by C J Morrow
He rotates it then moves the chair Dad was sitting on to sit opposite me. He takes my hands in his, rubbing them gently. His hands are warm; I haven’t noticed that mine are cold. I don’t stop him.
‘Are you excited about the baby?’
‘Robin…’ I shake my head as the tears start to dribble down my cheeks.
‘I’m sorry. About Robin.’ He offers me a tissue from the box on the bedside locker.
‘It’s yours?’ I’m asking a question, but I already know the answer.
‘Yes.’ A little smile plays across his mouth. He pulls it back. ‘I realised when I saw you yesterday that you don’t remember us.’
‘Us.’ I repeat. He’s right, I don’t remember the detail, but tiny pieces are beginning to float into focus.
‘We’ve been,’ he hesitates, ‘seeing each other for a while.’
‘And Robin?’
‘You were leaving him.’
I untangle my hands from Stephen’s and place them on my lap, rubbing my legs, pulling at the fabric of my new leggings, trying to connect myself back to normality. I was leaving Robin. Did he know?
‘To be with you?’
‘No. Ironically. No. You were leaving him anyway.’
‘Why?’ Would I just up and leave him? ‘I mean, if not to be with you? Ah, the baby. I was leaving because of the baby.’
Stephen shakes his head. ‘No. You didn’t know you were pregnant. No one did.’
‘Robin called me a whore.’
‘Who uses a word like that? He had no right to even think it.’
‘But we’re married, he’s my husband, yet I’ve been sleeping with you. That’s adultery.’
I watch Stephen’s face for a reaction, I can see the turmoil in his eyes. He doesn’t try to deny it, doesn’t correct me.
‘Robin’s right. I don’t like the word, but the meaning…’ I cannot bring myself to finish the sentence. I’m horrified at my duplicity, at my betrayal of everything I hold dear. Robin and I, we’re a team. We vowed to be together forever. He promised he would never leave me, just as I promised I would never leave him. And yet, apparently, I was.
‘No. No.’ Stephen is shaking his head. ‘Robin doesn’t matter now.’
‘Don’t you dare say that. I want you to go. Now.’ I’ve stopped crying. I’m angry. With Stephen, with myself, with the world.
‘No.’
‘Yes.’ I force my face to show no emotion.
He stands up.
‘I’ll be back soon.’
‘No.’
‘I won’t…’ His voice trails away.
He leans in to kiss me, I turn away. My best head movement yet, accomplished in anger.
The door closes softly behind him. He’s gone.
I wait for Robin to burst in, imagining him lurking in the corridor. But he doesn’t come back. Did he know I was leaving him? Had I told him? I wish I could remember.
I’m wailing when they give me something to help me sleep, they assure me it won’t harm the baby.
I don’t fall asleep immediately, but at least I am calm now. Almost numb. Is Stephen telling me the truth? Was I really leaving Robin?
Another dream. Mads is waving at me, and smiling. Robin’s there too. He’s grinning. He steps towards her and puts his arm around her waist, pulling her in tightly. Her smile ends. She pushes him away. He scowls.
In the dream Mads looks just like me. I hadn’t realised how much alike we were. Not now. Not now that I am twenty-eight. But when I was younger.
It was Robin who had commented on it first. Mum had sent me several photos of Mads dressed up to go to a friend’s sixteenth birthday party – a proper party, in a hotel. When was that? It must have been just before she died. She looked gorgeous, her silky hair freshly straightened, her face lightly made-up. Her smile broad, her eyes so full of promise and excitement. I showed it to Robin, flicking through the pictures on my phone. He stared intently, took the phone from me and studied them. He blew Mads’s face up for further scrutiny, trailing his fingers across my phone screen.
‘She’s wearing make-up. She’s too young for that.’
‘Not much. Anyway, she’s not too young. She’s nearly sixteen.’
‘She looks just like you. Not now, obviously. But when you were young; when I first met you.’ He looked wistful.
My phone pinged. Another photo of Mads from Mum, a close-up of her face. The caption said: She looks just like you.
