by C J Morrow
‘Buckle up,’ he said as I lowered myself into his car. I was wearing jeans, new dark ones and a soft, floaty top. Underneath I wore new underwear, bought with money I’d been saving for a new coat. I had my school bag on my lap. ‘Aren’t you cold?’ I wasn’t wearing a jacket and it was October, and windy.
‘No,’ I lied. I was hardly going to wear my coat, the hideous navy thing I wore to school every day.
He was wearing jogging bottoms, and a soft grey hoodie over a white t-shirt. I’d never seen him so casual; he’d always come to our house straight from school. His hair was wet, dark curls licked around the back of his neck and across his forehead. The air in the car smelled of shampoo and shower gel as though he’d just jumped out of the shower. Had he done that just for me? My heart skittered in my chest.
‘Excuse the wet hair,’ he said, noticing me studying him. ‘Just been to the gym.’
I had to stop myself from gasping. I imagined his gym toned body beneath the while t-shirt.
‘Cool,’ I said as he pulled away, one large hand on the gear stick, both eyes on the road, but I saw the little smile that lifted the corners of his mouth.
He pushed a CD into the car stereo, something blared out that I wasn’t familiar with.
‘You like this?’
‘Yeah.’ I’d have said anything to please him.
His house was brand new. Two-up, two-down, was how he described it. But that didn’t account for the bathroom upstairs. It was sparsely furnished, just a sofa and TV in the lounge, a table and two chairs in the kitchen-diner.
‘Good job the kitchen was fitted, and the carpets included,’ he joked as we sat down at the table. He sat opposite me before pulling off his hoodie and dropping it on the floor. His six-pack was visible through his t-shirt. He noticed me noticing and smiled. ‘It’s why I do the tutoring. So I can afford furniture.’
‘How many others do you tutor?’ The thought had suddenly occurred to me and I felt jealous.
‘Two at the moment. Plus you.’ He watched my face as he spoke.
‘Oh.’ I looked down. What right did I have to be jealous?
‘Yep, a boy of fourteen on Mondays, and a girl your age, no she’s younger,’ he looked away, then back at me. ‘In your old spot on Tuesdays.’
‘Cool.’ I flicked open my Maths textbook. ‘I was struggling with this in class.’ I pointed at the page.
His hand went over my finger, wrapping around it, his skin hot, mine cold. It felt as though electricity sparked between us. ‘Really? We wouldn’t want you struggling.’
I felt sick. Sick with excitement, sick with anticipation.
He whipped his hand away.
We spent the next hour working on my Maths problem. We behaved as though nothing had happened. I began to wonder if it had. Wondered if I had just imagined it or read meaning where there was none.
‘I think you’ve grasped it.’ He stood up. ‘Fancy a coffee?’
‘Cool. Thanks.’ I couldn’t look at him; I’d spent the previous hour concentrating on my textbook, my pen, anything rather than look at him. I didn’t really like coffee.
‘I think we should call it a night after this. I’ll drop you off home.’
‘Cool,’ I muttered into my chest.
He made coffee, dribbled milk into then asked if I wanted sugar. Before I could answer, he said, ‘No, sweet enough already.’
I blushed, I knew my neck was blotching as he looked at me.
He placed the coffee on the table in front of me and sat back down in his place. I didn’t look up.
‘So, how’s school in general? Are you happy you made the right choice staying at school and not going to sixth-form college?’ He sounded like my mum. I wondered if my dad had put him up to this.
‘Yeah, it’s cool. All my friends are there.’ I concentrated on my coffee, blowing across the surface before taking a sip.
‘Boyfriends?’ Robin let the word linger on his lips, the questioning intonation hanging in the air.
‘No. Can I use your loo?’ I put the coffee cup down and stood up.
‘Up the stairs, straight ahead.’
The bathroom was neat and tidy, folded black towels on the towel rail, a single bar of black soap – I’d never seen black soap before – in a black soap dish. After I flushed the toilet I looked through the cabinet above the sink. I saw the cologne he wore; I stopped myself from touching the bottle in case some leaked onto me. How would I explain that? There would be no escaping the smell; delicious and strong. Robin.
