The Second Child

by Caroline Bond

  I’m nervous. The connection between us seems loose and faulty again. ‘Yes. I’m sorry that Rosie has been so… upset and uncommunicative. I have tried to get her to call you.’ I feel awkward apologising for her daughter, but Anne doesn’t appear to notice.

  She clears her throat before she speaks. ‘I know we need to talk about how we’re going to handle things with Rosie, but before we do that, I really want to try and explain my decision regarding Lauren. Would that be all right?’

  ‘Of course.’ I was right not to come with Phil. He’d have no patience with this.

  She composes herself. ‘I feel I owe you a proper explanation. It was such a big decision.’ But then she dries. I wait. ‘I was trying to do what was best for Lauren. That’s what motivated me – doing what seemed right for her.’

  ‘I understand that, Anne, I really do, and as you’ve known all along, I just couldn’t imagine a life without Lauren. The thought of any big changes was very unsettling for me, and Phil, and for James.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s important that I’m honest with you. It wasn’t just Lauren, it was me.’ She swallows. ‘The problem is me. I just don’t believe that I have the skills to cope. You and Phil are so good with her; what you do for her, it’s so admirable, so impressive. I wouldn’t be able to come close, not on my own.’

  ‘I understand.’ I truly do.

  She makes an odd, fluttering gesture with her hand. ‘No, I don’t think you do. You have a good marriage, a good husband.’ It sounds like an accusation rather than an acknowledgement. ‘Nathan has never been that. I’ve never had that. I’ve had to raise Rosie on my own. He pays, but that’s it. He’s always been very insistent on what he will and will not tolerate, in terms of any demands on his time or his attention.’ I keep silent, for fear of offending her. ‘And that’s something I need to speak with you about.’ I wait. ‘I gather you’ve been in touch with my ex-husband.’

  That pulls me up short. I’ve been trying to forget that I did such a stupid thing. I don’t know what I was hoping to achieve, but there’s no denying that I did it, as she obviously knows. ‘Yes. I sent him a picture of Lauren.’

  ‘So I gather.’ She swallows again. ‘Sarah, I understand why you can’t comprehend his actions, or his motives. I’m sure most people wouldn’t, but it really was pointless getting in touch with him. He won’t get involved. He has another life. Rosie and I, and Lauren, we don’t fit into it. You mustn’t take it personally.’ Anne ploughs on. ‘He’s adamant that he wants no direct contact with Lauren. He isn’t capable of caring, Sarah – it’s not in his nature.’

  Which, in hindsight, is exactly what I want. We look at each other for a moment, both of us, I suspect, reflecting on the shittiness of her ex-husband. Then a thought occurs to me. ‘When did you talk to him?’ I ask. ‘You said that you never spoke.’ I’m not sure why I’m bothered. Maybe it’s something to do with Anne and Rosie’s shared comfort with half-truths.

  She blinks. ‘I don’t normally, but he rang me after you emailed him.’

  ‘Why did he ring you? Why not contact me?’

  Her face stiffens. ‘I’ve just told you, he doesn’t want to get involved.’ There’s a brittle edge to her voice now, which grates on me. I wasn’t prepared for all this. I was expecting to talk about Rosie, not Lauren, and certainly not about Nathan. Her focus on him after all these years seems out of proportion, almost obsessive. Watching her, I can see that she’s getting agitated. She stands up and starts pacing around the room, avoiding looking at me. ‘I can’t answer for him, Sarah. He’s a cold man and he can be cruel. Trust me, you’re better off not having any contact with him. Truly you are. I’m not denying Lauren is my child. I’m not. I know she’s mine, my daughter.’ She seems to think that I’m accusing her of something. I’m not, but it makes no difference to her mounting distress. Her voice becomes high and breathy and she pulls at the skin of her throat. ‘But I just can’t cope with it any more, I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t. It’s not just having to decide about Lauren – it’s Rosie. I’m losing Rosie and she’s all I’ve got. And now there’s Nathan.’ She starts scratching at her neck, raising red lines on the pale skin. ‘He’s absolutely furious, again. He’s threatening to make life very difficult for me, for us, maybe even for you. Please, Sarah.’ She suddenly rushes across the room and leans over me, her face unnervingly close to mine. ‘You mustn’t make it worse. You must promise me that you won’t try to contact him again.’ I’m alarmed. Her breathing is snatched and noisy. ‘I can’t.’ She starts rasping, clawing at her throat. ‘Sarah, I can’t breathe.’

