More shooting pains. They hurt so much I have to grit my teeth together and grip onto the sink with both hands, to stop myself from crying out.
Finally, the pain subsides a little. Blinking, my eyes fall on the bathtub. Maybe a hot soak would help?
I turn on the taps, and while the bath is filling up, limp back downstairs for some more paracetamol. I take two more – isn’t that about the maximum dose in twenty-four hours? – and lie down on the sofa while I wait for them to take effect. If anything though, the pain just gets more intense. I know I don’t have much actual experience, but I cannot kick the feeling this is something more serious than normal period pain. That’s usually more of a dull ache. This feels like my entire torso is being squeezed and tightened; my insides yanked and twisted in every possible direction. The pains aren’t confined to my abdomen any more either. They’re in my back and thighs and bottom too.
Worried my bath might be about to overflow, I try to stand up but my body refuses to cooperate and I’m forced to make my way back up to the bathroom on my hands and knees.
I need Frankie’s gran’s stair lift, I think, as I heave my body up the stairs. Really, this is ridiculous. I’m sixteen for God’s sake, not sixty. I’d probably laugh if it didn’t hurt so much.
The bathroom is cloudy with steam. Pulling myself to my feet, I switch on the extractor fan and turn off the taps before removing my pyjamas and knickers. I stick my hand into the water and let out a yelp. It’s way too hot but far too full (almost to the brim) to risk adding any cold. I’ll have to wait for it to cool down a little before getting in.
Unable to face any more physical exertion, I curl up on the rainbow-striped bathmat, naked and exhausted.
What a pathetic sight I must be right now. Frankie will think it’s hilarious when I tell her about it later.
Actually, where is my phone?
I look up. It’s on the edge of the sink, where I left it. I stretch to reach for it and open up Instagram in an effort to distract myself from the pain with photos of sunsets and cupcakes and cute dogs. I have a fleeting idea of posting a selfie – #periodpain #itsucksbeingagirl #paracetamoldoesnotwork!!!
A fresh stab of pain, perhaps the worst one yet. I let out a gasp, fresh tears brimming in my eyes.
What the hell is happening to me?
I go to ring Frankie. Then I remember – she’s in Lidl getting bossed around by her grandmother.
With shaking fingers, I call Mum instead.
It rings out before going through the voicemail. I don’t leave a message. I don’t want to worry her. Instead, I send her a text.
There’s a sudden surge of moisture between my legs. Gingerly, I reach down. I pull my hand away to discover my fingers are coated with the same sticky discharge I found in my knickers earlier, only this time it’s lumpy and flecked with blood. I wash my hands, then retrieve my phone and decide to give Frankie a ring after all.
I’m scrolling to her name when another pain shoots through me; so strong and sharp it takes my breath away and the phone slips from my hand, bouncing off the edge of the bath before plunging beneath the surface.
I go to stick my hand into the water in an effort to retrieve it but the pain between my legs stops me, forcing me to grab onto the edge of the bath to stop myself from crumpling to the floor. I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut.
I get this overwhelming urge to push.
But push what?
I look down.
There’s something there.
Between my legs.
What the fuck?
I blink.
Look again.
It looks like the top of a head.
No.
It can’t be.
It’s not possible.
Another urge to push.
I don’t fight it. I can’t fight it.
I squeeze my eyes shut once more and push again. And again. And again.
In the gaps I scream and howl and pant, the pain like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.
Until finally, it is out of me.
A baby.
My baby.
Chapter 15
‘How old is he?’ the woman asks.
I pause before answering. ‘Three weeks today.’
On the one hand, it feels like yesterday; on the other, I can’t imagine my life now without Albie in it.
She lets out a whistle. ‘You’re brave,’ she says. ‘Out and about already. I think my oldest was nearly three months before I dared even give the local bus a try.’ She laughs again. ‘Is he your first?’
She makes it sound like such a normal question.
