The Other Child

by Lucy Atkins

  ‘Such a what?’ She grips the table harder as if it might lift and spin up into the air, scattering glasses, roses, wine, candles across the parquet floor. ‘Go on – a what?’

  ‘Such a complicated thing.’

  ‘You were going to say “mistake”.’

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Why can’t you be honest?’

  ‘What do you want from me, Tess?’

  ‘I want you to be honest! When I called to say I was bleeding a part of you was relieved, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Look, if you’d wanted a termination, I would have supported that decision. I was always clear with you that I didn’t want a child, so yes, you’re right, in a way, that I am struggling a little to adjust, but none of that – none of it – is the same as wanting the foetus to die inside you at twenty-three weeks. How could you think that?’

  It is only one word, but it says everything.

  ‘Baby,’ he reads her mind. ‘It’s just terminology, Tess. I’m a surgeon for Christ’s sake and I’m exhausted.’

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ she says, ‘is why is it so awful for us to have a baby? What’s so disastrous?’

  ‘I just told you.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. You really didn’t. It’s not time pressure; plenty of surgeons have families. So what is it, really? Is it something to do with your own childhood? Is it about your fears that something will go wrong with the baby’s heart? What aren’t you telling me?’

  His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer.

  ‘You have to make me understand, Greg.’

  There is a long pause.

  ‘I can’t,’ he says, at last. ‘I just can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ She throws up her hands, fingers splayed.

  He thrusts back his chair and looms on the other side of the table, his jaw lit from below, his torso inflated, his nostrils flared, and she feels herself recoil, but then he reaches out a hand.

  ‘I can’t do this right now. I’m going to do the washing-up.’ His voice is calm. ‘And then I am going to bed.’

  She shoves her plate at him and turns her head away. She hears him walk through the arch into the kitchen and dump the plates into the sink. Water splatters against a pan. She looks back at the table, at the trembling wine glasses and the flickering candles. She knows it is unfair to expect anything of him tonight. He has had a ridiculously intense day, even by his standards. But there is something he is not telling her – she can feel it sitting there, like a lump beneath the skin. Instinct made her push him because he is weaker tonight and she wanted him to crack, open himself up, show her the truth. But he will never crack. She hears a Brillo pad begin to scrape against a metal surface, furious and rapid, She pictures his powerful shoulder jerking to and fro as the steel filaments score into the non-stick surface, damaging, scarring, ruining it forever.

  Chapter Eight

  Autumn has arrived with almost no lead-in and the mid-October trees are in crisis, shedding leaves in great, panicky flurries. The temperature has dropped and as she steps onto the porch she shivers and wraps her scarf around her neck. It is nearly dark already and there is a cold drizzle. Joe is furious to be wrenched from the Disney Channel and is putting on his trainers with exaggerated slowness. She glances at her watch, trying not to bark at him to hurry up.

  Greg went into the hospital for a couple of hours to get some paperwork done. He was supposed to be home by six; it is nearly seven now and he has called twice to say he has been held up but is coming as soon as he possibly can.

  The day after their row over dinner, he arranged for animal control to remove the opossum – it turned out that there was a nest of them, tucked beneath the deck. And since then, for the last few weeks, he has been full of love and concern – calling or texting during the day to check how she is doing, bringing home big bunches of flowers wrapped in brown paper and raffia, calling to see if he can pick up food on his way home, rubbing her feet at night on the sofa and running her bubble baths, telling her how beautiful she is, how much he loves her. He even cancelled a conference in Denver that he said he didn’t strictly need to go to. There have been no more threatening notes on the doorstep and once or twice Joe has even spoken to her on the way home from school. Everything is edging towards stability.

  She has put on mascara and lipstick and is wearing her pregnancy jeans and a dusky pink cardigan over a silk top that is definitely now too tight. Her breasts are at least a cup-size larger, if not two, and her belly is broader than it was with Joe at the same stage of pregnancy. When she thinks about the baby inside her she pictures it as it was on the anomaly scan three weeks ago, a grainy, black-and-white creature moving in jerks and swivels as the sonographer clicked the mouse, stilling images, measuring, calculating, pointing out feet, hands, face. ‘You really don’t want to know if it’s a boy or a girl? You sure?’

