Taking a Chance on Love

by Erin Green

  Can you request another midwife partway through an appointment? Do midwives specialise like doctors do? I suppose being professional can sometimes come across as cold if you’re to appear unbiased and factual.

  I was on my own.

  Correction: baba and I were on our own.

  After a six-year relationship, in which Andrew and I had been totally committed, that was day one of fighting my own corner.

  ‘You’ve read the leaflet, Dana. It suggests the baby might never be potty-trained and probably have difficulty speaking. I don’t think it’ll be able to attend a mainstream school and possibly need specialist help all its life. The result is positive, Dana . . . she’s just confirmed it. If we have this child, we’ll have a full-grown baby on our hands for a lifetime,’ said Andrew.

  He’d finally looked up on finishing his sentence, but his gaze couldn’t meet mine.

  ‘That’s your interpretation of the leaflet, Andrew. Not mine. It looks as if I’ll be finding a way to cope alone,’ I’d said, my eyes welling with tears.

  ‘He might not be capable of leading an independent life,’ said the midwife. ‘But he could still have a valuable and unique life.’

  We’d both stopped talking, and turned to stare at her.

  ‘He?’ I repeated, my hand stroking my stomach.

  ‘He?’ asked Andrew, his voice lifting to a jubilant tone. ‘It’s a boy?’

  The midwife glanced at each of us, then quickly flicked through the notes in our file.

  ‘It says here you were told the gender during your last visit,’ she said, panic entering her voice.

  ‘Not us. No,’ I said curtly. How come they could spill the beans on one detail and yet be unable or unwilling to fully outline our baby’s prospects?

  ‘I am so sorry . . .’ Her words faded, and Andrew’s smirk faded too. I’m still not entirely sure whether her ‘sorry’ related to her error or to Andrew’s reaction to the news that his son had Down’s syndrome.

  Would it have made a difference if Luke had been a girl?

  Not to me it wouldn’t. My baby was my baby in every possible form.

  I suspect it would have made that moment slightly easier for Andrew if Luke had been a girl. After that appointment, Andrew was no longer walking away from a bundle of cells but a fully-formed ‘boy’, a potential mini-Andrew. Sadly, chromosome 21 had totally buggered up Andrew’s dream. And our relationship.

  It’s what I call a kaleidoscope moment. As a young child, I loved playing with one. I used to stand for ages staring at the pretty colours and snowflake patterns made by the beads before twisting the lens one notch to gain a new pattern. I loved how everything in the pattern changed in a second. Yet sometimes you ruined your own fun by turning the lens and losing a snowflake pattern you really liked. Everything you could see changed because of one twist. And the worst thing was there was no going back to the pattern you had previously enjoyed before moving the lens. It was gone, erased forever. That midwife appointment was like my childhood kaleidoscope. I was enjoying my world: I had a partner, was expecting a new baby and had a bright future. Then, with one positive test result, someone moved the lens and nothing in my world was the same again. The patterns, people and circumstances changed in a second and I couldn’t get it back to how it was before that one appointment.

  I knew there and then it would be just me and him.

  Him. My baby boy.

  Andrew proved me right within three days, when he moved out of our tiny two-bedroomed house to stay with his mum.

  I’ve relived that scene a million times. I’ve tried to forget it a million times too, but that one scene puts such a fire in my belly that I draw on it whenever I need a little extra push to overcome the absurdity of others. That one scene paved the way for so many of the unfairnesses my son has to endure both in society and even within his own family. Luke has never met Andrew’s parents or his two aunties. There’s an entire side of the family from which Luke’s genes derive – and yet nothing. How can any family not coo over a newborn, a grandson or nephew? Sadly, Andrew’s family couldn’t open their hearts to Luke. They saved their emotional bonding for the two babies which Hannah bore him, forgetting about my Luke.

  Chapter Seven

  Wednesday 26 February

  Dana

  I’m determined to walk Luke to school today, despite the interest about the TV programme. I don’t have to interact with those who don’t usually talk to me. I can politely walk on by.

