am not you. Only you can make your choice, I’m afraid.’

  What if I had the baby?

  I haven’t let myself think about it, but now my mind races ahead. Would it really be so bad? I know having a baby is hard but it’s wonderful too, isn’t it? I loved the twins so much when they were tiny. I remember Ollie holding my finger when they were first born, and how they used to lie in the garden watching the branches of the trees sway in the wind. I remember how they used to chat to one another in their own language and how adorable they used to look in their little sleepsuits.

  I remember Ollie taking his first wobbly steps, and Alice’s little face when she said her first word (‘NO’). I’ve never seen a look of such undiluted triumph and satisfaction on anyone’s face EVER. And Ollie wouldn’t say anything; he let Alice do all the talking but he’d sit there and watch everything so carefully and we’d all wonder what he was thinking. And everyone would always think Alice was the confident one but if Ollie wasn’t there she’d howl and cling to your leg and wouldn’t stop until he came back again.

  What sort of person would my baby be, if I let it become a baby? Mine and Reuben’s baby . . . Who would it look like? I try to imagine it, a real person, with a real face. My eyes. Reuben’s chin. And of course it wouldn’t be an it, would it? It would be a he. Or a she. What if I did it? What if I had the baby?

  For a split second I can picture us, the three of us: me, Reuben and our baby. We’re in a park somewhere and Reuben’s pushing our baby on the swing and she’s chuckling and waving her arms just like Alice used to. She’s rosy-cheeked and has adorable dimples and long, dark eyelashes . . . ‘Dada,’ she’s saying, as he pushes her higher. ‘Not too high,’ I’m saying, and Reuben’s saying, ‘It’s not too high; she loves it!’ and we’re all laughing.

  And now we’re in an airy apartment somewhere and it’s a lazy Sunday morning and we’re drinking coffee and eating freshly baked bread, and Reuben’s got the baby on his lap and he’s reading her one of those cloth books like the mums at the pub in Clapham had.

  And now he’s got her in one of those carrier things on his front and we’re walking back through the park together (is it Regent’s Park or Central Park? Hard to be sure) and I’m pushing the empty buggy with one hand – it’s one of those really fancy ones like you see celebrities’ babies in on the covers of magazines – holding something that I expect is a decaf skinny chai latte in the other. A dog is trotting at my side. An Irish Setter. I’ve always wanted an Irish Setter. And, of course, we’re all laughing. A laughing, happy family.

  And now, oh look! It’s my university graduation. And Reuben’s there, of course, with our adorable daughter on his shoulders and they’re waving proudly at me as I walk along in my gown and mortarboard. ‘I knew you’d do it,’ Reuben says, as I make my way over to them and he gives me a kiss. ‘But even I didn’t think you’d get a first. Your mum’s a genius, you know, Demelza.’ And we’re all laughing. Again. What a lot of laughing we do, even when nothing particularly funny is happening. We’re just that sort of family.

  It’s as if something lifts from me as I imagine all this, a weight that I hadn’t realized was there. I look down at my middle and for the first time I let myself imagine myself looking pregnant. I imagine feeling a baby kicking, imagine saying to Reuben, ‘Quick, put your hand there and you’ll feel it,’ just like Mum used to with me when she was pregnant. I put my hands over the place where the beginnings of what could be the baby I’m imagining are growing, and my heart beats faster. Could I do it? Could we do it, together, me and Reuben?

  How will I ever know, if I don’t tell him? I have to give him a chance.

  Can I?

  Maybe I can after all. Maybe I’ll do it right now. Yes! I’ll just email him and tell him . . . I imagine typing the words and pressing Send. No. I imagine Reuben picking up the message with Camille there dressed only in alluring French underwear . . .

