by Kate Hardy
He glanced to the side; thankfully, Anna hadn’t noticed. And he’d make damn sure that he was absolutely fine before the lights went up in the theatre so she didn’t notice and feel guilty. He’d smile his head off, even though right at that moment he wanted to howl.
* * *
As they filed out into the foyer, Anna said, ‘I think the school concert’s my favourite bit in the film—well, that and when Colin Firth’s character tries to speak Portuguese and is endearingly pants at it.’ She grinned. ‘But the Christmas lobster—that’s genius. Which reminds me, I was going to ask you: would you like to come to the Christmas concert at my nieces’ and nephew’s school next week? The three middle ones are performing. They’ve done rehearsals at my parents’ place and I can’t wait to see them in costume. Aria’s a shepherd in the Reception class nativity, Charlie’s a robin in his class’s special dance, and Megan’s got the board for the partridge in the pear tree for her class’s song, so she’ll be leading the line on the front of the stage.’
‘Thank you for inviting me, but I’m afraid I can’t make it.’
How did he know? She hadn’t given him a date. Anna really hadn’t expected him to balk at a school Christmas concert. But something in his eyes warned her it wasn’t because he was busy. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked quietly.
He shook his head again, clearly not wanting to discuss it in public.
‘Let’s go back to mine for a hot drink,’ she said, and shepherded him through the park and back to her flat. She didn’t push him to make conversation, because she could see he was struggling.
He stopped at her gate. ‘Thank you for this evening,’ he said politely. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘No, you’ll come in and have a mug of tea or something with me,’ she said, ‘because I have a feeling that right now you could do with some company.’
‘I...’
‘Jamie, I’m not going to hurt you,’ she said gently. ‘I want to help. And sometimes it’s easier to cope with something that’s upset you if you share it with someone else.’ Her counsellor had taught her that. ‘Whatever you say won’t go any further than me.’
Thankfully, that made him walk through her gate.
She ushered him into the kitchen. ‘What can I get you? Tea? Coffee?’
‘I don’t mind. Anything,’ he said.
It was so obvious that he was trying not to be difficult. And he was struggling. She’d had days like that herself. She made them both a mug of hot chocolate, then led him through to the living room.
‘Let me introduce you. This is George the Gorgeous Goldfish. George, this is my friend from work, Jamie.’
‘Hi, George,’ Jamie said, but his voice was a flat monotone, worrying her even more; she’d hoped that the sheer incongruity of being introduced to a goldfish might at least make him smile and put a crack in the wall he seemed to be building round himself.
Clearly not. So how was she going to break through to him?
She thought about it. He’d chatted to her before the film, and she was fairly sure he’d enjoyed the film itself—but he’d gone really quiet when she’d asked him to the concert. That had to be the problem. She didn’t know how to make this better; and she was scared that whatever she said might make things worse. On the other hand, she couldn’t just leave him to the thoughts that were clearly ripping him to shreds.
She gestured to him to sit on the sofa, and sat down next to him. ‘Jamie, I’m really sorry if I’m treading on a sore spot, because that’s not my intention,’ she said, ‘but the school Christmas concert seems to be the thing that’s really upset you and I don’t understand why. I don’t want to make things worse, so please can you help me understand what it is?’
* * *
She’d been honest with him, Jamie thought. So now it was time for him to be honest with her.
‘It wasn’t the concert, exactly. It was the film,’ he said. ‘That song. “All I Want for Christmas is You”. It was Hestia’s—my wife’s—favourite song, and she’d sing it all round the house in December.’ He took a deep breath. ‘She died. So did our baby. Just over three years ago.’ The anniversary had been the week before he’d started at the Muswell Hill Memorial Hospital. ‘If they’d still been alive, this year would’ve been the first year we’d have gone to nursery school for a Christmas concert.’
It was the first time he’d actually said it out loud for a long, long time. Usually it was like a bruise in his soul, there all the time, aching and never reaching the surface.
And now he’d actually said it out loud, he didn’t know what to do. What to say next.
Every instinct told him to run.
And he couldn’t look at Anna. He couldn’t bear to see the pity on her face.
As if she’d guessed what he was thinking—or, more likely, it was written all over his expression—she took his hand and squeezed it briefly, before letting it go. ‘The last thing you need right now is pity, and I’m not pitying you at all, but I do sympathise. It’s hard enough to lose people you love, but Christmas has to be the worst time of all for it to happen.’
Yeah. She could say that again. Everyone else seemed to be celebrating, talking about love and peace and happiness, and all that had been around him that year had been death and sadness. And he got sucked into it every year. Christmas was supposed to be a time of joy, but for him it was a time of shadows and he didn’t know how to break the cycle.
‘I understand now why you don’t like Christmas,’ she said quietly, ‘and I’m so sorry I’ve been insensitive. I’m your colleague and I hope I’m becoming your friend. If you want to talk, I’m here—and, just in case you’re worrying, I have absolutely no intention of betraying your confidence and making you the hot topic on the hospital grapevine.’
He knew that. She wasn’t the type to spread gossip.