  After swapping between flats and heeled boots twice, she has gone with the boots, but now she wonders if this is the right thing to wear to a potluck party. Greg said, ‘Dress casually, but make an effort.’ She is not sure what this means here. She imagines stepping into a room full of women in Nikes and Tshirts. Or, worse, cocktail dresses.

  The trees above the Schechters’ house look scratchy and thin against the glowering sky. She puts an arm round Joe as they step from the shelter of the porch, but he shakes her off. Further down the road in the half-light she sees someone standing on the sidewalk, close to the shrubs. She squints.

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ Joe whines.

  ‘Come on.’ She glances down at his cross face. ‘It’s going to be fun.’ When she looks up again the figure has gone.

  Joe hauls himself along behind her like a little old man. She probably should have cleaned him up. His hair is all over the place, he has a rip in his sweatshirt and she knows that in the light his cuffs will be filthy. There are holes in the knees of his jeans, which are only about two weeks old. But if she’d tried to make him change, he’d have lost it, so he will just have to be scruffy.

  ‘We don’t even know them,’ he says.

  ‘We’re getting to know them. This is what you do – this is how you get to know people. Anyway, you already know Kevin a bit, don’t you?’

  ‘I can’t stand Kevin Schechter.’ He says it way too loudly.

  ‘He’s third grade, isn’t he? Bit younger than you?’

  ‘He’s weird. He only eats white food.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ They start to climb the steep stairs to the Schechters’ front door.

  ‘Macaroni, vanilla ice cream, milk, white bread – only white things. His lunch is completely white every day.’

  She manages not to laugh.

  ‘Plus he’s really mean. He calls me “the British kid” too.’

  ‘But isn’t it quite cool to be British?’

  ‘No! It’s not cool! It’s not cool at all! It’s awful. They’re laughing at me when they say it. I hate Kevin – I hate them all.’

  She can feel this escalating. ‘Listen, love,’ she says, in a firm but soothing voice, ‘it’s fine if you aren’t keen on Kevin, but just pretend that you like him for tonight, OK? That’s what I do. I pretend that I’m not shy and that I like everyone, and then it’s over and I can go home again.’

  They are at the top of the steps and Sandra has thrown open the door already. Her smile seems fixed. She has no doubt heard their whole conversation. Then Tess realizes that she is empty-handed. ‘Oh, no – I forgot to bring the lasagne.’

  ‘That’s OK.’ Sandra looks at Joe. There is a slight edge to her voice. ‘Kevin and the other kids are in the basement, Joe. Why don’t you go join them while your mom runs back over the road?’

  Joe glues himself to her thigh. ‘Go on, love.’ She presses him between his shoulder blades.

  Mike is advancing across the open-plan kitchen with a wine bottle. She has only ever seen him in his car, and in the flesh he is
enormous. He looks as if he is wearing one of those shoulder-padded football jerseys, but it is just a simple navy sweater. He gives a wave and continues through to the living room. Sandra is in full make-up, a wrap dress and heels. Despite the chilly evening, her legs are bare and tanned.

  As she shoos Joe inside he gives her a look that she hopes Sandra misses. She jumps back down the steps two at a time, hanging onto the bannister, and runs across the road, into the house. It is only as she is kneeling at the sink cupboard, looking for a roll of tinfoil, that she realizes that her front door was ajar. She must have failed to close it behind her when she was ushering Joe out. Somewhere in the back of her mind she registers an unfamiliar, slightly cloying smell. She glances over her shoulder. She cannot see into the hall or the darkened dining room from here, but she has the definite feeling that someone has just left the room.

  ‘Greg?’ she calls.

  A gust of wind comes through the open front door, blowing leaves down the hall. She finds the tinfoil and stands up.

  There is nobody in the house, of course there isn’t. She pushes the feeling aside and covers the lasagne in foil, then hurries back out, pulling the door shut behind her, hearing the lock click.

  As she approaches the Schechters’ she hears a high-pitched laugh from the front room, and a woman’s nasal voice saying, ‘She did not? Seriously?’

  ‘No sign of Greg yet?’ Sandra takes the lasagne.

