Out of Love

by Hazel Hayes

  After we hung up I stood a while longer, till I could no longer feel my hand, then I put back the bag of frozen peas, abandoned the basket of food by my feet and had wine for dinner instead.

  The surgery was a success, but it took more of a toll on my mother than any of us expected – she retired soon after, leaving her younger sister in charge of the interior design business she’d set up shortly after my father left. She hadn’t planned on retiring so young – she was only fifty-eight at the time and after a string of failed relationships, she used to joke that she was married to her company – but the wind had been well and truly knocked out of her sails.

  My sister and brother had been there for her through the operation, but they had their own families to take care of and jobs to get back to, and since I can do my job from anywhere I decided to go home for a few weeks to help nurse my mother better. In an odd way I was thankful I’d had the chance to do that, to pre-emptively make up for the care she was giving me now.

  I probably shouldn’t have taken those pills, they were out of date for a start, but sleep would not come without them and I was desperate for it. Every time I closed my eyes I was met with a flurry of memories that seemed to lash against the inside of my head. They came to me unbidden: the good and the bad ones, the significant and the banal, and among the debris I saw fragments of a life I might have lived. If I’d just done this. If I’d just said that. I played out every scenario, every what-if a hundred times and more and I never reached a solution. Because there was none. Every morning, somewhere between dreaming and waking, the blurry memory of what had happened slid into focus and I cried anew for what I’d lost.

  One night, my pain became palpable; my emotions were manifesting as real, physical agony. I lay in bed, hands on my chest in some sort of weird attempt to grab onto my own heart and hold it together. I was sure that it was literally ripping apart inside me. How else could it possibly hurt this much? My mind, too, felt torn. Pieces of it were coming away and I wondered if I would ever get them back. My body moved about as though independent of me, fists clenching, feet scraping against the sheets, all of me, every inch, agitated and incapable of rest.

  Somewhere, deep in that night, the pain consumed me. The thought of being happy again was inconceivable. And even though all I wanted was to sleep, the idea of waking up, still here, still feeling this way, was torturous.

  I thought about the pills then, in my mother’s room; there was a whole bottle of them in her dresser drawer. I thought about sneaking in there, returning to my bed with them and swallowing every last one. I walked through it in my mind again and again. And then I realised I’d been here before. A long time ago, I’d been here, I’d felt this hopeless, and I’d found happiness again. I couldn’t remember how I came back from the brink but I knew it was possible and that’s all I needed to know.

  And so I prayed. Not to God – I don’t believe in God – I prayed to the only thing I knew I could rely on: myself. I begged myself to just get me through this night. I told myself that I would be good, I would be strong, and I would never let this happen again if I could just get through this night.

  Sleep found me. And in the morning the fever had broken.

  In the days that followed I thought about grief; how nothing and nobody can prepare you for it. People tell you their stories but until you experience it for yourself you can’t possibly understand. There’s no going around it. Or under or over it. You’ve got to go through it. It will hit you in waves so enormous that you are smacked against the shore. It will permeate the very fabric of your life, so that everything you do is stained by it; every moment, good or bad, is steeped in sadness for a while. Even the nice moments, the achievements and successes, are tinged with the knowledge that someone or something is missing. And the first time that you smile or laugh, you catch yourself, because happiness feels so unfamiliar.

  I thought, too, how like an addict I had been, how similar this was to some kind of detox. I wondered how much of the feeling of love is chemicals and cravings and dependency, and how much of the act of love is habit.

  Eventually, loving someone becomes muscle memory. You don’t even notice it happening. One day you realise you’ve stopped living together and started existing near to one another. The path you once walked side by side has become two paths, which twist and wind their way around each other, occasionally intersecting long enough for a conversation full of clunky exposition that reveals nothing about the characters. You ask what time the other will be home from work, what they fancy for dinner, if they’ve remembered so and so’s birthday tomorrow. They tell you about their day with no humour or anecdotes, just a list of events in chronological order. You cook for two, buy toilet roll for two, book train tickets, sign cards and RSVP for two. Your autopilot gets set to two.