He was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, twirling his keys and wearing his hoodie again.
‘Okay?’
‘Sure.’ I collected my books from the table and we headed out to the car. I hadn’t drunk the coffee.
He opened the car door for me and made a show of ushering me inside before leaping round and jumping into the driving seat. As we pulled away I stared straight ahead and didn’t say anything.
‘Good session tonight. I thought. Didn’t you? Did you get what you wanted from it?’
‘Yes. Thanks.’
‘Good, I don’t want you thinking that because it’s free it’s not as good.’
I nodded. ‘Course not.’
He dropped me at the end of the street and roared off.
Twenty minutes after I got home he messaged me: J, jst checking u got hm ok. Gr8 sesh 2nite. C u nxt wk at urs. R xx
Wow. Two kisses. And he called me J, signed off as R. Wow. I agonised over my reply, it took fifteen minutes and several attempts before I finally pressed send: R, hm ok. Gr8 sesh! J x
I kept his text as long as I could, cherished it. That following week, I must have looked at it a hundred times. It was the first of many, even though it sounds odd now with its text-speak. Now Robin writes messages so long they’re like essays, and the grammar is always perfect. That’s technology progression for you, he says, when I tease him about it.
‘Hi Juliette.’ The voice, female and yet another new one, says to me. ‘I’m Jo Pandy. I’ve been looking after you. We’re going to have a go with this tube now, it’s helping you breathe but you don’t need it now. We’ve weaned you off all sedation. It’s hard for you to let us know because you can’t speak and you can’t open your eyes, but we think you’re having periods of wakefulness.’
I am. I am.
‘We’ll give it a go, shall we? We’ll take the tube out and see how you get on. Don’t worry, we can always put it back in.’ She turns away from me and speaks to someone else. ‘What time is Mum due in?’
‘In the next half hour,’ Jeff, my male nurse, says.
‘We can’t wait. Obs all good?’
‘Yes. Good.’
‘Okay. Juliette,’ she’s talking to me again. ‘We’re going to start.’
‘Just clearing out some of the mucous,’ Jeff says as something is poked into my mouth. It reminds me of the dentist. That’s when I realise that they mean I have a tube in my mouth. I hadn’t noticed. How can I not have noticed?
Is this tube breathing for me? Have I been unable to breathe myself? Is it the pneumonia? I’m confused. What if I can’t breathe on my own? I’m confused. I’m afraid.
‘It’s okay, Juliette. You’re doing really well.’
I can hear clicks and rustles on my chest. What are they doing?
‘Okay. Everything’s good. Just going to pull it out now. Cough when it comes out, if you can.’
It feels as though I’m being turned inside out, as though they’re pulling my lungs up through my throat. It’s horrible. Jeff is rubbing the back of my hand telling me I’m doing well.
Where’s Robin? I wonder if they sent him out. Probably just as well, he’s squeamish, he couldn’t stand this. It’s horrible.
Then it’s over and I cough twice, small coughs. ‘Well done. Well done. Just popping this oxygen mask on.’
I breathe. I breathe by myself. The air I breathe hurts on its way in, and it’s cold. My chest aches. My throat feels as though it’s
on fire. But I am breathing. I am breathing. Tears roll down my face.
‘You did really well.’ Jeff wipes the tears from my face. ‘Your throat will be sore for a day or two. You’re doing really well. And here’s Mum.’
I hear Mum gasp. I suppose it’s shock or relief. The chair scrapes on the floor as Mum sits.
‘Poor darling,’ she says, wiping my hair to one side. ‘You’ll be able to talk now.’
Talk? Talk? I’ve only just learnt to breathe.
I’m exhausted. I can’t hear any more. I don’t want to hear any more. I sleep.
When I wake, Mum is still here and she’s reading Pride and Prejudice again. I’ve lost track of where we are in the story but she’s just mentioned Mr Collins – he’s the relative that will inherit everything when Mr Bennet dies, because daughters weren’t allowed to.
