by Leah Mercer
I felt this way when I was pregnant with Milo, too: incapable of believing I was actually going through with it, knowing my past was behind me now that I was a mum-to-be, yet the future as a mother seemed completely unfathomable. That first pregnancy is a no-man’s land, where you’re neither a person in your own right any more or a mother yet. I wish now I’d enjoyed it more, instead of wishing it away – anxious to finally meet the baby growing inside of me.
I used to laugh when people told me to enjoy the newborn days, the toddlerhood, because ‘they grow up so fast’. Some days – when Milo had colic or screamed like a banshee because he hated his buggy – time seemed to stretch for hours.
But in the end, those people are right. It does go fast. And when you only have that child for two years, it seems like the blink of an eye. His little face – the face that was fading slightly, like a photo greying over time – bursts into technicolour. I close my eyes, trying to imprint the sharpness of the image on my brain before I lose it again. For just a second, it feels like he’s right there in front of me. I can almost smell the mix of baby wipes, yeasty bread and earth his body gave off, and the rush of love overwhelms me. Memories whoosh through my mind, from his red-faced newborn days all the way through to his mischievous expression when he grabbed the forbidden TV remote.
It’s hard for me to think now that I almost didn’t have him. That I almost missed out on . . . well, to call it love feels trite. It’s more than simple love. It’s a fierce, visceral emotion that resonates from every cell, the feeling that you’d do anything for this tiny being you brought into the world.
Because, I realise, no matter what else happened – how my fairy tale fell apart – I wouldn’t give up having that love for anything. For the first time since Milo’s death, I want to hang on tightly to the memories instead of blanking them out, to remember every minuscule detail of his life. I can take solace in that, I discover. It will never wipe away the blame, but right now, the comfort outweighs the pain.
27
EDWARD, SEPTEMBER 2010
‘Just a second,’ I call over my shoulder to Eva as my mobile starts ringing. We’re on our way out to dinner with her friends who, thankfully, I’ve clicked with. I really hit the jackpot with her. All right, so we don’t have that spark I had with Zoe – the all-encompassing, all-in emotion. I’m more than okay with that, though. I like how safe this feels, the slow pace it’s moving along at and the fact that, this time, I’m sure where it’s going.
It’s pedestrian rather than a car race, and that’s just what I need right now.
My brow furrows when I spot the caller’s name on my phone, and I move into the bedroom.
‘Kate?’ I close the door softly. My head is telling me I should have let the phone ring out, to keep everything in the past at bay. Too late now.
‘Oh, thank God you answered.’ Her voice sounds strained and frantic.
‘Is everything all right?’ A thought pings through my mind and fear grips my heart. ‘Is Zoe okay?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’ Kate’s tone is grim, and my heart drops. We may not be together any more, but I can’t bear to think of anything happening to her. ‘Look, I don’t even know if I should be calling you. Giles thinks I should just leave it alone. But . . .’
‘But what?’ My voice rises a notch, and I clear my throat.
‘Zoe’s pregnant.’
Kate’s words hit me like a bullet between the eyes. Zoe? Pregnant? Jealousy rolls over me with such intensity I need to sit down. It’s obviously not my baby. So why the hell is Kate ringing to tell me this? Some kind of post-break-up torture?
‘Thanks for the update,’ I say, my voice cold. ‘But I don’t need to know what’s happening in Zoe’s life.’
‘You do, Edward.’ Kate pauses, and I’m very tempted to hang up the phone. To break the connection, to stop the pain. ‘The baby is yours.’
I shake my head so hard my neck cracks. Christ, didn’t Zoe tell Kate I can’t have kids? Now I have to explain that, too? ‘It’s not. I can’t have children, so whatever’s going on . . .’ I swallow. ‘Just wish Zoe well. Bye, Kate.’
‘Wait!’ Kate’s voice emerges like a squawk. ‘I know you can’t get someone pregnant. But Zoe hasn’t been with anyone else, so . . .’
‘Not even that bloke at the restaurant?’ I can’t help asking.
Kate snorts. ‘All that was just for your benefit. As soon as you left, Zoe ditched the guy.’