‘Er, yes,’ I say, my cheeks flushing. I look out the window. We’re on the very fringes of the city now, the countryside beckoning.
‘I had mine young too,’ the woman says.
That gets my attention.
‘Bit of a scandal at the time actually,’ she continues. ‘We proved them wrong, though. Me and my Eric. Forty years and three grown-up kids later and he’s still the love of my life.’
She smiles proudly and I feel a strange ache in my chest.
‘Here, I’ll show you,’ she says, producing a fat red leather purse, bulging with cards and receipts and loose change from her bag. She opens it up and pulls out a photograph, sliding it across the table towards me.
I pick it up and peer closely. A much younger version of the woman opposite me is sitting in front of a tinsel-laden Christmas tree with a chubby-cheeked baby on her lap. Next to her, a broad-shouldered man with an impressive moustache is holding a slightly startled-looking toddler on his lap. A third child, a boy of around four, is sitting cross-legged at their feet, a toy car in his hands.
‘Christmas 1985,’ the woman says, her voice rich with love and pride.
She leans over and points out the children in turn.
‘Steven, Michael and David,’ she says. ‘Plus my Eric, of course.’
She looks up, her cheeks proud and pink. ‘And I’m Annie,’ she adds. ‘As in Little Orphan.’
I realize this is my cue to introduce myself in return. ‘I’m Amelia,’ I say.
‘And the little one?’
‘Oh, this is … this is Luca.’
I don’t know why I pick Luca. Only that it’s the first male name that pops into my head.
‘Luca!’ Annie exclaims. ‘How very exotic! Have you got Italian blood then? Or does he get it from his dad?’
‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s from my side. My dad is Italian.’
She glances down at my pale white arms.
‘I take after my mum,’ I stammer.
‘I was going to say! You look like quite the English rose to me.’
I manage a polite smile before returning to my book. I’ve lost my place and have to start again.
‘Helpful?’ Annie asks.
‘Sorry?’
‘Your book.’
‘Oh, I’m not sure yet. I’ve only just started.’
‘Well, if I can offer you any bit of advice, it’s this: follow your instincts.’
‘OK,’ I say slowly.
‘Because you’re going to have loads of people trying to tell you how to do this and how to do that, but at the end of the day, you have to do what feels right for you.’
‘But how do you know what that is?’ I ask.
Annie smiles. ‘You’ll know. And from what I can make out, you’re doing pretty well so far.’
I smile tightly.
‘So, what will you be doing in London?’ she asks. ‘Visiting family?’
‘Er, yes,’ I say.
‘Lovely. I’m going to stay with my sister for a few days. She’s just had an op on her knee so she’s feeling a bit sorry for herself. I’m going to try to cheer her up a bit. She’s in Crystal Palace. Whereabouts are your lot?’
‘Ealing,’ I say.
Frankie has an aunt and uncle who own a pub there. We stayed with them last summer, after a visit to the Globe Theatre.
‘Very nice,’ Annie says. ‘I bet they’re all excited to see little Luca.’
‘Yes,’ I say, the lies tripping off my tongue. ‘They can’t wait.’
‘I expect some of them haven’t met him yet.’
‘No.’
‘They’re going to be gaga for him, I’m telling you. I’m nutty about my grandkids. Absolutely besotted. I was quite strict with my boys when they were growing up, but when it comes to their kids I’m a right soft touch. And boy, do they know it. Wrapped around their little fingers, I am.’ She chuckles. ‘Dad not with you then?’ she asks.
‘My dad?’ I ask.
I wonder if Stacey and Mum will look for me at his place. I hope not. I hate the idea of him worrying about me. I already feel guilty enough about ignoring so many of his calls and texts lately.
‘Luca’s dad,’ Annie clarifies.
‘Oh,’ I say, swallowing hard. ‘No. It’s, er, it’s just me.’ I look down at my fingernails. I’ve started biting them again, the skin around the cuticles pink and angry.