  I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that; in fact, I think there’s something kind of beautiful about it; your mind and body adapting so deftly to the presence of another person that the mingling of two lives, two stories, two sets of thoughts and beliefs feels effortless. It’s possible for someone to occupy a space in your life for so long and in such a specific way that their absence creates a very real sense that a part of you is missing. It is indeed beautiful. But when that’s all there is, it’s not enough.

  I’d like to tell you there was an inciting incident, a reason we ceased to function as a couple, but it was more like a slow, creeping disdain. In the end, habit was all we had left, and I came to realise that what I’d lost was lost a long time ago. For almost two years our relationship had been the romantic equivalent of a zombie – a walking, talking, undead imitation of us – and it was finally being put to rest.

  I snap back when Theo calls my name and I follow him into the bedroom, where he asks me what he should take; he wasn’t expecting me to remove the artwork from the walls or hand over our record collection. I tell him the truth, that I don’t want anything here that reminds me of him. I tell him it’s been too hard seeing it every day, and I need it gone. My throat tightens and I falter over these last few words. I think Theo notices because he doesn’t argue, he just starts taking the boxes to the lift.

  I feel sorry for him all of a sudden; his actions haven’t been malicious, he just hasn’t got a clue how to do this. So I offer to help and, standing next to him in the lift, I see him catch his own reflection and deflate.

  ‘I look like shit,’ he says, Theo leans his head against the mirror and closes his eyes.

  ‘You’ve looked better.’

  ‘I need a new job,’ he says, ‘I need to move. I need a new life. And a new fucking family.’ He pauses, and then with an off-kilter smirk he adds, ‘I suppose I need a new girlfriend now, too.’ It’s the oddest, most telling thing he’s ever said and while I know none of those things will fill the space in his heart, I also know he needs to figure that out for himself.

  Once the last of the boxes is loaded in the van, we say our final goodbye. When he hugs me, my strength fails and I cry.

  ‘I wanted to thank you,’ I blubber into his ear.

  ‘For what?’

  I pull back so I can look him in the eyes.

  ‘When we met,’ I say, ‘I was so lost. So completely unsure of myself. Of my worth. And then you came along. And you made me feel strong and special and worthy of love.’

  ‘Oh, angel,’ says Theo, tears filling his eyes as he reaches out to touch my cheek, ‘you’re all of those things all by yourself. You always were.’

  He pulls me towards him for another hug and we cry into one another’s necks, oblivious of the world around us or the people passing by, going about their ordinary days.

  ‘I really did love you, you know.’

  I think it’s my use of the past tense that gets him because I feel his body jolt slightly in my arms and I know that’s it, the final straw, we’re done. He wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand, looks at me one last time and walks away.

  As I step into the lift, my hand moves to my chee
k, and finds the spot where Theo touched me just moments before. I think about what he told me. That I am all of those things, all by myself.

  I catch my own reflection in the mirror now and I notice a hint of a smile. The face looking back at me is sad but resolute, maybe even hopeful.

  When I get back upstairs I close the door behind me and this time I don’t allow myself to crumble. I walk straight to the kitchen, prepared to throw away the tea I made for us, and then I see it there, on the counter; I only made one cup of tea.

  Pissing on Sticks

  This morning I woke up, got in the shower, and vomited. I didn’t feel nauseous. I didn’t anticipate it at all. One second I was scrubbing shampoo into my hair, the next I was – involuntarily and rather violently – vomiting. It would have only happened once, I think, but the sight of last night’s lasagne mixed with foamy water as it swirled round the drain made my stomach turn and I threw up again.

  Afterwards, I sat on the edge of my bed, wrapped in a towel, not shivering or shaking, showing no other signs of illness whatsoever. I checked my calendar to see when my next period was due. Three days ago.

  Right.

