The Decision: Lizzie's Story

by Lucy Hay

  “No.” Dad said. “He was just a man.”

  Now, slightly ahead of me, Shona disappeared into a room. Number seventy eight. On the door was a selection of pictures, ranging from downright childish paint and inks and potato prints, through to computer graphics. For some reason, I knew Shona had done every single one. Whomever was inside this room had been there a long time. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open, following my best friend inside. Shona was fussing with various things: taking dead flowers from a vase, rearranging magazines, remaking the bed, even though it didn’t need doing. The room was pleasant; it might have been a hotel or a swanky bed and breakfast if you didn’t know. A woman was seated in a well-padded chair at the window. Though she had silver hair plaited loosely down her back, she was not as old as I expected: perhaps fifty five or sixty. Her face was lined, severe, no make up. She wore old lady’s clothes: pearls, a twin set, a box-pleated skirt. Her legs were bandaged. Yet on her feet were bright pink slippers, trimmed with fake fur. The contrast was ridiculous, yet the slippers seemed familiar. A moment later, I realised where I had seen them before: on Shona.

  “This is my aunt.” Shona explained. “My father’s sister, Natalie.”

  I had a thousand questions, the most pressing being why she had brought me here. Instead I said: “Hello, Natalie.”

  Natalie looked at me as if she had seen me for the first time. “Hello, dear.” She said automatically.

  I realised, belatedly, there was something wrong with Natalie. She was not in the home because she was old. It was her eyes that gave it away: she stared into the distance at something so far away, it was as if she could never truly join us back in reality. And wherever she was, her anguished expression told me her world was full of pain. Shona regarded her aunt with a mixture of regret and sorrow. She did not want to say what she was about to, but something about my friend’s own expression told me she felt she had to:

  “Tell her about Toby.” Shona said.

  Immediately Natalie’s agonised features moved: a mother’s indulgent smile appeared at her lips, lighting up her face. “He was a lovely baby.” She said, picking an imaginary piece of lint off her tweedy, old lady skirt. “Full head of hair when he was born. Jet black. Beautiful big eyes.” Shona had heard this many times before, I could tell: involuntary, I saw her lips form Natalie’s words silently as her aunt said them. Yet Shona’s face stayed stony.

  “Where is he, now?” She prompted, almost cringing. It was clear she hated what she was doing. Yet I felt powerless to watch and listen, in that disinfectant-smelling, hospital-like room.

  “Mum said it was for the best.”

  Something about Natalie’s voice, face, demeanour changed as she said this. The older woman appeared to shrink in her chair, her posture child-like. But what was worse: that age-old agony appeared on her features again, pain as clear at the memory as if the event had happened yesterday. Yet still Shona persisted.

  “What happened, Natalie?” Shona said softly.

  “Mum said it wasn’t right, a young girl having a baby out of wedlock.” Natalie whispered, “People would reckon I was wicked. I’d never get a good job, never get married. No money. No money, no baby. It’s for the best.”

  For the best… What I had said to Shona earlier. I was appalled. I’d known young girls in the past had been pressurised to give their babies up for adoption by parents and government agencies, but I had never met a woman who had been forced to make such a choice. My heart ached for Natalie. But most of all, I was angry. With Shona. How could she emotionally blackmail like me like this?

  “Stop it.” I said darkly.

  Shona shot me a look. “Did he ever come and find you?” Shona asked Natalie.

  Natalie shook her head, a single tear escaping the corner of her left eye, tracking its way down her over-rouged cheek. “I put my name on all the lists.” She said, “I always hoped. But… nothing.”

  “That’s enough.” I said to Shona, a lump rising in my throat. I didn’t want to hear anymore. I didn’t know if I could.

  “Natalie tried to get on with her life,” Shona said to me, “But it always came to back to this… Wondering about him. Is he happy? Sad? Alive… dead?”

  “I said stop it.” I murmured.

  “You need to know,” Shona said. “If you’re going to live with it.”