‘Is he not on the scene?’ Annie asks, her voice gentle.
I look up. ‘Um, no. I mean, not exactly. It’s complicated.’
Her face crumples with sympathy. ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ she says.
‘It’s fine,’ I reply quickly. ‘It’s best this way, really.’
Although my delivery sounds convincing enough, I can’t help but feel like I’m delivering lines from a badly written play.
‘Well, it’s his loss,’ Annie says, leaning over and placing her hand on top of mine. Her hands are warm and soft and she wears rings on almost every finger, the metal hot against my skin. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she asks. ‘I know I can rabbit on, but I promise you, I’m an excellent listener too.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Honestly, it’s fine. Thank you, though. That’s really kind of you.’ I plaster on my very best smile.
Annie doesn’t look convinced. She wears her concern on her sleeve, head tilted to one side, eyes soft and sad.
Carefully, I slide my hand from beneath Annie’s. ‘Really,’ I say, sitting up a little straighter and wrapping my arms around Albie’s warm little body. ‘We’re fine. More than fine.’
Albie chooses that exact moment to let out a yowl.
Time for his bottle. ‘Excuse me,’ I say, turning away and reaching into my bag.
As I’m preparing Albie’s bottle, we pull into the next station. According to the departure board it’s twelve minutes past ten. I was due at Frankie’s over ten minutes ago. She’ll be wondering where I am. She might even have started to worry already. After all, I’m hardly ever late, especially when it’s something important.
I close my eyes.
I’m sorry, Frankie.
For everything.
Chapter 16
Three weeks ago
The clatter of a trolley rouses me.
I blink my eyes open just in time to see a cheerful-looking woman with curly jet-black hair bustle in and plonk a tray on the over-bed table.
‘Tea time,’ she says as she wheels it into place.
I push myself up into a seated position and lift the plastic cover to reveal a mug of soup of unidentifiable flavour accompanied by a rock-hard bread roll, a portion of what I think might be cottage pie and a cup of pale pink jelly. Just the smell makes me want to puke. Hurriedly, I replace the cover and attempt to push the table away, only the wheels must be locked because it doesn’t budge an inch.
A nurse, the one with startlingly pale skin and pillar-box-red hair who looked after us when we arrived, pokes her head round the side of the door. ‘Ah, Jojo, you’re awake,’ she says.
I nod numbly.
As she makes her way towards me, my eyes drift to the plastic badge pinned to her light blue uniform. ‘Staff Nurse Hayley’, it says.
‘How’re you feeling?’ she asks.
‘Er, OK, thank you,’ I mumble.
It’s a lie. But I don’t know what else to say.
‘In case you were wondering where your mum and stepmum have disappeared to, they asked me to let you know they’ve just popped out to get you some bits.’
‘Bits?’
‘Pyjamas, toiletries, that sort of thing, I think.’
‘Right.’
At the moment I’m dressed in a hospital-issue nightie – baggy and shapeless with tiny yellow flowers printed all over it. Instead of knickers, I’m wearing an adult-sized nappy that rustles every time I make the slightest movement.
‘They shouldn’t be long,’ Hayley adds.
‘OK. Thank you.’
‘In the meantime, can I get you anything?’
‘Would you mind taking this away?’ I ask, pointing to the tray in front of me.
Hayley peers under the cover. ‘You really should try and eat something, lovey,’ she says. ‘You need to keep your energy up.’
‘I’m sorry but I really don’t think I can.’
She stands back, her arms folded. ‘Hmmm, how about I check with catering services and see if they can whip you up a bit of toast instead?’
Even the thought of toast makes my stomach turn over but I don’t want to come across as rude so I nod and thank her.
‘In the meantime,’ she says. ‘Maybe try to get some of the jelly down you. The sugar will do you good.’ She hands me the cup of jelly and a teaspoon before wheeling the table into the corner of the room. ‘He’s doing well by the way,’ she says over her shoulder.