‘In my experience,’ she said, ‘talking about difficult things kind of cuts them down to size and stops them being overwhelming. When I found out about my infertility, I was devastated. It felt as if my life didn’t have any point, if I couldn’t have children. I didn’t feel as if I was a real woman, because I couldn’t do what every other woman in the world seemed to be able to do. But you know Jenna Conti on our ward? Her twin sister Lucy had a serious accident a few years ago that meant she couldn’t have children, and Jenna was her surrogate mum and had a baby for her. Jenna introduced me to Lucy, so I had someone to talk to who actually understood what it was like to have your choices taken away. Lucy and Jenna both really helped me.’
Someone who understood. Someone who’d been in her shoes.
Jamie didn’t know anyone who’d been in his shoes. Nobody who’d been a widower or a widow in their early thirties; nobody who’d lost their partner and their baby to eclampsia.
‘And you’ve lost someone?’ He knew it was bitter and he hated himself for it, but he couldn’t call the words back now.
‘My grandparents,’ she said, ‘and I’ve been lucky because they had a long and happy life and, even though I’m sad they’re no longer around, it felt as if it was in the natural order of things. But my best friend lost her mum to breast cancer, so I understand how people feel when they lose someone too soon. It’s not the things you did or said, it’s the things you didn’t have time to do or say.’
Her words resonated with him. He hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye to Hestia. And it wasn’t the same, sitting in a hospital morgue with someone you knew for definite couldn’t hear you saying goodbye, someone who couldn’t squeeze your hand one last time. It wasn’t at all like being with someone right at the end, holding them and telling them you loved them, making sure they weren’t alone as they slid into unconsciousness and then death.
He’d let Hestia down because he hadn’t been there when she’d died.
He looked at Anna then, and there wasn’t a trace of pity on her face. Fellow-
feeling, sympathy and kindness, yes, but not pity. He opened his mouth, and suddenly the words blurted out. ‘Hestia had eclampsia.’
She looked sad, but said nothing. Though she did take his hand again. She wasn’t holding his hand like a lover; she was holding his hand like someone who cared what he said, who was going to give him the space to think about what he said, and who wasn’t going anywhere until he’d talked.
So he talked.
‘She was seven months pregnant and she’d just gone on maternity leave. Our baby was due the week before Christmas. Hestia was on her way to the corner shop to get a pint of milk. She collapsed in the middle of the street and had a seizure. And I often think, maybe if I’d checked the cupboards before I went to work and got some milk so she hadn’t had to go out...’ He shook his head.
‘Which I know is ridiculous, because obviously it would’ve happened anyway. Just she would’ve been at home instead of outside. And nobody would’ve called an ambulance, because nobody would’ve known she’d collapsed or was having a seizure, so in a way that would’ve been even worse. At least she wasn’t alone at the very end—there were people nearby who helped her.’ He raked a hand through his hair.
‘The ambulance came quickly, but she’d had a cerebral haemorrhage and she died in the ambulance on the way to the emergency department. Our daughter Giselle died, too. It was too late to do a C-section to save the baby.’
‘Your worst nightmare,’ she said softly.
One he’d never woken up from.
‘I’m sorry that something so terrible happened to your wife and baby,’ she said.
‘And I wasn’t there with them at the end. That’s the worst bit,’ Jamie said. ‘I know Hestia loved me, and I loved her, but I can’t help feeling I let her down.’
‘Were you at work when it happened?’
He nodded. ‘I was in the operating theatre. She was even brought into the hospital where I worked—but it was another three hours until I got the message from the Emergency Department.’
‘That’s not your fault,’ she said. ‘And even if you’d got the message in Theatre, you could hardly have dropped everything and left your patient on the table.’
‘Leaving my junior to carry on with an operation that was outside his experience and putting unfair pressure on the whole team, and letting the patient down as well. In my head, I know that,’ he said. ‘But another part of me still feels I failed my wife. I’m a doctor, for pity’s sake. I should’ve noticed that something was wrong before I left for work that morning.’
‘You’re an orthopaedic surgeon, not an obstetrician,’ she reminded him. ‘OK, yes, as a doctor you would either know the symptoms of the really scary pregnancy complications or you would’ve looked them up—but you can’t know everything about everyone else’s specialties. Nobody can.’
Technically, that was true. He knew that. Emotionally, he still felt he’d let Hestia down.
‘Did she have any symptoms of pre-eclampsia, or was she at high risk?’ Anna asked.
Jamie shook his head. ‘She wasn’t diabetic, she didn’t have kidney problems or high blood pressure or anything else that would make her more susceptible to pre-eclampsia, and there wasn’t a family history of pre-eclampsia or any difficulties at all during pregnancy. Her blood pressure was fine; there was a tiny bit of protein in her urine at her last appointment, but the midwife wasn’t overly concerned and was going to do a check at her next appointment.’ The appointment two days after her death. ‘Hestia hadn’t mentioned any headaches either.’
‘Then you’re really not being very fair to yourself,’ Anna said. ‘You can’t possibly diagnose a condition if there aren’t any symptoms. And remember eclampsia’s called that for a reason: it’s a lightning strike.’
From the Greek. He remembered.
‘It’s something that you simply can’t predict.’