  “Stop it!” Something snapped. I bolted. Out of that hospital-like room, away from poor, lost Natalie. Down the corridor, dodging trolleys and residents, out into the open air of the driveway beyond. I emerged into the summer evening outside gasping, my heart hammering, my vision blurry. Shona was wrong to bring me to see Natalie. If I opted for adoption, it would be my choice. No one was forcing me, like Natalie’s mother had forced her. I wasn’t stupid; I knew it was a huge thing to do. It was me who would have to carry the child; I would have to give birth. And yes, I would have to hand the child over. But I could do it: I was being responsible! It was the best thing for everyone. Why couldn’t Shona see that?

  Seeing the sun dipping over the horizon ahead, I realised the last buses of the day back to Winby must have finished. Grudgingly, I stood next to the car and waited for Shona. She must have known I was going nowhere, because she sidled out about twenty minutes later, unlocking the Jaguar with the remote fob. She slid in behind the wheel without looking at me. Finally she sighed and reached over, opening the passenger side door for me.

  “Are you getting in, then?” She asked.

  Now it was my turn to play the defiant child. I sat down, slamming the car door. Shona didn’t react. “That was a low trick.” I said.

  “Not a trick.” Shona opposed carefully. “Did you see her face? You think I liked putting her through that?”

  “You just have to be right, don’t you?” I accused.

  “It’s not about being right!” Finally, a real reaction from Shona. Her composure disappeared. Suddenly her eyes shone with tears, her face flushed red. “For God’s sake Liz, is this really how you see me? This about you. And that baby!”

  An uneasy silence settled on the car. “Adoption’s not wrong.” I said at last.

  Shona sighed, pinching her nose with her thumb and forefinger as if warding off a headache – or perhaps counting to ten. “Never said it was.” Shona replied levelly. “But it is for you.”

  “How do you know?” I demanded.

  “Because I know you.” Shona replied simply.

  Words failed me. I was unsure what Shona was seeing that I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready to be a mother. No matter what Shona said or thought, that wouldn’t suddenly reverse. Yet I didn’t want to have an abortion. What else was there to do? Adoption was the obvious answer: I could still have my life, the child too. It was sensible, responsible. Yes it would be difficult, but then things worth doing often were.

  At last, Shona turned the key in the ignition and we were on the road again. Night had fallen and the lights of the city soon fell to the darkness of the countryside, other cars’ headlights and the cat’s eyes on the road flashing by. In my pocket, my mobile vibrated with half a dozen voicemails and texts. Mum had even enlisted my sisters’ help in tracking me down: a message from Amanda read, YOU IN TROUBLE NOW. I knew she was right, yet my fear of Mum did not eclipse my confusion of what had just happened. If Shona was not trying to emotionally blackmail me in doing what she believed was right – keep the baby – then what was she doing?

  “I thought you didn’t like children.” I said as the car sped through the night.

  “I don’t.” Shona replied, never taking her eyes off the road.

  “You took me to an abortion clinic!” I pointed out.

  “I know.” She said.

  “Then why are you bothered if I keep it or not?” I enquired.

  Shona glanced away from the road and at me, finally. She opened her mouth to speak, then seemed to change her mind, shaking her head almost imperceptibly, pursing her lips. Not for the first time that day looking at my best friend, I was remind
ed of my mother: I’d seen that look on Mum’s face many times over the years.

  We completed the rest of the journey in silence, not even the radio on. Shona stopped at the top of the lane again, just as she had earlier in daylight. The darkness swallowed up those handmade signs; the field I usually cut across was a yawning mouth beyond the hedge. As soon as the car came to a standstill, I was muttering my thanks and grabbing for the door handle, eager to get out of the vehicle: away from Shona, away from the situation and the strange place we had found ourselves in, a curious line drawn in the sand between us.

  “Liz.” Shona said mournfully. I looked back, resentful: Shona was staring ahead, out of the windscreen, as if she didn’t trust herself to look directly at me. “You have everything I ever wanted. You know that?”

  Confusion whirled through my head for the umpteenth time that day. Shona had to be crazy. What did I have, that she could want? I was pregnant, with no boyfriend, no money, my whole future hanging in the balance! But I didn’t have it in me to debate this with her any further.