Silence stretches between us as her words swirl around my mind. Could I get someone pregnant? All my life, I’ve taken that GP’s words at face value – that fathering a child would be next to impossible. My jaw tightens. Could he have been wrong? Did I somehow misunderstand? Much of that time is a blur of hot sweats and pounding head – not to mention the pain, horror and embarrassment of swollen testicles as a complication of my illness.
‘Look, I know this is a shock,’ Kate’s voice breaks into my thoughts, ‘but I had to tell you now. Zoe’s, well . . . she’s not sure what to do.’
‘She might not have it?’ My voice comes out high and thready, and I clear my throat again.
‘She’s confused, I think.’ Kate pauses. ‘But listen, I know you two still love each other. Or, at least, I know she still loves you. I’ve never seen her like this, in such a state after you two broke up – not even with her last fiancé.’
Last fiancé? What the hell? After everything she told me – after breaking up because of it – Zoe was engaged to someone else?
‘All that business about getting married . . . well, now there’s something else involved. A baby. Your baby. I really think you two need to talk. Soon, before she does anything.’
I hear a child wail in the background, and Kate sighs. ‘I’d better go. Zoe’s going to murder me when she finds out I’ve told you, but I couldn’t let her do this on her own. Whatever happens, whatever you decide, I really think you need to do it together.’
‘Thanks, Kate.’ I hang up and stand, rubbing my eyes. My limbs are heavy, weighed down by layer after layer of information I can’t digest. Zoe was engaged before? She’s pregnant, and it’s my baby? I might be able to have children after all? It’s so unbelievable, it feels like I’ve stepped into another reality.
‘Edward! Come on, we’re going to be late!’ Eva’s bell-like tone rings through my head, and I take a deep breath as astonishment peppered with joy sweeps through me. I need time to think about all this, to somehow try to wrap my brain around it all. I roll my head in a circle, trying to ease the tension in my shoulders as thoughts race through my brain. I want forever, yes. That will never change. But Kate’s right: there’s someone else involved now. And if having a child isn’t the ultimate bond, then I don’t know what is. Besides . . . if Zoe committed to someone once, maybe she will again. If it’s just a negative experience that put her off, perhaps that can change. A flicker of hope leaps up inside. Perhaps Zoe and I could work after all. An image of the two of us, smiling down at our pink newborn the same way Kate and Giles did flashes into my mind, and desire almost knocks me over.
Think practically, I tell myself, willing my pulse to slow down. I can’t just barge into Zoe’s, even if I wanted to. I need to find out if it’s possible that I could get someone pregnant. I don’t doubt Kate’s good intentions, but she’s tied up with her own child half the time, and I know she and Zoe aren’t as close as they used to be. I couldn’t bear it if I turned up to see Zoe, ready to claim my family future, only to learn it isn’t mine.
I’ll see my GP first thing tomorrow morning, and then I can figure out what to do.
28
ZOE, SATURDAY, 7.30 P.M.
The sky is turning pink now, with thin, bluey-purple clouds forming floating crosses. I watch them come together then drift apart, thinking it’s been a while since I gazed up at the heavens. By this point in the evening, I’m usually crawling under the duvet. It’s a very early bedtime – so different from the days when I’d stay up until midnight, knit
ting, reading or just lolling about on the sofa – but I want the day to be done. I’m not sure why, since the next one only brings more of the same. But I love sinking into the darkness of sleep, when everything is blotted out . . . except for when the nightmares kick in.
For the first few months after Milo’s accident, sleep was my saviour. I could doze anywhere: at the table, on the floor, even while Edward was talking to me. But then— I shake my head, unable to think of that day. Then, I stopped sleeping, fighting with the pillows and blankets as if they were to blame for what happened, not me.
I fled to the GP, desperate for pills to blot the demons from my mind, and they worked for a while. But once my doctor refused to renew my prescription, saying they were only a temporary measure, the dreams started up. Piercing screams. The grind of metal, and a slap-bang as Milo hit the ground – and blood. Crimson blood, streaming like a river. Streaming from my baby’s head, from my womb. In reality, none of that happened. In reality, there was just . . . silence. Silence, and a slow trickle of red signifying everything’s over. Finished, before it even started.