  ‘No. I’m so sorry, I think he must have got stuck at the hospital.’

  ‘Don’t worry – oh, your coat; just put it there, that’s right – come on in, and let me introduce you to some people.’

  The room has tall dark windows and a brass fireplace over which hangs a poster-sized photograph of the Schechter family, in a vibrant autumnal setting. There are several people on the chairs and sofas, and all of them are looking at her.

  ‘So, Tess.’ Sandra touches her elbow. ‘Have you met the Bennetts from number 45?’

  She recognizes the red-haired couple from the corner house across the road, though she has never seen them close up. The woman introduces herself as Muriel. She is wearing a powder-blue cable-knit jumper and a string of pearls.

  ‘And this is my husband, Gordon,’ she says, with a lisp.

  The tall, thin man steps forwards, holding out a hand. ‘You’re going to make a joke about my name.’

  ‘Am I? Why?’

  He shrugs. ‘It’s some kind of curse in Britain, I guess.’

  ‘Gordon Bennett?’ Muriel barks.

  Tess can’t help smiling. She covers her mouth.

  Gordon nods. ‘Every time.’

  ‘No, it’s just, I think it’s Cockney rhyming slang or something.’ She tries to sound studious. ‘I can’t remember what for.’

  ‘It’s a minced oath,’ says Gordon.

  She decides not to pursue this.

  ‘So. Great!’ Sandra says, as if something important has been resolved.

  She notices Helena in an armchair to one side, and two people she has not met before, looking at her keenly from the other sofa.

  ‘This is Miriam and Bob MacAlpine, from number 16.’ Sandra gestures to the couple on the sofa. They get up. They are both short, with firm, sweaty handshakes. ‘Miriam and Bob have Deanna and Owen. Owen’s Joe’s age,’ Sandra says. ‘Fourth grade, right?’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ says Miriam. ‘He’s talked about Joe a lot.’

  ‘And of course,’ Sandra turns Tess around, ‘you already know Josh and Helena.’

  Josh is standing by the fireplace next to Mike and an older man she doesn’t recognize. He raises his beer and grins. Helena smiles, lazily. She is wearing a draped cashmere jumper and long, ethnic earrings. Tess instantly feels wrong in her straining grey top.

  But Sandra is turning her round again, introducing her to a white-haired woman whom Tess has seen walking a terrier. She realizes too late that she hasn’t caught the woman’s name.

  ‘So how are you liking American life, Tess?’ Miriam has a strong Bostonian accent. ‘You settling in here OK?’

  ‘Well, it’s quite different, but …’ She takes a glass of fizzy water that Mike is offering, and then Sandra appears with a platter of radishes carved into rose shapes. The conversations start back up. She glances at the carriage clock. Greg is one hour and twenty minutes late.

  ‘So, Sandy, I took your advice and signed Owen up for Russian Math.’ Miriam grabs a radish. ‘He hates it, but I told him he has to do it if he wants to study at Harvard like his dad.’

  ‘Yes, it’s kind of brutal,’ Sandra nods. ‘But effective.’

  There is a thundering sound and children burst into the kitchen as if they’ve been summoned, which as far as she can tell they haven’t. They sweep the table, piling their plates with crisps, spilling Coke, elbowing each other. There are several boys but only three girls, one with red hair and the other two she recognizes as Josh and Helena’s children, both very pretty.

  Joe hangs back from the group. His mouth is tight, his shoulders hunched to his ears. He radiates misery and she wants to sweep him up and take him home, but then the children are gone again, back down to the basement. Joe brings up the rear, carefully balancing his Coke and a plate that holds only crisps and pizza.

  ‘I guess we should wait for Tess’s husband to come before we eat,’ Sandra says.

  ‘Oh, no – don’t, please. He could be ages.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry.’ Sandra rests a hand briefly on her arm. Her voice is kind. ‘It’s no problem to wait.’

  Her head throbs and inside her the baby is restless, kicking, poking, turning. The adults walk back to the living room and she hears the men talking about the Red Sox, while Muriel and Miriam begin to dissect members of the Parent–Teacher Organization, and Sandra says something about Thanksgiving to the woman with white hair.