  I know it’s a panic attack. She can breathe, she is breathing, that’s what all the gasping is, but the look of terror in her eyes is genuine. She thinks she’s choking. I try to calm her down.

  ‘Anne, listen to me.’ I place my hands on hers and gently pull them away from her throat, revealing the lattice of scratch marks on her neck. ‘You’re having a panic attack. You just need to get a bit more oxygen into your lungs.’ Her grip on my fingers is vice-like. She fixes her eyes on me and nods, but if anything her breathing gets worse, shorter and shallower. It sounds horribly loud. I inject as much calmness into my voice as possible. ‘Anne, listen to me, you need to try and breathe more slowly. No, Anne, slowly.’ But she doesn’t; her breaths become more snatched and ineffective. I’m having no effect on her at all. Her colour is dreadful. ‘Wait here.’ She looks panic-stricken as I leave, assuming, I suppose, that I’m abandoning her. I wedge my bag in the door to keep it open and hurry downstairs.

  The receptionist is no use whatsoever. Eventually the manager manages to find a big brown envelope in the back office. It’s probably fifteen minutes before I get back up to her room. She’s still struggling. I can hear her rasping breaths as the lift doors open. She is kneeling on the floor, clutching at the bed covers. She looks very frightened.

  ‘Anne, breathe into this.’ She grabs my hand and I guide the scrunched-up envelope to her lips. ‘Now, breathe. Slowly. There you go. Keep going. Good. That’s better.’

  It’s an old trick, but it works. Her breathing gradually slows and she grows less frantic. In and out, in and out, each breath gets deeper and less snatched, until at long last her breathing steadies. We sit on the floor side-by-side as she slowly calms down. After a few minutes I take my hands away and she holds the envelope in place herself. In and out, in and out. Without thinking, I stroke her back to soothe her. After another few minutes she lowers the envelope from her blue-tinged lips and breathes normally.

  ‘Thank you.’ Her voice is soft and colourless. She shuffles around and leans her head back against the bed. She looks wrecked. The room settles back into silence. As much as I know she’s exhausted and in no fit state to have a rational conversation about anything, some of Ali’s steel enters my soul. This is my one chance to speak truthfully with Anne. I can’t let it slip by, just because she’s had a meltdown. There is something here that doesn’t add up.

  I ask gently, but firmly, ‘Anne, why is Nathan furious with you? You said he was furious with you, again.’ When she doesn’t respond I stroke her hand, trying to draw her back into the room. I’m surprised at how kind and concerned I sound. She rolls her head against the edge of the bed and closes her eyes. I try one more time. ‘Anne, it’s okay, you can tell me. What did you do?’

  42

  What’s True

  ANNE

  OXYGEN BEGINS to creep back into my lungs. It hurts, but I can breathe again. Sarah sits quietly, holding my hand. I close my eyes. Everything grows still.

  Sarah’s voice is quiet and calm. It reaches inside me. ‘Anne…’ she says, ‘it’s okay, you can tell me. What did you do?’

  And because I can’t bear it any more, because I simply cannot endure the loneliness of it for one more day, I tell her. I tell her every tiny detail that I’ve replayed in my head a thousand times before…

  ‘It was the day you were discharged from hospital. Do you remember, we sat together a
nd waited for Phil?’ It sounds odd to finally hear the words out loud. ‘You were packed, ready to go, sitting on your bed. So very pale, your lips chapped and flaky. We talked in fits and starts about nothing and, as we talked, I watched your baby sleeping, her little chest rising and falling with each breath.’

  I feel Sarah let go of my hand.

  ‘One of the nurses came by and cut off her identification labels, and yours, with those weird scissors they have, the ones with the blades that bend upwards. Right there, right in front of me, precise little snips, taking care not to nick the skin. You put your own labels on the side table. I remember you made a joke about having your price-tag cut off. You put the baby ones in your bag, a memento. Then the nurse checked the discharge paperwork and your tablets. There was something wrong with the dose they’d given you. She cursed under her breath and bustled off to sort it out.