I frown.
He?
Then it clicks.
He is the baby.
My baby.
‘Another twelve or so hours on SCBU and he should be right as rain.’
SCBU.
The Special Care Baby Unit.
I have a baby.
He’s in the Special Care Baby Unit being treated for low blood sugar.
‘Right,’ I murmur.
‘We can go up and see him later on if you like.’
I don’t reply, focusing instead on the flower print on my nightie, my eyes tracing a path between the petals. Until now, motherhood has always been an abstract thing, something I’ll maybe do one day, decades from now, with a person I’m probably still years away from meeting. Hayley doesn’t need to know that I don’t want to see him. After all, what kind of person doesn’t want to see their newborn baby?
I know I can’t, though. Because seeing the baby makes all of this real. Tucked away in my little room, on a totally separate floor from him, in a totally separate department, I can trick myself into believing he doesn’t exist, that I’m in hospital for an entirely different reason – an appendix removal or a broken bone.
Hayley leans across and gives my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. She must think I’m such an idiot. I wouldn’t blame her. How on earth did I miss the fact I was growing an actual human being inside me? How? I’m supposed to be clever. For my GCSEs I’m predicted a string of eights and nines. Just how did I manage to mess this up quite so spectacularly? I’ve spent my entire life priding myself on my observation skills, my attention to detail. More than that, I thought I knew myself.
‘Well, if you change your mind …’ Hayley says.
I smile weakly. ‘Thank you.’
‘In the meantime, I’d better go see about that toast. If you need anything else, remember, you just press the button, OK?’ She points out the nurse call button next to my bed.
‘Thank you,’ I repeat.
I wait until she’s left the room before setting aside the jelly and spoon.
I look for my phone before remembering its watery demise. With no other method of telling the time, I make a guess. Judging by the quality of light peeping through the narrow slits between the blinds and the evening meal festering on the tray in the corner, I plump for some time between five and seven.
My mouth is dry. I reach for the jug of water on the cabinet next to my bed. It’s made of plastic and is only half full, but to my shock I can barely lift it, and most of the water ends up spilling on
the bedclothes, soaking through the sheets to my bare legs beneath.
It’s not just my upper body that feels weak. An experimental attempt to get out of bed is abruptly abandoned when I realize I don’t trust my legs to keep me vertical. The dominant pain, though, is between my legs. Sore doesn’t even cover it. It feels like I’ve been kicked there repeatedly.
I haven’t, though.
I’ve had a baby.
No matter how many times I tell myself this single fact, it fails to sink in, to even penetrate.
I’ve had a baby.
It was Stacey who found me.
Us.
I was on the bathroom floor when she walked in, naked, a slippery pink alien thing covered in sticky white residue in my arms, the bathmat beneath us soaked with blood.
She staggered back a few steps in shock as if she’d stumbled across a dead body.
There was a beat before she flew into practical mode, yelling for Mum, calling an ambulance, grabbing clean towels.
After that it was all a bit of a blur.
The entire time, I could only manage a single sentence. Over and over again.
‘I didn’t know.’
Mum and Stacey say they believe me. Not that it matters. At the end of the day, it doesn’t change anything. The end result is still the same.
I still have a baby.
A baby I didn’t in any way plan for.
I’m prodding at my plate of dry toast when Mum returns, armed with bulging carrier bags.
‘Where’s Stacey?’ I ask as she dumps them in the corner of the room and pulls up a chair.
‘Just getting a cup of tea,’ Mum replies, pushing her hair out of her eyes. ‘She’ll be here in a bit.’
I eye the mound of bags. M&S, Mothercare, Next, John Lewis. ‘How much did all that cost?’ I ask. They must have spent a fortune.
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that,’ she says, sitting down. ‘I’m sorry we were gone so long. We had some things to discuss.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘Your …’ She pauses, clearly searching for the right word. ‘Your situation.’
First Day of My Life Page 9