  The thought of Camille and her lingerie makes me stop. The dizzy warmth I’d felt of my imaginary happy, laughing family cools a bit. I examine them a little more closely and this time I can’t help noticing a few suspicious details. For a start, Reuben’s wearing clothes like a menswear catalogue, kind of a bit cool but also wholesome and quite alarmingly brightly coloured. It strikes me that this isn’t likely, nor the fact that he doesn’t smell of hangover or cigarettes but instead of something manly and outdoorsy. He looks like he’s been working out a bit too. Also I seem to have been Photoshopped. I’m quite a lot taller and slimmer than I currently am and, after scrutinizing this Me for a while, I see that this is due to the fact that I appear to have borrowed the legs of a supermodel, along with her very expensive-looking skinny jeans. And my hair, far from being lank and prone to frizz, is lustrous and falling in coppery blonde ringlets down my back. I also can’t help noticing that our chilled Sunday morning seems to be taking place in a very light and airy apartment in somewhere that I imagine to be Hoxton or possibly even Manhattan. How did we come to be there? I wonder. And the homebaked bread . . . Who baked it? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me. I’m even more sure it wasn’t Reuben. And although our baby would, I’m sure, prove to be talented in all sorts of unexpected ways, it seems unlikely that she was responsible . . . And then there’s the dog. Reuben hates dogs. I’m allergic to them. They make my eyes swell up and my nose go bright red and my entire head fill with mucus.

  Hmmmm. I try to ignore these descrepancies, but I can’t help feeling uneasy.

  No. I can’t tell him in an email.

  But maybe I could say I’ve got something important to tell him. Something that I need to speak to him about urgently. Maybe I could even hint at what it is so that it doesn’t come as a complete shock . . . There’s something important I’ve got to tell you. Something that affects us both . . . Or, I’ve got some surprising news that you need to hear . . .

  I’m going to do it. I get out my laptop from my backpack and open my email. As I do so, I realize there’s a message waiting for me from Reuben. He’s only just sent it. I can’t help smiling. It’s as if he knew! He’s been thinking of me, just as I’ve been thinking of him. I know Kat’s right about Reuben and I know Gloria was right and he acted like an idiot in Norfolk. But the fact is we’ve got some kind of connection. Perhaps he’s missing me. I know he’s got Camille and everything, but it’s like he said. I understand him in a way other people don’t. My heart flutters a tiny bit as I open the email.

  From: wilde_one666@starmail.com

  To: hattiedlockwood@starmail.com

  Subject:

  th4qddc vccn?Kk;l

  I stare at the screen, trying to work out if there’s some mysterious coded message, scrolling down to check that I haven’t missed something, that there isn’t any more to read. As I do so, another email arrives. It says:

  From: wilde_one666@starmail.com

  To: hattiedlockwood@starmail.com

  Subject: oops

  Soz babe didnt mean to sned that!!!! Was trying to email a mate on my phone and been drinkin

  ps hop u r ok

  I close the laptop and I sit for a long time in silence. As I do, I examine the happy, laughing family a bit more closely.

  As I watch them, the image wobbles a bit and becomes blurry. I blink hard to see them more clearly, and when they come back into focus they look a little different. They’re not airbrushed in the park any more, or in our mysteriously acquired Manhattan apartment. We’re in a small, damp-smelling flat, and the people next door are playing death metal really loud. The baby, while still probably very sweet, is red-faced and yelling, so it’s quite hard to tell. Reuben, who is now wearing his own clothes, is saying, ‘Why the hell won’t she just sleep? Can’t you feed her or something?’ a
nd I (who am still looking just a tiny bit taller than usual) am saying, ‘But I’ve just fed her; it can’t be that,’ and Reuben says, ‘Well, I can’t stand this noise any longer. I’m going out.’ And I say, ‘What do you mean? Out where?’ and he says, ‘There’s no point me being here, is there? I can’t do anything to help. She just cries whenever I hold her. I’m going for a cigarette.’ And he goes, leaving me sitting in the dingy flat with the drumbeat from next door still banging through the wall and the baby screaming. And I have no idea whether he’s ever coming back, or whether I want him to.