Mads messaged me the next day. She sent a sad face emoticon.
Had a great time at the party but drank too many ciders. Hanging now.
Ciders? I messaged back.
Might have had gin in them. Not my idea. Won’t do that again. A picture on someone retching into a toilet accompanied the message.
Glad to hear it.
Don’t tell Mum.
I wake with a start just as dawn is breaking. It’s early, four, or five, perhaps? There are sounds in the corridors, hospitals never really stop, just slow down for the night. I have a headache. Is that from the sleeping drug or the guilt, or the worry?
Today my left eye has caught up with my right, the lids opening in harmony, just as they were designed to. Bitter irony; I can see clearly now.
What a mess. My sister is dead. I nearly died. I having a baby that is not my husband’s. I was leaving my husband.
Robin will want me to get rid of it. He’s always said that he couldn’t love a child that wasn’t his own.
I cannot do that, I already love this baby. I will not get rid of it.
I must leave Robin.
Fourteen
If Robin makes me choose between him and the baby, there will be no choice.
I feel calm now. I’ve made a decision about the future. My future. My baby’s future. Even though it shouldn’t, the thought of leaving Robin feels right. What did Stephen say? I was leaving Robin anyway. Why? Stephen seemed ill at ease when I asked; as if he knew but didn’t want to say.
Where was I going? Back to Mum and Dad’s – huh, plenty of room for me there now, and the baby. Or was I going to be with Stephen?
What has Robin done that had made me want to leave him? Something pings in the back of my mind, a memory, a thought. But it’s elusive, like a helium balloon that repeatedly floats out of my reach. And I don’t have the energy to stretch up and grab it.
I’m having a baby. Stephen’s baby. When did that happen? Just how pregnant am I? Six, seven weeks? I’m sure that’s what Mum said.
I’m still not clear whether Robin already knew about the baby. He didn’t seem shocked when I told him or, more correctly, when he overheard me discussing it with Jeff. It would explain Robin’s off hand manner with me. Now that I think about it, he hasn’t been particularly pleasant or helpful since I regained consciousness. He hasn’t brought me any clothes from home – Mum did that. In fact, he’s quite often been nasty. Is he always like that? Am I only noticing it now? Have I already moved out of our home? Is that why he didn’t bring my clothes, because they are no longer there? No, Mum went to our house to fetch my things.
There are so many questions swirling around in my head and I can answer so few of them myself.
I don’t know why I was leaving Robin and yet, I know it is the right thing to do. I should feel devastated. Yet I don’t.
Am I cold-hearted?
There will be practical things to sort out. The house. We will have to sell it and split the proceeds. What will be a fair split? Despite Robin’s extra tuition jobs, I am the major earner. But the equity from his first house – the two-up-two-down – funded the deposit. I foresee expensive legal bills on the horizon. But I must be fair. And so must he.
While neither of us will want to lose the house, I suspect that Robin’s attachment will be greater than mine. In truth, it’s always felt more like his home than mine.
I cannot believe I am allowing myself to think like this. We’ve been together for so long. I have, no, had, never been with anyone else. Robin loved
that about me, that he was my first, my only. He used to say that it made him love me more.
He called me his virgin bride even though I wasn’t a virgin when we married. But, I had only been with him.
‘There’s no greater honour for a man, Juliette, than being a girl’s first lover.’ He’d said it after that first time, the night he gave me the coat as an early Christmas present. The coat I wore to Mads’s funeral. Even he said I was too fat for it. Well, it’s gone now. And I am thin.
A sudden, sharp prick of memory hits me; we were arguing in the car on the way back from the funeral. Is that how we crashed? His hands were on the wheel. Was he trying to pull us back to safety when I veered off course? What made me do that? I hope we weren’t arguing about the coat. If only I could remember. My head spins with confusion.
I shift uncomfortably in the bed. I am tired. It’s too early to be awake. If I close my eyes will I go back to sleep?