‘One in four thousand pregnancies.’ He knew every horrible statistic. Death in pregnancy or childbirth was so much less common nowadays; but shockingly one in fifty women with eclampsia died, and of the babies one in fourteen died.
Hestia and Giselle had both been on the wrong side of the statistics.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘And it must be hard for you, working in paediatrics and seeing children who are the same age as your daughter would’ve been now.’
‘Weirdly, it’s easier at work,’ he said. ‘Because the children we see are ill and we’re making them better. I can cope with that. It’s...’ He blew out a breath. ‘It’s seeing children outside. That’s hard. All the might-have-beens.’
‘Then I won’t push you to come to my nieces’ and nephew’s Christmas concert,’ she said. ‘That’ll be too much for you.’
‘Isn’t it hard for you, too?’ he asked. ‘Seeing people with babies and toddlers? All the might-have-beens?’
‘It was, at one point,’ she said. ‘But I’m lucky that my family and friends are really generous. I’m godmother to several of my friends’ children. They all include me in things they do with the kids, so I get to do most of what I would’ve done with my own children, if I’d been that lucky. I go to swimming class or to toddler music class, I get invites to all the nursery and school shows, I get to do bedtime stories and all the fun bits of parenting like afternoons at the park, days at the beach or trips to the sea life centres.’ She gave him a wry smile. ‘Not just the fun bits, though. I’ve had my share of changing poomageddon nappies, too.’
‘Poomageddon?’ he asked, mystified.
‘That was my nephew Noah, when he had gastric flu last year and Jojo and Becky went down with it as well. I looked after the three of them, dispensing lots of drinks, paracetamol and cool flannels. The nappies were, you might say, a bit on the challenging side. But we managed.’
And Jamie had had longer to come to terms with his wife and baby’s death than Anna had had to come to terms with her infertility and a husband who’d had an affair and a baby with someone else, letting her down.
Then he realised he’d spoken aloud. ‘I’m s—’
‘Shh.’ She pressed her forefinger lightly against his lips. ‘Don’t apologise. There isn’t a time limit on grief, and we’re not in a competition over who’s had the toughest deal. Things are as they are. And maybe I’ve had more support than you have. I’m really lucky with my family.’
‘Mine are good, too,’ he said. And that was something else he felt guilty about. ‘Except I’ve pushed them away. I use work as an excuse not to see them very often, and I always make sure I’m on duty on Christmas Day so I don’t have to face them—they’re all so kind and so careful not to say anything that might upset me, and I hate the fact they feel they have to tread on eggshells around me. They wrap me in so much cotton wool that it suffocates me. I know it looks as if I’m being selfish, abandoning them and wallowing in misery—but, the way I see it, if I’m not there, then they can have fun without worrying about accidentally upsetting me.’
‘Then maybe,’ she said, ‘we should carry on with our Christmas deal. Take the sting out of it for you so you can cope with it again and make things up with your family so you can enjoy each other’s company.’
‘That’s what I want to do,’ he said. ‘Just...’ It was so hard. As if he’d put an unscaleable wall around himself and he didn’t know how to get out again.
‘And we’ll make sure we avoid that song. Though,’ she pointed out, ‘it’s the one song that probably gets the most airplay at this time of year, so it’s really not going to be easy to avoid it.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s not the same as my situation with Johnny,’ she said. ‘But, if he’d been the man I thought he was when I married him, and he was the one who’d been left behind, I would’ve wanted him to find happiness again. To meet someone who could give him the love I didn’t have time to give. And I’m guessing that Hestia would’ve hated the ide
a of you cutting yourself off from everyone and being lonely for the rest of your life.’
‘She would,’ he admitted. ‘And I think that’s why I agreed to your Christmas bargain. Because I really do want to move on from the past and make things right again with my family—and hers—but I just don’t know where to start.’
‘With my family,’ she said, ‘a text would do. All I’d have to say is “I’m having a bit of trouble dealing with this, but please bear with me because I love you and I’m trying to find my way back somehow”, and they’d understand. They’d give me space for a while and then try to meet me halfway. Though I also know not every family’s like mine.’
‘I think mine are. But it’s been so long,’ he said. ‘It’s too late.’
‘It’s never too late. Call them. Text them or write to them if you don’t think you’ll be able to say the words,’ she said. ‘Because my guess is they’ve tried to give you space and now they don’t know how to reach you either, and they’re as scared of that huge gulf as you are. They’re worried that if they reach out they’ll accidentally push you further away. So don’t let that gap get any bigger. You don’t have to reach the whole way across, just some of the way. And, from what you’ve just told me, I’m pretty sure they’ll reach right back to meet you.’
He had no idea how Anna had got so wise, but he was grateful.
‘You could,’ she said, ‘text them now.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s a bit late. I wouldn’t want them to think it was an emergency and start worrying.’
‘Do it tomorrow, then. Before you go to work. Then you’ll have a valid reason not to look at your phone all day, because you’re operating. It gives you all a bit of space.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For listening. For talking sense into me. For putting up with me being such a mess.’
‘That’s what friends are for,’ she said. ‘And I think you’d do the same for me if our positions were reversed.’