Then I jerk awake in bed, my curls plastered to my face, legs slippery with sweat, and reach out for Edward before remembering that he’s not there. He’s never there, not any more. I’d hardly got out the words asking him to sleep in the spare room when he’d practically raced over there, and he’s been there ever since.
My parents think I should talk to someone. Mum even rang up a grief counsellor and made an appointment. Back in the beginning, when I was desperate for anything to make it better, I went along. I tried, but I couldn’t talk. I ended up sitting for almost an hour in silence, focusing on the inane painting of a deserted beach above the counsellor’s head. Forget counsellors; I can’t even talk to my husband, let alone a stranger.
‘Madame?’ A voice pierces my thoughts, and I realise I’m standing stock-still in the middle of a doorway. A man is standing there, keys in hand, obviously eager for me to move on so he can close up shop. ‘Would you like to come in?’ He motions inside, where I can see various toys dotting the shelves, gleaming under bright lights.
‘Oh no, that’s okay,’ I mumble, but my eyes have locked on something, a soft toy from my past – from my son’s past. It’s a brightly coloured butterfly, complete with crinkly wings covered in mirrors and buttons that squeak. Kate gave it to us after Milo’s birth, and in a feat of stunning originality, we christened it Bob. Milo was a solemn, watchful baby, but Bob never failed to make him laugh, even at his grumpiest. I can’t help smiling as I picture Edward and me, in our tiny cramped lounge, camped out on the floor. I’d hold Milo on my lap – a delicious lump of warm, soft baby weight – and Edward would swoop Bob into us, squeaking and crinkling. Milo would wiggle and squeal, and Edward and I giggled too. Delighted at our creation, delighted at life. Full up with laughter and love.
‘Please, come inside. Have a look.’ The man beckons me into the shop again, but I shake my head. I’ve seen everything I need to.
‘No, thanks. I need to get going.’ I shoot him a brief smile, then force my legs forward. For the first time since arriving in Paris, I feel like I do need to get going. These past few hours of talking again, of feeling again, have unlocked a bit of me . . . the bit that used to be a mother. I actually want to talk to Edward, my son’s father. Out of everyone, of all the people who surrounded us after Milo left, he is the only one who really knew Milo – knew every inch of him. He’s the only one who’s a part of him.
He’s the only one who really knows what losing our child feels like.
29
EDWARD, SEPTEMBER 2010
My leg jiggles as I sit on the cracked plastic chair in the doctor’s office. It feels like my future is in his hands – like he can either give me everything I ever wanted, or condemn me to my present.
‘I don’t have access to your history, so it’s impossible to give you an answer now,’ the doctor says, tapping away on his computer. ‘But infertility due to complications with mumps is quite rare. A low sperm count, maybe. Were both testicles swollen?’
I nod.
‘And did your GP refer you for any additional tests?’
I bite my lip, trying to remember. All I can recall from that time is mortification from having to show so many people my balls, along with discussions of my ‘sperm count’ and ‘fertility’. After I recovered, I wanted nothing more to do with doctors. I vaguely recall Mum trying to force me back for a follow-up, which I refused. Eventually she dropped it, and I just carried on through life with the knowledge stuck in my brain I couldn’t have kids. It was never an issue, actually, since Zoe was the first woman I ever considered marrying.
‘He might have done. I’m not sure,’ I say now.
‘Well, you’ll need to have a few tests before we can say either way. I’ll refer you to the nearest fertility clinic.’ He clacks away on the computer. ‘The earliest availability is the end of October, the sixteenth. Is that okay?’
‘Is there anything before that?’ I don’t want to leave any room for Zoe to end her pregnancy before I find out for sure – if that’s what she’s thinking about doing.
The doctor shakes his head. ‘No, sorry. I’ll put you in for that date then, shall I? You’ll receive a letter in the post with all the details.’ He shoots a none-too-subtle look at the clock on the wall above my head.