  I look at the screen again.

  hop u r ok

  Really? Is that it?

  hop u r ok?

  SERIOUSLY?

  I stare at the words, and in that moment everything falls away: every excuse I’ve ever made for him, any doubt I’ve ever given him the benefit of. I’m so angry my hands are shaking as I type.

  From: hattiedlockwood@starmail.com

  To: wilde_one666@starmail.com

  Subject: Re: Oops

  Fuck off, Reuben, and never contact me again.

  And this time, I send it.

  The next day I sleep in late. When I wake up I feel as though things have sorted themselves out in my head while I’ve been asleep. I feel very certain of three things: one, everything has changed. I have to forget about Reuben and focus on me. Two, I have to work out whether I want to have an abortion or have a baby. I have a few days to make that decision. I feel surprisingly calm as I think this. Three, we only have two more days in the Lake District and I want to enjoy that time. I’m determined we’re going to go on the boat trip I missed out on last time, and Gloria, surprisingly, makes no objections.

  It’s a beautiful day when we get down to the lake, sunlight splintering and glittering on the dark water, and I’m strangely elated. It feels significant, somehow, making this trip. It’s something I didn’t do with Dad, and I feel as though in some way I’m doing it in his memory. I try to explain this to Gloria as we clamber onto the boat along with the other tourists, elderly couples in walking gear, students, parents with chattering children.

  ‘You’ve been to the Lake District before?’ she says, surprised.

  ‘Yes!’ I say. ‘Don’t you remember? I told you I came with my dad? With Dominic, your nephew? ’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ she says.

  ‘I did! Look it up in the book.’

  She does.

  ‘Hmmph,’ she says, which I translate as, ‘Yes, you’re right, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Did you get on well with your dad?’ she says suddenly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He must have been away a lot,’ she says, reading something she’s written down in the notebook, presumably the stuff I told her before about his job and how he was always off in some war zone or another.

  ‘Yeah, he was,’ I say.

  ‘I remember how strange it was when my father came home from the war. I’d never met him before. I was conceived just before he was conscripted and four years old when he got home. Everything changed when he came home. Everyone acted differently around him. Mum and Gwen. He was a stranger to me, but everyone expected me to be pleased to see him. I wished he’d go away again. Once I told Gwen I wished he’d been killed in the war. She slapped me round the face.’

  I stare at Gloria and for a moment I can’t speak because what she’s saying has reminded me of something I’d forgotten, something I’d locked away.

  I can remember how I’d feel when Dad first arrived home from his trips. I’d drive Mum mad beforehand, chattering, drawing pictures for Dad and asking again and again when he’d be back. And when he first came home I’d be more excited than about anything and he’d treat me differently from how Mum did; he’d take me out and buy me things Mum never let me have, perfume and big sparkly earrings, and let me stay up late and watch films that were way too old for me and eat chocolate for breakfast, and I wished he was there all the time. That’s the bit I’ve always remembered, that I’ve told Ollie about. But after a few days of him being home it would feel difficult and strange and different. I’d hear them arguing sometimes when I’d gone up to bed. I could never hear what they were saying, just their angry voices, accusing, and doors slamming. Mum would be different too when he was around. She was harder, not as gentle, less smiling and attentive to me, and sometimes she’d cry. That’s the bit I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten that I’d end up hoping he’d be gone again soon, which he always was . . . and then, once he’d gone, I’d cry, but I never knew why because really everything was much easier when he wasn’t there.

  ‘I felt like that too,’ I say, quietly, looking out over the black and silver water. ‘Not that I wished he’d die. Just that he’d go away. I always thought that maybe it was my fault he wasn’t happy when he came back.’

  It’s funny, I hadn’t realized before I said it that he wasn’t happy when he was at home, with us, but now I’ve said it it’s obvious. He wasn’t.

  ‘I always thought next time would be better. But it never was. And then he didn’t come back.’

  Gloria watches me.