  ‘You started talking about the future, about trying to get back to normal and how hard it was going to be. You were worrying about James and how you’d manage once you went back to work – the travelling, childcare, stuff like that. You were already trying to map it all out. You kept looking at your watch. You started stressing about your meds not being ready. I suggested you went and asked. You left it for another five minutes, then you decided you would go and see where the nurse had got to. You eased yourself off the bed, very carefully, and looked into the crib. She was fast asleep.

  ‘It was a genuine offer. I said I’d watch her.’

  Sarah makes a choked noise and draws in a sharp, shallow breath.

  ‘You did hesitate. You glanced back at us before you left the ward.’ I pause, then go on, because I have to. ‘I picked her up and I walked along to my room, just another mum with her baby. I put Rosie on the bed and lifted Lauren out of her crib. I laid them side-by-side. They were the same size. They had the same dark, soft, tufty hair. I unpopped Rosie’s Babygro and vest, then Lauren’s. I noticed their nappies were different, so I swapped them. I remember the tabs didn’t stick very well. I was careful getting Lauren’s name-tags off. The ankle one I managed to ease off without too much trouble, but not the one on her wrist. I had to use my nail scissors.

  ‘I was very careful not to hurt her.

  ‘Then I swapped their clothes, quickly. Neither of them got cold. I put Rosie in the crib in my room. She didn’t cry. And before I could change my mind’ I picked Lauren up and carried her “back” to the ward.’

  Sarah says nothing, but I can feel the tension pulsing through her.

  ‘You weren’t back. I sat with her on my knee until you returned and, when you did, you simply lifted her away from me and we waited quietly. You stroked Lauren’s downy little head. I watched you stroke my baby’s head and it was almost as if I hadn’t done anything.’

  I hear Sarah’s breathing grow faster and shallower.

  ‘Phil arrived. He was flustered, he’d had to leave the car somewhere he shouldn’t. You tried to put Lauren into the car seat. You struggled with the straps and Phil got agitated. I offered to hold her, one last time. Then the nurse checked your medicines, again, and finally it was all sorted. You hugged me goodbye. I kept my hands in my dressing-gown pockets, gripping onto a little tin of lip balm. I gave it to you as a parting gift. The nurse escorted you off the ward and you left and took her away. And it was done and couldn’t be undone.’

  I have to get to the end.

  ‘I went and sat in my room. I didn’t pick her up. She lay in the crib with her eyes fluttering open and shut, and I waited. I waited for you to realise and come back. I knew it couldn’t work. I resigned myself to the anger and the drama and the punishment. I just sat there and waited for the inevitable chaos.

  ‘But you didn’t come back.

  ‘It grew dark. Lights went on. A nurse looked in on us. I said we were fine. Rosie started snuffling, then crying. That broke the spell. She needed feeding. I picked her up and tried to comfort her, but she needed milk, not soothing. Her crying built and spiralled: angry, demanding, hungry wailing. I was worried a nurse might come to see what was happening. So I fed her. My milk flowed into her, making her mine.’

  I stop.

  There is no screaming, no rending of the heavens, no swift summary justice. The room is silent and still.

  What I feel is relief, a great, powerful, cleansing flood of relief.

  I want to curl up right there, on the floor, close my eyes and go to sleep.

  SARAH

  I don’t interrupt her. I daren’t, in case she stops. She gets to the end. After a long silence she says quietly, ‘I’m so tired.’

  I’m numb. Any other response is beyond me. Bizarrely, I still feel the need to help her somehow. A residue of caring. ‘Why don’t you lie down?’ Like a child instructed to take a nap, she clambers up onto the bed and lies down, facing away from me. I retreat to the chair. The pale soles of her stockinged feet snag my attention, reminding me, for reasons I can’t even begin to fathom, of Mum.

  When she speaks her voice is hypnotically calm. ‘That has been eating away at me for the past fifteen years.’

  It’s quiet in the room. The ping of the lift arriving and departing punctuates the silence. Inertia overwhelms me. Her confession sinks in, slowly, heavily; the weight of it, the enormity of what she did. I sit on the chair looking at her and she lies on the bed looking away. Neither of us moves.