  Tess excuses herself and goes to find the bathroom. She locks the door and leans both hands against its wood panels, closing her eyes, breathing out. A teenage boy’s laugh filters down from the room above and she catches a faint whiff of marijuana.

  Greg is just arriving as she emerges from the bathroom. He is wearing his most urbane expression, holding a bottle of Prosecco, and she hears him say to Sandra, ‘It was kind of a complex case.’

  ‘Oh, please! Don’t give it another thought,’ Sandra laughs. ‘We’re just glad you could make it. It’s great to finally meet you properly.’

  ‘Here, let me take that.’ Mike swoops in and grabs the wine and Greg’s coat, pumping Greg’s hand.

  Greg turns then, and sees her – he kisses her cheek, giving her the briefest wink. He is immaculate in his blue-and-white striped shirt and dark trousers.

  ‘So, Greg – you know Gordon Bennett?’ Sandra holds out an arm. Greg doesn’t even flinch; he shakes Gordon’s hand, saying, ‘Gordon, how are you?’

  ‘And Muriel?’

  ‘Gordon’s in the medical world too,’ says Muriel. ‘Though not humans.’

  ‘I’m a veterinarian.’ Gordon studies the ceiling.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Cats.’ He clears his throat. ‘I’m a feline vet.’

  ‘He chose cats,’ Muriel says, ‘because they’re so self-contained, but turns out their owners really aren’t.’ Gordon nods morosely.

  ‘And this is Bob and Miriam MacAlpine.’ Sandra touches Greg’s forearm. He shakes hands with the short couple, using both their names.

  ‘And then, of course, your own next-door neighbours, Josh and Helena Feldman.’

  Greg raises a hand to Josh, and then he turns to Helena. She gives him a slow smile.

  ‘Sure, we all know each other,’ Greg says evenly. He turns to Sandra again. Helena recrosses her legs. The soles of her high black shoes are scarlet. Her eyes are fixed, hungrily, on Greg.

  ‘Shall we eat?’ Sandra says.

  They all help themselves to plates of macaroni and pasta salad, garlic bread, limp salads. Tess takes a plate to the living room and hovers. Greg is deep in conversation wi
th Mike now.

  ‘So, Tess, I hear you’re a photographer.’ Josh appears by her side. ‘What kind of pictures do you take?’

  ‘Oh, portraits, mainly. I usually do editorial photography for newspapers and magazines. What about you? Are you a doctor too?’

  ‘I’m a professor at BU, but I’m interested in you, Tess. Who do you take pictures of?’

  ‘Well, different people.’

  ‘Give me an example.’

  ‘It depends on who’s commissioning me. For media work, it’s whoever is being written about that day.’ She tries to spear a pasta shell, but it flies off the plate. They both ignore it.

  ‘I had my photo taken for a book jacket recently and I’ve got to tell you, Tess, it was painful. I bet that’s the hardest part of your job – putting people at ease.’

  ‘In a way.’ She glances at Greg. He is going back to the table and as he passes Helena she reaches out and brushes her fingertips against his thigh. He stops and looks down and she says something. He gives a curt nod.

  ‘Wasn’t it Sontag who said using a camera is an aggressive act?’ Josh asks.

  Whenever she talks to an academic about her work it’s never long before Susan Sontag surfaces. ‘ “To photograph is to appropriate the thing photographed”,’ she nods and looks for Greg again. Helena is still talking to him, looking up and brushing her thick hair back. Greg glances at her exposed throat.

  She certainly did not appropriate Greg when she took his picture the very first time, though he asked her to have a drink with him when she’d finished. They got a cab to a Pimlico pub and then later, a little drunk, he walked her through Victoria Station. As they crossed the concourse, she felt urgent messages buzzing between them but she told herself that he must be married, even though he didn’t wear a ring.

  They said goodbye at the platform, a kiss on the cheek, both of them stepping back and laughing at the touch. Then the next day someone opened the main door below her studio and shouted up the stairs that she had a visitor. She came out, rubbing her hands down her jeans, shoving her hair back. He had driven down from London. ‘I thought I’d take a look at those photos,’ he grinned, his shoulders filling the door frame, blocking out the light.