  “’Bye, Shona.” I said, letting the car door click shut. Shona turned her head at last and gave me one last look up and down, as if committing me to memory. The car engine turned over again and with another and roaring spin of wheels in country mud, she was gone.

  It was a humid night. In the woods I could hear a fox barking. Heavy machinery chugged somewhere out in the fields or up on the main road, working late. A light breeze whispered through the boughs of the trees that created a canopy of leaves over the road. The pale eye of the moon poked through, high in the sky. In the dark out here, I might be the only person in the world: it certainly felt like it. An entire apocalypse could happen in the cities and conurbations, yet out in the sticks, our lives would remain undisturbed, forgotten.

  More by luck than design, I located the stile that led into the field beyond the lane. I climbed it, swinging my legs over ungainly, catching my rucksack’s strap on the barbed wire on the fence next to it. Swearing, I pulled it free, ignoring the sound of ripping fabric, hoping it wasn’t as bad as it sounded. There were no other houses on the lane and I could see just one light on at my house in the valley below: it would be my mother, waiting up for me. My heart sank. I knew, once in the house, my secret would have to be offered up to her to explain my going AWOL for the entire day. She would never let it go otherwise, but keep chipping away until she uncovered it regardless. We would be there all night – what was left of it – if necessary. I could already hear her voice, ringing in my ears: where have you been? Why haven’t you answered your phone? I’ve been worried sick! I gritted my teeth in anticipation: so many people, all going on at me. First Mike’s accusations, then Shona emotionally blackmailing me or God-knows-whatever she was doing. I wasn’t sure I could take Mum as well.

  You have everything I ever wanted.

  I stopped in the long grass. Realisation hit me with the force of iced water. Shona hadn’t been talking about my situation now: the pregnancy, Mike, the choice I had to make. She was talking about Mum. Remember this, Shona had instructed in the hallway as I’d looked at my reflection, young and defeated, in the mirror. I had wondered what to do next, but I now realised Shona had told me that moment had to be my starting point. There was no further down for me; the only way was up, whatever my decision was. And I didn’t have to do it alone.

  “Tell your Mum.” She’d said in the car.

  “She’s got too much on.” I protested.

  “Not for you.” Shona said vehemently.

  All my life I had guarded my friendship with Shona from my family jealously, keeping her away from my sisters rather than share her. I had forced Shona to stay on the fringe of my life, just as she had been of her own parents’ who were emotionally – and literally – unavailable: her father away on too-frequent business trips; her mother in a drug-induced haze. Yet despite having never had one in her life, she could recognise a dependable person: my Mum. Mothers in the past may not have been supportive of their pregnant underage daughters, but even if they had wanted to, society would not have let them. But it was different now. As I had insisted in the car, adoption could be a good thing. But these days, no one could force a young single mother into having her baby taken away if she wanted to keep it. And I did. Somehow, Shona had known that, even before I had.

  I wanted the baby!

  Shona had looked into my soul and seen that for all my bluster about being sensible and responsible, a part of me deep down ached at the thought of giving my child away. That was why Shona had taken me to see Natalie: not to scare me into agreeing with her, but to show me the consequences of going against my gut instinct. Being pregnant before you are ready is frightening and confusing, but it is one of the rare occasions when one’s heart has to rule the head. Money, education, living arrangements – all have to be sorted later, after the initial decision is made. I wasn’t sure exactly why I wanted the baby; it just seemed… right. Shona had reached out to me in my confusion and reminded me there were people in my life who could help me. I had thought Shona had somehow “owed” me, back in her bedroom; but really it was I who owed her.

  And I had rejected her.

  Immediately I grabbed for my phone in my pocket, intent on calling my best friend. I wanted to make Shona turn the car around, come back up the country lane so I could throw my arms around her and tell her I was sorry. Sorry for rejecting her, sorry for sidelining her, sorry for not getting what she was trying to do for me. I wanted to say I understood now: adoption was wrong for me, but more than that, it was wrong for the rest of my family, too. My family, for all its problems, would welcome another child, even one conceived in less than ideal circumstances. My mother would want to help me; my sisters would want their first niece or nephew kept in the family. We could figure everything else out later.