I suppose if I’d died Robin would have inherited everything I own. Not that I own much. My car, my clothes, my stuff – he always calls it my stuff, he means make-up and handbags and, well, my stuff. And, my half of the mortgage. Not that much to show for my life really. No children. That saddens me. I inhale deeply.
Mum jumps and calls a nurse. Jeff appears.
‘She gasped and shuddered. Is she in pain.’
Jeff pokes around, presses buttons on machines that beep, and declares that I’m fine.
I’m not fine.
I’m never going to have a baby.
Even though I can’t remember much that’s happened recently, I remember the night I found out.
‘I’m late.’ I had a smile on my face that made my jaw ache.
Robin glanced at his watch and shook his head. ‘No. We’re not leaving for another ten minutes.’ He was reading the newspaper at his desk, we’d just moved and he now had his own study. The house was brand new, Robin liked brand new, not soiled or spoiled by anyone else. The walls were painted magnolia, clean and fresh.
We were going to the cinema, I can’t remember what we were seeing because it was Robin’s choice; we never went in the end.
‘No, silly. I mean I’m late.’
He frowned. I sighed.
‘I think I might be pregnant.’ I’d been fantasising about it all day, imagining his delight when I told him.
‘No. You can’t be.’ He didn’t even look up from the paper. This wasn’t quite the reaction I’d expected.
‘I think I might be. I’m nearly a week late. I’m never late.’
He didn’t answer so I carried on prattling, but now he was watching me. Intently.
‘I know we haven’t planned it, and I know we’ve just moved and we’ve taken on a big mortgage and everything, but it’ll be fine. I can go back to work later and …’ I stopped.
He was shaking his head. His eyes had narrowed and his face was red.
‘If you are,’ he said, between gritted teeth, ‘it’s not mine.’ He stood up.
‘Of course it is. Who else’s could it be?’
‘No. It’s not mine.’
‘But why are you saying that?’ I remember a hiccup that turned into a sob. I was crying. He’d made me cry.
‘If you are pregnant, it’s not mine.’ He pushed past me and strode to the kitchen. I followed to find him at the sink downing a glass of water.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘If you’ve been unfaithful, I can’t have you in my house.’
‘Our house,’ I corrected, forcing the words out between sobs. ‘Our home.’
‘Huh.’ He pushed past me again and marched back to his study. I galloped along behind him.
‘I don’t understand. I thought you’d be pleased. You’ve always played with Mads and said what a delight she is.’ Mads was eleven then, cheeky and funny and almost as in love with Robin as I was. I was twenty-four and we’d been married six years. Robin was thirty-six. We were the perfect ages to start a family.
‘It’s not mine.’
‘Why do you keep saying that?’
‘Because . . . because I can’t have children.’
I slumped down onto the floor, my back against the wall, my legs splaying out in front of me.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I can’t. Because of something that happened in the past.’ He turned away from me, I saw his shoulders rise and fall. I imagined some illness, an accident maybe.
‘But maybe you can now. Maybe it’s, you know, healed, or something.’
He spun round, he looked at me in horror.
‘It doesn’t work like that. If you’re pregnant, it’s not mine.’
I pulled myself up from the floor. ‘Yes. It. Is.’
He barged past me again; I heard him grab his keys from the hall table and storm out. Seconds later his car was roaring down the road which was frightening, because, since I’d passed my test, he rarely drove.
I went into the lounge, sat down and seethed and sobbed.
He came back two hours later. I was sitting in the dark. He flicked the light on.
‘God, look at the state of you.’
My face was a mess of snot and tears. I didn’t care what I looked like.
‘Okay,’ I spat. ‘Tell me this. If you can’t have children why have we been using condoms all these years?’ I’d had plenty of time to think in his absence.
‘Keeps it neat and tidy. And clean.’
‘What?’ I screeched.
‘Like I said, it’s not mine; we’ve been using condoms and I’m fucking infertile. There, happy now you’ve made me say it? How could it possibly be mine?’