  The buzz of an incoming text startles me. It’s Ali: Are u ok? You’ve been up there ages. Do you want me to come up?

  I can’t face Ali. I can’t leave this room, where Anne and I are suspended, in purgatory. Not yet.

  I text Ali back: No. I’ll come down. Wait there for me.

  Anne hasn’t moved. She’s so still I don’t know whether she’s even awake. The thought that she could sleep stirs an ember of rage. ‘Anne!’ My voice is sharp and loud. It cracks the atmosphere. She rolls over and pushes herself upright on the bed. I stare at her and see a delicate, opaque image of Anne, the woman I’ve grown so familiar with over the past few weeks, the woman I’ve allowed into our lives, who I’ve defended, felt sympathy for and whose pain I’ve shared; and inside her, I see something black and ugly and hard. The truth.

  ‘Why? Why did you do it?’

  She looks straight at me and says quietly, but very clearly, ‘I knew there was something wrong with her.’ It’s as simple and awful as that.

  I feel punched. She carried Lauren for nine months, gave birth to her, held her in her arms, then she rejected her. Words fail me, but Anne can speak. She can voice the unconscionable. ‘My job, before I was married. That’s what I did all day. I typed up the consultants’ notes. I used to collate all the medical assessments for the paediatric team. Down’s syndrome, cerebral palsy, cleft palates, the whole gamut of things that can go wrong with a baby, if you’re one of the unlucky ones.’ She keeps talking, words spilling out of her, in some sort of compulsive confession. ‘I spent my whole pregnancy having nightmares that my child would have something wrong with it, that my baby wasn’t going to be healthy. Nathan said I was being ridicu-lous, but I knew… I knew as soon as I saw her thumbs, and the mark on her forehead, that I was one of the unlucky ones.’ Her self-obsession is breathtaking.

  ‘So you got rid of her?’

  ‘I didn’t plan it.’

  ‘But you did it.’

  ‘Yes.’ The word hangs in the air.

  My brain is scrambling to catch up with what she’s saying, to regain some degree of equity with her. ‘Does Nathan know what y ou did?’

  ‘Yes.’ Again her newfound compulsion to be honest knocks me back.

  ‘From the beginning?’

  Her voice is monotone. ‘No. He found out when Rosie was three.’ At last she drops her gaze.

  ‘How?’ I want to know. I need to know it all.

  She’s no longer really talking to me. ‘He would have left me anyway. He wanted rid of me by then. I told him to hurt him. He was appalled, furious. He couldn’t believe that I’d done something so
stupid, so reckless.’

  I look at her bowed head and struggle to accept that this nightmare is a by-product of Anne’s warped relationship with a man who left her more than a decade ago. She’s still talking, to herself. ‘He’s worried it will all come out and he’ll be under suspicion. It will damage him, professionally, very badly.’ Finally she falls silent. Her hands lie lifeless in her lap.

  ‘Fuck him!’

  She flinches. I’m struggling for control. She sits on the bed, passive, awaiting judgement, and I hate her. I hate her self-obsession. I hate her calmness. I hate the fury that she has stirred inside me. And I hate that I have no idea what I’m going to do with the bitter, black truth she’s just spewed out. The adrenaline that’s been building up inside my body pumps through me, smashing into nerves and skin, finding no release.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ She isn’t pleading. She asks as if she no longer cares.

  I don’t answer. I suddenly, violently, want to get as far away from her as possible. I stand up, grab my bag and walk out. As I pull the door shut, she doesn’t move. My last glimpse is of a dishevelled, passive, broken woman who is not the victim of chaos. She’s the cause.

  *

  I’m outside, stumbling down the street, when I hear my name. ‘Sarah! Sarah! Wait.’ But I don’t. I want to put as much space between Anne and me as I can, so I keep moving, running across one road, then another, blind to my surroundings. I have no idea where I’m heading, nor do I care. Ali eventually catches up with me at the big intersection when I step back onto the pavement just in time to avoid getting flattened by a truck. She grabs hold of my wrist. ‘Sarah! Calm down. What the hell’s happened?’ She pulls me away from the edge of the kerb and keeps tugging me along after her, until we find a bench. ‘Sit down. What is it? What’s wrong?’