  I considered calling someone to talk it through. But who? My mother would get on the next plane to London, and I wasn’t quite ready for that; my friend Maya was at home caring for her six-month-old daughter, so discussing my options with her felt wrong somehow, and Theo was at a wedding in Devon. I hadn’t heard from him in almost twenty-four hours, which meant that he was nursing a fairly severe hangover this morning. The truth was I absolutely could call Theo; he just wasn’t the person I wanted to talk to.

  I took a long, deep breath. This could be any number of things, I told myself. And yet …

  I got dressed, shoved twenty quid in my back pocket and headed to the pharmacy. The nearest one was shut – in my haste I’d forgotten they close on a Sunday – so I kept walking for about fifteen minutes until I found another. I spent most of the brisk walk wondering how much a pregnancy test cost these days and whether or not £20 would cover it. It did, as it happens.

  I approached the cashier with the same affected nonchalance of everyone who has ever bought a pregnancy test, condoms or lube, and wondered why, as a thirty-year-old woman, this was still the case. It’s the same feeling I get every time I walk through US border control; the last time I was asked about the reason for my visit to the States, I said, ‘Just for the craic like.’ The customs officer scowled at me and waved me through. Presumably, if one does intend to buy or sell crack cocaine, one does not announce that upon arrival.

  The variety of pregnancy tests on offer was a bit overwhelming. I had chosen one with minimum bells and whistles – I wanted to keep this as simple as possible – and as I placed the blue-and-white box down on the counter, the cashier smiled an excited little smile at me. I gave her a half smile in return, then looked away, hoping to avoid as much of whatever this was as possible. Finally she handed me my change, but just as I turned to go she said, ‘Good luck.’

  I pretended not to hear her.

  Outside the pharmacy a young girl and her mother were sat eating ice creams. She wore a mint-green dress, her hair was caught up in a pile of wispy, blonde curls, and her little legs dangled lazily off the edge of the bench. She seemed entirely unaware of her mother’s ongoing efforts to catch dollops of ice cream from dripping into her lap. She was lovely, I thought.

  That’s the problem with kids … they’re everywhere, and I’m hardwired to want one. I’m reminded of this every time I see one; their big eyes and cherub noses and chubby little limbs, all designed to make me want to protect and nurture them.

  I know that my purpose on this planet is to make a child of my own, and that we are all programmed to procreate, but while men are meant to spread their seed, women are just walking, talking incubators. Which may sound flippant, but really I’m rather in awe of it all. A woman can manufacture inside of her another whole human being, with its own thoughts and fears and tiny toenails. I have the ability to create life, and from a young age, my body has been preparing itself for that eventuality; my boobs, my hips, my monthly mood swings, they’re all just part of The Plan. Capital T. Capital P.

  Unfortunately, The Plan is not my plan. My plan involves a prosperous career, weekly trips to the cinema, impromptu holidays, dinner parties with friends and lots of sex. Oh, and regular lie-ins – a luxury reserved for the rich, the old and the unfertilised. I’d also like to keep all the other things you lose when you become a parent, including, but not limited to, your sanity.

  The thing is, I’m not sure I don’t want children, I’m just not sure I do want children, and I think that anything short of a deep desire in your mind, body and soul to have one is not a good enough reason to do it. For a long time I avoided expressing my opinions on offspring. The phrase ‘I don’t want children’ is met with everything from confusion to hostility from other women, and there usually follows a sermon on the wonders of motherhood. I loathe the assumption that I will ‘come to my senses’ someday or – worse still – that my status as non-mother means I’m somehow lacking in emotional range; I was once accused, by another woman, no less, of being incapable of empathy because I don’t have kids. Clearly, that particular lady has a piss-poor grasp of human psychology, but it still stings a little to be seen as somehow impaired because I don’t want to have a baby.