‘I knew you’d go off with him eventually.’ Robin’s voice is pin-sharp in my ear.
I try to open my eyes. I try to turn to him. But nothing works. I feel the panic pressing down on my chest, the pressure so strong that I cannot take even one breath.
Is he suffocating me? Is that why I cannot move? Is he killing me?
I wake. A nightmare. Robin would not do that.
I pant, inhaling deeply. I open my eyes, turn my head a little. There is no Robin.
Maybe now that the truth is out, now that he knows about the baby, now that I know about the baby, he will not visit me anymore.
How has it come to this? Robin was the love of my life.
Where will I go when I leave hospital? Will Robin allow me to go home?
Breakfast comes early in hospital. I’ve chosen cereal and yogurt. It’s preceded by warm, sweet tea and a dry biscuit. I’m hungry. I must be getting better; I still feel hungry after I’ve devoured the breakfast.
‘There’s someone to see you,’ the auxiliary who collects my breakfast dishes says. She looks flustered and tired. ‘Is he allowed in?’
I suppose she’s asking because it’s so early, though Robin has been here early, and late, before. It can’t be Robin. It must be Stephen.
‘Yes. Thank you.’ I sound so pompous.
Stephen looks tired and anxious but when he leans in and kisses my cheek his hair smells of shampoo and his face is freshly shaven.
‘Sorry it’s so early. I couldn’t sleep. I’m sorry about yesterday. About being so blunt, just blurting everything out like that.’
I shake my head, not because I’m disapproving but because I don’t know what to say.
He pulls up a chair and takes my hand.
‘I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened. For Mads. For Robin. For everything.’
‘Not your fault,’ I manage. Then, alarmed. ‘Is it?’
‘No. No. To some extent you and I are innocent bystanders.’
‘Not so innocent.’
‘No.’ He looks down, embarrassed.
‘There are so many holes in my memory, so many gaps, I don’t really know what’s happened recently. You said I was leaving Robin but not to be with you. Why was I leaving him?’
Stephen shifts in his chair. He glances away.
‘For God’s sake just tell me.’
‘You caught him.’
‘Caught him?’ The meaning of those words hangs in the air. ‘Doing what?’ I add, but it’s obvious. ‘Tell me.’
‘You went to pick him up from his tutoring job. But you were early, you couldn’t get a parking space in your usual place, so you drove around the block, you went past the house.’ Stephen stops speaking.
‘And I caught him. And I told you?’
‘Yes. Later.’
‘Tell me what I told you. I cannot remember. What was he doing?’
Stephen’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. ‘Kissing her goodbye.’
‘Who?’ I’m dreading the answer but deep down I know.
‘His pupil.’
‘How did I know it was his pupil?’ It might have been someone else. That is possible. Would it make it any better?
‘She was wearing school uniform.’
‘How old?’
‘We found out later. Fourteen.’
I gasp.
‘What kind of kiss?’ It could have been a quick goodbye cheek peck.
‘You said,’ Stephen stalls, and I squeeze his hands to force him on. ‘You said it was a full on, mouths locked together, arms around each other kiss.’
‘I obviously got a good look.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Stephen, reading the anguish on my face, squeezes my hands back.
‘Definitely not your fault.’
‘Not yours either,’ he says, sharply. ‘Don’t go blaming yourself.’
‘But why?’ I’m overwhelmed and yet numb at the same time. ‘Where were her parents?’
‘Not there, apparently. They trusted Robin.’
‘What happened next? Do you know?’
Stephen nods. He looks solemn and pale. He’s obviously been through this before with me, no doubt we turned it over and examined it from every angle.
‘We weren’t together at that point, you and I. For what it’s worth. Just so you know.’
Does it have any worth? I don’t know. I shrug – a movement I couldn’t make a week ago. I raise my eyebrows – a first – a gesture to urge him on.
‘You parked around the corner and waited for him as usual. You drove home without mentioning it. You waited until you were indoors then you confronted him.’ Stephen stops.
‘Then?’