I suppose I could see it from his point of view. But I hadn’t been unfaithful. Why would I? He’s the love of my life. Always has been, always will be. How could he even think that I would do that? I started sobbing again, great big, ugly, snotty howls.
He looked down at me, sneered, turned and stomped up the stairs, slamming the bedroom door behind him.
I slept fitfully on the sofa. We had spare bedrooms but there were no beds in them.
In the morning, I was stiff and aching.
I didn’t go to work for the rest of the week. I wasn’t pregnant. I was bleeding profusely.
Mum slaps the book shut.
‘There. That’s a good place to stop. Don’t you think?’
I still can’t move or open my eyes, but I manage a grunt through the mask.
‘Well done, well done.’ Mum pats me and hugs me. I feel overwhelmed and crushed. I grunt my disapproval and she understands. ‘Sorry, Juliette. It’s just so good to know you’re back with us.’
I grunt again, because I know it will make her happy.
Mum starts bustling about, a cupboard door opens.
‘I brought your hairbrush up,’ she says to the sound of rummaging. ‘Here.’
The brush caresses my hair, Mum is so gentle. I’m soothed and calmed by it. I’m a little girl again.
‘That’s better. You look more like you now.’ She opens the cupboard again, then closes it. I imagine her putting the brush away. ‘I’m going to get off now, sort out your dad’s tea, and we’ll both be back this evening. He’ll be so pleased to hear you’re really on the mend. He’ll really notice the difference in you, just in the few days he’s not seen you.’ She kisses me. Her hand straying to my hair again, pushing it to one side across my forehead. ‘Once your hair grows back on that shaved side, those scars won’t even show.’ She turns on her heels and leaves.
I grunt after her but she doesn’t come back.
What does she mean? Scars? Shaved? Hair?
Four
Robin loves my hair. That’s why I keep it long. I’ve had the same style since I first met him; side parting, elbow length, straightened, dark brown. A few years back I casually mentioned that I was thinking of getting it cut, that I was toying with something more sophisticated. He begged me not to.
‘I love your hair.’ He began to stroke it and lift it up, letting the strands drop to allow the light to play through them. ‘It’s one of your best features.
�
��Really?’ I wasn’t too sure if I was happy about that or not.
‘I think I fell in love with your hair the very first time I saw you.’ He smiled at the memory.
‘What? At the tea table at Mum and Dad’s.’ I found that hard to believe; I remember it as being greasy the first time he tutored me – although it never was again.
‘Yes.’ He smiled again, a look of pleasure in his eyes. ‘It was so silky, so innocent.’
‘Innocent?’
‘I mean you hadn’t done things to it like so many women do. Colours, curls.’
‘No, because I was fifteen and not allowed; you’ve met my mum.’ I laughed.
‘Well, it looked good then and it looks good now. Don’t change it.’
So, I didn’t; even though sometimes it felt a bit dated. I did, however, start wearing it up for work, which Robin frowned at the first time but ignored thereafter, as long as it was down at home.
I’ve kept the same style, but when I go for my trim, I’ve started having a semi-permanent colour applied. My hair won’t stay that dark, dark brown forever, it’s already starting to fade. But Robin doesn’t need to know that.
I wonder what the hell it’s like now. Part of my head shaved – Robin won’t like that. I’m surprised he hasn’t said anything; he must be feeling very sorry for me not to have mentioned it.
When I’m better, when I’m out of here, it might be the time for a new hairstyle. I can hardly go around with long hair on one side and a shaved head on the other. He wouldn’t like that either and neither would I.
Hair’s a funny thing. I’ve always loved Robin’s hair. It’s even darker than mine and even though he keeps it short, it manages to curl and flick along his collar. He doesn’t like it doing that, says it makes him look too exotic. Sexy exotic, I always correct. He’s got quite a few silver hairs mixed in with it now, some around his temples, which he’s accepted, albeit reluctantly, after someone at school told him it made him look distinguished. I daren’t tell him he has more at the back of his head; I’m not sure how he’d react to that.