  It feels ridiculous even to me that I appear to be walking with my head down, chin resting on my jacket zipper and my gaze held low, so low that it doesn’t lift from the pavement. I clutch Luke’s hand as we pass the usual groups near the school’s metal railings. I’ve prepped Luke that Nanny and Grandpops will collect him later as Mummy is elsewhere, he has no idea where. I suspect I’ll be having my hair restyled, make-up applied and another lovely outfit being pinned to me to ensure that it fits for my second date – whatever that turns out to be, and with whoever.

  As I pass each small group I notice people staring in our direction, their heads together as if whispering as they watch us go by. I tighten my grip on Luke’s hand; he appears to think it’s an ordinary Wednesday morning walk to school. I’m so self-conscious it is surreal. Being the centre of attention feels alien, so intrusive, and yet you’d think I would be used to being singled out – I’m rudely but frequently referred to as ‘the mother of the little boy with . . . you know’. From day one of primary school, every parent knew my child, while it took me weeks to distinguish Libby from Molly or Tyler from Max. But now, probably because I’ve created the attention rather than had it sprung upon me by Mother Nature, I can’t raise my gaze from the grey pavement. To others, I must look as if I’m scrutinising the white blobs of aged chewing gum for a crazy local council initiative group.

  Finally, we reach the school gate. I don’t care now, I’m occupied with my boy; all thoughts about other adults staring at me drift away. They don’t matter. Luke matters most. I check he has his rucksack, reinforce my repeated request to show his teacher the note written in his diary stating that his grandfather will collect him at home time and tell him that I love him.

  ‘Love you, Mama,’ slurs Luke, walking backwards to wave goodbye at me. My heart melts a million times over. I stand fixated until Luke stops waving and turns to walk in the correct manner into the small playground. I watch as the playground teacher acknowledges him and he does likewise before running off towards a group of friends.

  Good boy, Luke.

  ‘Dana,’ says a gentle voice, a hand reaching to touch my forearm.

  I look up to see Bethany’s mum rocking her pram; I assume her newborn daughter is cosy inside.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, my smile oversized and a little frightening for 8.45 a.m.

  ‘Well done, I loved it,’ she whispers to me, giving me a wink. ‘I hope the week is filled with lots of surprises and enjoyment.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I mutter, blushing profusely.

  Instantly I feel awful. She’s had the decency to put herself out to speak to me and I couldn’t even spare a few words of congratulations last week for fear of catching baby fever from her newborn.

  That was wrong of me.

  I peer inside the pram hood to view a tuft of brown hair snuggled within a white crocheted blanket.

  ‘Is she doing OK?’ I ask, trying to backpedal from my selfishness last week. ‘You look really well after just two weeks.’

  ‘She’s not sleeping too well but she’s got a nice routine as far as feeding is concerned, so I’m grateful for that,’ she says, giving me a wide smile.

  Why couldn’t I have been more forthcoming last week? Now it looks like I’ve only taken an interest because she was nice to me.

  ‘And her name?’

  ‘Hetty . . . Our Bethany chose it.’

  ‘Th
at’s a lovely name,’ I say, cooing over the sleeping baby. I linger for a second more than is necessary and a wave of memories stirs in my heart. This was the moment I used to dread when I’d push Luke out in his pram. Those first few weeks when people wanted to fuss over him, to see him for the first time but were unsure what they would see or how they should react. I wanted them to react as they would to any baby, but for some people it was simply too much. My news had quickly done the rounds, my decision had been discussed and analysed from every point of view and now they were actually staring at the sleeping baby with Down’s syndrome. I longed for them to smile, pinch Luke’s chubby cheek, stroke his dark hair; on a few occasions I got my wish, but only from very precious people. Those people who secretly walk amongst us understanding the power of life, who can selflessly deliver a few genuine words to a new mum who desperately needs their support. Others couldn’t even pretend. They showed utter embarrassment on seeing my baby and gave apologetic looks. Offered their sadness and condolence. Once or twice, folk shed tears. One person was so stuck for words they complimented me on my choice of pram – seriously, a Silver Cross pram is not as unique as my first born!