‘He laughed in your face. Called you hysterical and delusional. You said, he almost convinced you that you had imagined it.’
I can imagine Robin laughing at me. I can feel his derision, his mocking.
‘You were my confidante?’
‘Yeah.’ He looks down at our intertwined hands.
‘How long after that did I sleep with you?’ I want to know if it was an instant act of revenge.
‘A while. Weeks. I won’t pretend it wasn’t a factor. For you. Not me.’
‘Did I leave him then?’
‘No. No. You were still with him when the accident happened, but you were planning on leaving shortly after the funeral. Perhaps that’s what you were discussing when it happened.’
Good God. Did I cause our accident because I told Robin I was leaving? It is all my fault. Everything.
‘What else did I say?’ I feel so weary.
‘You threatened him. You said you would expose him. You asked if there had been others. He laughed. He denied it over and over. But, you told me that you thought you had scared him.’
Maybe I had, maybe I hadn’t. I try to imagine Robin’s reaction to such an accusation, and the threat of exposure.
Deep down inside I believe Stephen, but, God, it hurts.
‘Mum must be pleased,’ I mutter, thinking aloud.
‘I don’t think she knows.’
‘What?’
‘I certainly never told anyone, you didn’t as far as I’m aware and I doubt Robin did.’
‘But your mum and my mum know the baby is yours?’ They haven’t said as much but now I know why their faces looked so pinched when I mentioned Robin in relation to being pregnant.
‘Yes. They know about us.’
‘So, I’m the adulterer. I’m the one in the wrong.’
‘They’re not judging you, they’re pleased.’
That figures, Mum has always hated Robin, and loved Stephen. I bet she’s ecstatic.
Emma bursts in lugging her giant bag of tricks, and all conversation between Stephen and I stops.
‘Sorry I’m earlier than usual, but we’ve got a lot to do today.’ She smiles at me then turns to Stephen and gives him a lovely, pleasant look that says, get out now.
He takes the hint and leaves, telling me he’ll be back later.
‘Your husband seems lovely,’ Emma says as she star
ts pulling me about, she’s stretching my neck and arms today.
‘Yeah,’ I say. Only now I know that Robin isn’t so lovely. And neither am I.
‘Sorry I had to break you apart like that, but lots to do.’
That’s when I realise that she thinks Stephen is my husband. I’m about to correct her, but think better of it. She’ll just be embarrassed, and to be honest, so will I.
We go through all my exercises, I walk unaided for a record number of steps, chugging along the corridor, smiling like an idiot, and Emma tells me how proud she is of my progress.
‘Everyone is very impressed with your recovery. When I think about what you were like when I first saw you.’ She raises her eyes to the ceiling. ‘I’m not sure if you realise I have been working with you from day one, well maybe day two, give or take my days off.’
‘No?’ I hadn’t even thought about it.
‘Yes, I was doing your daily chest physio. I apologise if I hurt you.’
‘I don’t think you did.’ I smile. I have no recollection.
‘Well, you groaned plenty every time I thumped your chest, but we had to clear those lungs. You picked up an infection when I had a few days off.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘But hey, look at you now. Just brilliant.’
‘It’s thanks to everyone in here,’ I say, knowing full well how true this is.
‘A good mental attitude helps too, and a willingness to try.’ She helps me back onto the bed. ‘There, I think we’re done. Now I think that you should manage with a walking stick around your home to start off with.’ She pulls a folder out of her giant bag and flicks it open. ‘I’ve prepared a suggested action plan for you which you need to pass onto your own physio.’
‘My what?’
‘I understand that your insurance is paying for a physio to come to your home from tomorrow. That’s brilliant because,’ her voice drops, ‘between you and me, I think you’d have to wait a while on the NHS.’ She pushes the plan – a couple of pages of A4 with copious notes and body diagrams on it – at me. ‘Just hand this to your physio and they’ll take it from there. Have you got any questions?’ She starts stuffing her bag shut and zipping it up.
‘When am I going home?’
‘Tomorrow.’ She gives me a lovely smile.