‘Okay, great,’ I mumble, getting to my feet. Things are only slightly clearer now than yesterday. My head is swimming and I still don’t know what to do. I like things in black and white, with no margin for uncertainty. You either commit, or you don’t. It’s my child, or it’s not. Is Kate right, and Zoe hasn’t been with anyone else? Will she want to be with me and have our baby – if indeed it is that?
‘Are you all right?’ The doctor’s voice is tinged with impatience. He’s clearly keen to get me out of his office and move on to the next patient.
‘Fine, fine. Thanks.’ I walk from the room and close the door behind me. I want to be there for you through thick and thin. The words from my aborted proposal come to mind, and I shake my head. Did I really mean that? If so, perhaps now is the time to prove it – marriage or not.
I’m not ready to give up on us, I realise now. If Kate is right and that is our baby, I’m ready to trust in our love and our future.
I need to see Zoe.
30
ZOE, SEPTEMBER 2010
It was surprisingly easy to make an appointment at the clinic. A quick call, a chat with a counsellor who makes sure, I guess, that you know what you’re doing, then a text from an anonymous number with your appointment date: 20 September. I don’t know what I’m doing; of course I don’t. I change my mind a hundred times each day. But in a way, it’s comforting to have something firm, an end date for all this torment.
I don’t know where the past week has gone, but somehow it’s the night before the procedure. I hate to think of it as an abortion, with all the ugly connotations that brings up: protestors thrusting plastic foetuses in women’s faces as they dodge the throng towards a faceless clinic; stabbing pain and scraping; bright-red blood.
My hand slides down to my stomach, which is still as soft and curved as ever. It’s hard to believe there’s a baby inside there, curled up in the cushiony sponge of my uterus, frantically dividing in a bid to become human. Because it’s not a person yet, right? It’s just a group of cells.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself. And while the thought of being a single mother makes me want to run away screaming and tearing out my hair, I also feel like these cells, which somehow ended up in me, deserve a chance: to multiply, and become a baby, a person, after all. Despite my fears and downright horror, I can’t help picturing this tiny baby’s hand wrapped around my finger as I cradle it on my chest.
But that’s just one snapshot, I remind myself, mentally turning the album pages of dirty nappies, piercing screams and relentless feedings. Am I up for that – alone?
Not a chance.
This time tomorrow, the whole saga will be over. I lean back on the sofa, trying to analyse how that makes me feel. Relieved, yes, but also . . . sad, and a little empty, I guess because having this thing inside me is a physical connection to Edward, a tenuous link to what we had – what I wish we still had. After tomorrow, that will be gone.
Kate has been at me every day to talk to him. She thinks I need to tell Edward, seeing as how it’s his baby too. And, she added, to at least let him know he can have kids. I know she’s right, and I will . . . eventually. Right now, I’m too angry. Angry at him, even if it’s not really his fault. Angry that this happened to me; angry he didn’t know it could happen. I need someone to blame: someone to make sense of it all, even though underneath, I still love him. I love him as much as I did the day he proposed.
But love isn’t enough, is it? Our future isn’t together. He made that pretty clear by moving on so quickly – probably to the woman who’ll give him the wedding he’s craving, plus the 2.4 children. And even if Edward does support this baby, ultimately, it’s still my responsibility. I’m still its mother. This won’t be our baby; it’ll be my baby. And I’m just not ready to take that on.
The buzzer rings, and I haul myself off the sofa, nausea roiling over me. That’s one thing I won’t miss. Kate promised to come over tonight and keep me company, and for once in her life, she’s early. I punch the intercom to let her in, then plod back over to the sofa and close my eyes. God, I feel like I’ve run a marathon today.
‘There’s pizza in the fridge if you’re hungry,’ I say, when I hear the door swing open.
‘I’m not hungry.’
My lids fly open at Edward’s voice. What the—? I swing around and meet his steady gaze, drinking in his familiar face. There are bags under his eyes and he looks like he hasn’t shaved in days. He’s wearing the old T-shirt with a little hole under his armpit, and I close my eyes against the tide of memories washing over me.