  And let me be clear, my body wants a baby; it’s my mind that’s the problem. I’ve cradled my newborn nieces in my arms, looked down at their tiny bodies – skulls still soft from birth – and craved a child of my own. It’s a craving more intense than any I’ve ever known, born from hundreds of thousands of years of evolution, and it intensifies as my window of opportunity grows shorter. To make matters worse, successfully resisting this craving does not bring with it the sense of pride or achievement you get from, say, resisting the urge to cheat on your partner or smoke another joint. Instead of feeling good about avoiding it, you are punished with feelings of guilt and failure. And these feelings are reinforced by stupid cunts who claim you can’t feel feelings without bearing babies.

  Obviously not every woman treats me that way; I’ve noticed more and more lately (perhaps because I’ve hit my thirties) a willingness among friends, colleagues, and even complete strangers to reveal to me the true horrors of motherhood, from the pregnancy itself to the complications of birth, to the effects on a marriage, to the effects on a life. I was introduced to a lady at a party last year. She was on her eighth vodka when I arrived and within minutes of meeting me she literally grabbed me by the arm, nails gripping flesh, and said, ‘Don’t do it.’

  ‘Don’t do what?’ I asked.

  ‘Kids,’ she said. ‘Don’t do it.’

  I hadn’t mentioned kids.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, half laughing.

  ‘I love my sons,’ she added, ‘God help me, I love the little bastards with all my fucking heart. But I haven’t slept in three years …’

  She loosened her grip and I thought that was it until her hand squeezed even tighter and she suddenly announced, ‘My vagina is ruined!’

  Her equally drunk friend overheard this and casually chimed in.

  ‘Mine ripped all the way to my arse!’

  This is the shit they don’t tell you.

  Then came the relentless worrying, they said, the blood in their breast milk, the death of their sex lives, and their newfound appreciation for being able to take a shit without being watched. And yes, they also mentioned the boundless love felt by a parent for their child and the daily moments of pure joy they would otherwise have never felt, but I found it all quite hard to process following the ripped-vagina revelation.

  All the way to her arse?

  Fuck.

  As I raise my key to the lock, I realise I don’t remember a single step of my journey home. I let myself in, head straight to the bathroom, read the instructions on the box twice, then follow them exactly; I remove the foil packaging, take off the white cap, urin
ate on the stick, and put the cap back on (making sure not to hold the stick upside down). I’m now on point number five, ‘wait ninety seconds’.

  I set a timer on my phone, close my eyes, and try to think about anything else. My thoughts drift to this day last week.

  I was on the balcony watering the plants. Theo had just returned from his morning run; he started exercising again after his grandmother’s funeral, and lately he’d been hitting the gym several times a day, working out to the point of obsession. He’d even bought a blender and started juicing – something we had always made fun of together.

  I watched as water spilled onto a cluster of colourful pots, all full of browning plants.

  ‘They’re dead,’ said Theo. He was standing in the doorway, drinking some lumpy green juice he’d just made.

  ‘Not completely,’ I said.

  ‘But they’re basically dead, though.’

  ‘Theo, my flowers are not dead.’

  ‘Flowers!?’ he barked, before leaning over my shoulder, squinting, and pretending to get a better look. There were clearly no flowers, only dry stalks and crisp leaves that crumbled to the touch.

  ‘They just need some water,’ I said. ‘Now kindly piss off.’

  I elbowed him playfully in the ribs, almost knocking the glass out of his hand, then burst into laughter as he grappled to catch it and splashed juice in his own face. There was a moment of uncertainty, like those few seconds after a toddler falls down when you’re not sure how they’ll react, but then he started laughing too.

  ‘Serves you right,’ I said, and I went back inside to finish packing for our flight to Ireland that day. Theo shouted after me to hurry up as he dried himself off.

  A few hours later we had landed in Dublin and were driving down the M50 in my mother’s car. The sun hung like a hot, white pan, cooling against the sky, and heat rose steadily off every car bonnet. It was an uncharacteristically hot Sunday in September and all around us drivers waited impatiently in long lines of traffic – all headed to the already packed beaches. Elbows poked out of open windows, and as we passed we caught snippets of songs blaring from radios.