  But before I could punch in Shona’s number on speed dial, my phone lit up in my hand and started ringing, its harsh tone sounding even louder in the middle of the dark field. Surprised, I peered at the old LCD screen.

  On it, my little sister’s name, SAL…

  ALL OF THEM

  … “Don’t say a word, just listen, okay?”

  The room swam into focus swiftly, leaving me breathless. My vision felt threatened by blue tinges, as if I had just woken up, my limbs heavy and sluggish. I jumped at the sound of the words: they seemed to boom around the grotty toilets and echo back at me like I was in a cave. I was even more startled to realise those same words were coming from my own mouth.

  “You don’t even know why I’m calling!” Sal objected testily at the end of the line. “I wanted…”

  I interrupted her. “… I need to talk to Mum.”

  “So call her!” Sal said. Her tone was more bewildered than annoyed now. She’d never heard me talk to her like this before.

  “I can’t, I haven’t got any credit.” I said, “Just go and give the phone to Mum! Please Sal!”

  “You’re not wasting my credit.” Sal began but again I cut in:

  “I’m pregnant.” I said.

  There was silence at the end of the line. “Are you sure?” Sal said at last.

  I looked at the pregnancy tester in my hand. The line and the dot were proof enough. “Oh yes.” I replied.

  “Get rid of it.” Sal said suddenly.

  “What?” My mind was reeling. “Just get Mum…”

  “Get rid of it, or you’ll be ruining your life.” Sal said earnestly.

  “I don’t know what I want to do yet!” I tried to point out, “This is why I need to speak to Mum!”

  “You know what she’s like! It’s babies, babies, babies with her!” Sal was keeping her voice down, I heard a door close. She was hiding away somewhere, trying to plead her case and get me to see sense.

  “I told you: I don’t know what I want to do yet.” I repeated.

  “Mum will make you keep it.” Sal declared.

  Was this really the vision my sister had of our mother, a mere baby mak
er? To me, Mum had always been a bit of an enigma: caring yet cold, thoughtful yet introverted. She was hardworking, always. Her reactions could not always be predicted: questions could herald long, involved conversations or she could snap as easily as a dry twig. I felt both infuriated by and admiring of Mum in equal measure. In contrast, I thought of Sal’s consistency, her endless sniping and defensiveness. Her lack of engagement with the rest of us, preferring the sanctity of her bedroom, hunched over her desk, reading endlessly into the night. Perhaps she had set the bar for her life already? Maybe she would always be like that: there would be no friends to speak of, no husband or family: just work. If that lifestyle had the potential to make Sal happy, I would not have felt sorry for her, but instead congratulated her on a choice well made. Yet my little sister was starved for affection, desperate for it, but would conversely let no one give it to her.

  “Please get Mum.” I said measuredly.

  I heard Sal swear at the end of the line and then there was silence, but for a door opening and the rustling of a phone on the move. I heard the tinny radio in the kitchen, playing Mum’s beloved Euro Pop. Sal muttered something, there was more rustling and then suddenly Mum was on the phone:

  “Hello darling,” Mum said breezily, “I’m making your favourite for dinner.”

  My favourite: lasagne, then. Curiously, the change in tack of conversation brought a lump to my throat and the sting of tears to my eyes. “Great,” I gulped, the air seeming to press on my chest now. “Mum, I need to talk to you.”

  Mum’s initial breeziness was gone in an instant. “What’s the matter, Lizzie?” She coaxed, concerned. “Are you alright?”

  “Yes.” I said immediately, “… No. Can you come and get me?”

  Within moments the lasagne duties had been abandoned to a grumbling Sal as Mum dropped everything to come and fetch me as I’d asked, telling me not to worry and she’d be with me soon. I still had at least twenty five minutes before Mum would reach town. I left the toilets and real life resumed once again. I noticed the lack of stalls; over half the pitches were empty, despite the midday sun being high in the sky. This was matched by the lack of patrons: just a handful of old people drifting here and there, examining products and tat with eyes and hands. I must have been the youngest in the market place by about forty years. I wandered stall to stall with unseeing eyes, trying to keep busy but really just going over the same question in my mind: how was I going to break this news to Mum, where did I even begin?