  ‘I’d forgotten,’ I say. ‘I’d forgotten it was like that. I was just a kid, I suppose. I didn’t really understand it at the time.’

  Gloria closes the book and puts it in her bag. Then she takes my hand in hers.

  ‘Memories,’ she says. ‘Some are real, some are made up. Most are a bit of both.’

  * * *

  That night as she goes off to bed, Gloria says, in an offhand voice, ‘Oh, by the way, there’s someone I want us to visit tomorrow.’

  I stare at her.

  Someone she wants to visit? Has she been planning this all along? Has she been keeping it a secret or has she just forgotten to tell me? Or perhaps she’s confused and thinks we’re back in London.

  ‘Who?’ I say.

  ‘I’ll explain tomorrow,’ she says.

  ‘Do you know where they live?’ I ask, cautious.

  ‘Of course I know,’ she snaps. ‘I’ve got it written down.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Is it near here.’

  ‘Not too far. Whatsername checked. The busybody.’

  ‘Peggy?’

  ‘Yes. She checked. She said we could drive there and back in a day.’

  ‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t sure I’d be brave enough to go.’

  ‘Why?’ I say. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she says. ‘I’m too tired now. Anyway, if I think about it too much I might lose my nerve.’

  I sit there after she’s gone up and wonder who it could be. I don’t think it’s her son. He’s in Whitby, I’m sure of it. It’s the only thing that makes sense: the end of the story. So who is here? Could my first idea, that it was a romantic reunion with Sam be right? I can’t help hoping so.

  But, really, is it likely? She and Sam haven’t seen each other since they were teenagers, the same age as I am now, and they can hardly have parted on good terms. Gloria told him she was pregnant and he bailed out on her. Maybe she wants to see him so she can confront him, after all this time? Or forgive him?

  But the way she talks about Sam seems final somehow, as though he’s not someone she ever expects to see again. So who else could it be? Trust Gloria to make a mystery of it; she can’t resist a bit of drama. I smile to myself. I feel as though I’m really starting to understand her.

  But my smile fades almost instantly, and all I can feel is how sad it is, how unfair, that I’m getting know her when her illness means we can have so little time to share. If only I’d found her sooner. If only she hadn’t been kept a secret. It seems hard to believe that the family could have disowned her just because she had an illegitimate baby. Even Nan, her own sister. Or perhaps it wasn’t like that. Perhaps it was Gloria’s choice not to have anything to do with her family after the way they’d treated her all those years ago.

  I wish we had a bit longer
together. The end of our journey isn’t far away. Not long till Whitby and then what? How long will it be before she forgets we ever came on this trip?

  I force myself not to think about. We are here now. I must make the most of the time we have.

  Funny how it bring things back, being here. It’s like being taken back in time, feeling everything I felt then, the fear, the anger. For a moment I can remember clear as anything the smell of the hospital. I can feel how I felt then, sore and out of place, lonely.

  They make no secret of the fact you aren’t like the other mothers on the ward. Visiting time is the worst. The smiling husbands carrying bunches of flowers, the proud mothers clip-clopping in and clucking over the babies, the carefully wrapped presents, the excitement and chatter and the laughing. And there are children, too, carried in their fathers’ arms or older ones, with their grazed knees and freckles, peering curiously into the cots containing their new siblings. I cannot watch them.

  The first time it catches me unawares and I have to lie there in the middle of it all, in my narrow, unvisited bed, see the sneaked sideways glances in my direction, and try not to let on that I care. I close my eyes and in my head I start the lines for the part of Titania, which I’d been learning for the school play. I wonder who got my part instead. Whoever it was, they won’t have played it as well as I would have.

  ‘Hello,’ says a child’s voice.

  I open my eyes and see a little boy, about seven maybe. Fed up with the adulation being showered on his new baby brother, he has sneaked off from his own noisy group and sidled up to my bed. He is the only person in the ward to get close enough to me to notice the tear that has sneaked from the corner of my eye and trickled irritatingly down to my ear.