  I saw nothing more than my perfect baby fast asleep.

  I simply aww and step away from sleeping Hetty. She’s a newborn – there is nothing more to do.

  ‘I was frightened that that new baby smell would set me off,’ I say, in a feeble attempt to explain last week’s behaviour.

  ‘That’s how I am . . . it gets me every time,’ chuckles Bethany’s mum. ‘Newborns should have a warning sign attached!’

  ‘Sorry, I know you as Bethany’s mum – I’ve forgotten your name,’ I say apologetically.

  ‘Sam.’

  ‘Sam, yes . . . She’s beautiful but being broody wouldn’t do me any good, so . . .’

  ‘You never know – after this week the world could be your oyster.’

  ‘Oh don’t . . . I couldn’t bring myself to watch either episode.’

  ‘Full marks to you,’ says Sam turning to view the line of chummy-mummies watching us from ten feet away. ‘You’ve given them something to talk about, if nothing else. I’ve heard that they’re bragging on Twitter that you’re a friend of theirs.’

  I laugh.

  ‘That wasn’t my intention, Sam. And how ridiculous is it that they care so much about their perceived status on social media?’

  ‘Good luck anyway . . . I’ll be watching and cheering you on. I reckon they’re probably saving the best until last, do you?’

  ‘That’s exactly what my parents said.’ I feel encouraged that someone other than family wishes me luck, though I doubt I’ll get much support from the chummy-mummies. ‘Anyway, I must dash . . . got a date tonight, as you know!’

  We both giggle as I hot-foot it from the school gate heading for home.

  Polly

  ‘So the room hire includes the use of the room and clearing up after us?’ I say, pacing around the edge of an empty dance floor at ten o’clock in the morning, followed by a suited young man.

  ‘It does.’

  ‘And what time do we need to be out by?’

  ‘Midnight.’

  I notice he straightens his face on answering. I can imagine that much like Cody he thinks the night is just beginning at that time and not that it’s bedtime, which I have no doubt is what I’ll be feeling come Saturday.

  ‘The bar is staffed from what time?’

  ‘Fully stocked prior to your arrival and manned from thirty minutes before your designated hire time.’

  ‘From seven o’clock then?’

  It is perfect. I can’t knock the décor, the cleanliness, the arrangement of bar, dance floor and DJ corner . . . I can visualise Saturday night in full swing before my eyes. It might even be suitable for my fortieth birthday next year, if we choose not to go away on a holiday of a lifetime or book a thrill-seeking experience like a hot-air balloon ride.

  I exhale, the knot within my chest loosening.

  I’m relieved that my biggest hurdle is sorted but if I’m to get this party swinging by Saturday, I still have much to do.

  ‘Is there anything else we can organise?’ he asks smoothly.

  Well trained by the management, I see.

  ‘I realise how short notice this is but . . . can you give me some options and prices for a selection of nibbles and savouries.’

  My events manager disappears to fetch a large folder of options, complete with pictures and prices. Though, given my mindset this week, having pictures might make my selection easier. He outlines numerous packages; I feel as if I’m in uncharted territory here but listen all the same as he lists specific menus, serving options, a variety of cold and hot delicacies. By the time he stops talking, I am baffled as to what I’d like to eat come Saturday evening. But it’s February, so it needs to be warm and satisfying. The hot buffet alone made a serious dent in our budget. But I won’t sleep if I fear that our guests have gone home hungry; I’d much rather they leave the party with an individual doggy bag to chomp on the journey home.

  I finally settle for a selection of hot filled baps: pork, lamb or steak with accompanying condiments and sauces. Plus an array of desserts and a cheese board.

  He then asks the question which I have no idea how to answer.

  ‘And that’ll be for how many guests?’

  ‘How many does the room comfortably hold?’ I ask, forgetting the details mentioned earlier.

  ‘Seventy with ease, eighty at a push . . . Our fire certificate dictates the numbers.’

  I quickly calculate in my head; if everyone I sent the text to arrives, even if they haven’t answered, then we’ll be fine with sixty. If those that have answered are the only ones attending, then our small party of twelve will have enough food to last us into the middle of next week.

  I need to chase the RSVPs.

  And the DJ.

  ‘Can I book for sixty guests please?’

  I watch as he pulls a calculator from his inside pockets and begins punching in numbers.

  ‘And you’re happy to pay that in full today?’ he asks, as I mentally tick off another task from my busy week.

  Dana

  ‘Nervous?’ asks Tamzin, as she leads me from the hotel room where once again the experts have performed wonders with my hair and make-up. Today’s outfit is more my style: casual yet everyday smart in designer jeans, a sheer floaty top with camisole underneath and my ankle boots.

  ‘I’m dying inside. I’m more nervous than I was on the last date,’ I confess, rubbing a hand across my stomach. I’m not about to be sick but it’s pretty close.

  ‘You’ve got nothing to worry about. Jez was delighted with the feedback from last night’s programme, though he wasn’t too happy with Cain’s interviewing.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep. Jez felt he was a little crude at times, which isn’t what Jez is trying to portray with this show. The experts explained their spiel about how they’d selected your three matches very professionally and then Cain blows it like a cheap barrel of beer smuggled into a posh wedding. No, you’ll have a new interviewer for this second date – and maybe we can get to the bottom of what you really think of Male B.’

  I stop walking and stare after her as she continues.

  ‘I was honest.’

  Tamzin turns around to look at me.

  ‘I know that, but Jez wants you to be a little more open with your reasons . . . don’t stick to clichés – tell it like it is. Feedback from our audience suggests they thought you were very relatable in the dating experience, you came across as honest and a decent everyday kind of person, which appeals to the masses. They almost sided with you, which is what Jez wants. By the end of the week, he wants the TV audience to view you as a close friend or even relative – so much so they’ll forget you’re a total stranger on the TV.’
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  I listen intently as we resume our walk.

  ‘And today’s date?’

  ‘Not a dinner date today. I believe this guy has opted for a very different venue . . . I think you’ll love it. The panel of experts were delighted with his choice.’ She gives me a wink as we reach the foyer, which is filled to bursting with production crew and equipment boxes.

  ‘How are we?’ calls Jez, breaking off his conversation with one of the many experts, I forget who’s who.

  ‘Fine, thank you. I was just saying I’m more nervous than last time, which has surprised me.’

  ‘Good, good. A quick question before we get going . . . You did bring your passport with you, as we asked?’

  I rummage in my handbag and offer him my passport, though I hope he doesn’t open it and view my horrific photograph.

  ‘Excellent, we’re good to go then. Onwards, crew!’ shouts Jez, handing me the passport and, turning on his heel, leading the way towards the hotel exit.

  Carmen

  Rings

  Hotel

  Flights

  Restaurants

  Sight-seeing tours

  Restaurant bookings

  Boutique work

  Elliot’s work?!?!?!

  ‘Trish, apologies, but I’ve taken it as a given that you’re OK to take Saturday’s appointments while I’m away. Are you?’ I say, my pen hovering above my to-do list.

  ‘Mmmm, I wondered when that little detail was going to cross your mind,’ she teases.

  ‘Sorry! I’ve checked the appointment book and it is a fairly quiet day, but even so, that was rude of me to assume. Are you sure it’s OK?’

  ‘I’m sure. Anna will be here to help.’

  I cross off another item.

  ‘I’m officially ready, planned and paid-up in full for our mini break – the only detail unconfirmed is the attendance of the fiancé-to-be! How ridiculous is that?’