by Paige Toon
I frown at her. ‘What significance?’ I ask, my throat still swollen with the most enormous lump.
‘My granddaughter, Becca,’ Doris says, and I’m not sure if she’s going off on a tangent. ‘She’s been getting into all sorts of trouble lately. She has always tried to run before she could walk, getting engaged at the age of seventeen to a boy who was no good for her. She fell pregnant within a year and he divorced her a year later. She married again soon afterwards and is now divorcing him. Christine says that she’s out at the bars every night and has a drug addict boyfriend, while little Paula is at home, being raised by my daughter. She’s eleven now, and she’s all too aware of what her mother is doing. I dread to think of her learning from her behaviour.’
I’m listening, but I don’t understand what she’s getting at. She stops speaking and turns to look at me.
‘Your mother loved you,’ she says fervently. ‘But I needed to know what sort of a woman you had grown into. Whether you were good.’
I stare back at her, floored. Doris is looking at me quizzically and my face flushes as I fight the urge to look away. But then she answers her own question. ‘And yes, I can see that you are.’
Very slowly, I shake my head. ‘No,’ I reply quietly. ‘You’re wrong.’
She sits up straighter in her seat, interested. ‘Why would you say that?’ she asks.
‘Because I’m not a good girl,’ I tell her, musing about how I’ve come to be having this surreal conversation with an almost total stranger. ‘The things that I’ve done… The mistakes that I’ve made…’
‘Mistakes don’t make a person good or bad,’ she says. ‘They make a person. It’s what you do afterwards that counts. I saw from the window the way you are with your father. Whatever you’ve done, you can make it right.’
I’m not so sure about that…
I close my eyes as I remember that all of this – all of this goes back to the first and worst fuck-up I ever made.
‘NAUGHTY GIRL!’
‘What is it, dear?’ Doris pries, as I silently begin to cry again.
My whole body is shaking, but I don’t make a sound as I hug myself tightly.
‘Amber, what is it?’ she asks once more, increasingly concerned. ‘What have you done? It can’t be that bad.’
‘I think I killed my mother.’
‘Pardon?’ she says, genuinely confused. I realise that she didn’t hear me.
‘I think I killed my mother,’ I say loudly, my face creasing in agony. ‘I caused the car crash.’
‘NO.’ I hear Dad’s voice, but I can’t see him, and a moment later the screen door opens and he hobbles out. His face is angry. ‘NO!’ he says more fervently. Was he eavesdropping? ‘You did not.’
‘Dad, I did,’ I reply, crying openly now. ‘I was acting up, being naughty, distracting her. She screamed at me that I was a naughty girl.’ And then she went on to ask a stranger to tell me to be good. I must have been very bad.
Dad looks shocked, but not for the reason I’m thinking. ‘Katy never raised her voice at you! You were the sweetest girl. She never once called you naughty!’
‘She did!’ I can see her, so clearly, in the rear-view mirror. ‘“NAUGHTY GIRL!” She screamed it at me in the rear-view mirror!’
‘No,’ he says, aghast. ‘No, darling, that was me.’
What?
He looks anguished as he hobbles towards us. I bring over the other chair and he sinks into it, exhaling heavily. ‘It was me.’
After Mum died, Dad struggled to look after me. He let himself go, let the house run to ruin and lost all patience for dealing with a three-year-old.
‘I shouted at you all the time,’ he relays mournfully. ‘I was always calling you a naughty girl.’ He swallows uncomfortably before adding, ‘I’m so sorry. So sorry. You weren’t.’
Doris huffs and we glance at her. She shifts awkwardly, but speaks her mind nonetheless. ‘Every child is naughty,’ she says, and I recall Ethan saying the same thing.
‘Maybe,’ Dad agrees. ‘But I gave you a hard time. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s understandable,’ I reply after a long, thoughtful pause. But why do I have such a clear memory of it being Mum? Did Dad’s shouting somehow make it into my dreams and distort my reality so I still believed it when I woke up? It’s possible.
‘Do you remember that Mum used to call me her little lamb?’ I ask Dad now.
He hesitates and then nods as the memory filters back to him. ‘She did. It was because you couldn’t say your own name.’
I give him a quizzical look, not understanding.
‘Amber,’ he says. ‘Baa. You called yourself Baa. She thought you sounded like a little sheep.’
I laugh and my eyes well up again. ‘Were you listening to everything Doris told me?’ I ask him.
He looks shamefaced as he glances at her. ‘Most of it. I had to know. I’m sorry.’
‘So you knew that Mum didn’t have a big secret?’ I say.
‘Of course I did,’ he brushes me off. ‘But I needed to know her last words. I needed to be sure.’
‘The policeman didn’t pass them on?’
‘He said that she loved you,’ he confirms. ‘But I knew that already.’
My throat swells again.
‘And I love you, too, Amber. So very much.’
‘Oh Dad.’
I put my arms around his neck and he clutches me tightly, with more vigour than he’s shown in a very long time.
‘I love you, too.’
Chapter 39
‘Tell my little lamb to be a good girl. Be a good girl for Mummy.’
I stare at Lambert and mull over these words. How to be good… How to make it right.
I realise that Dad in his own way has been telling me to be good for weeks. ‘Be careful,’ he kept saying. He knew that I was getting myself in deep with Ethan and he was trying to warn me. But I just wouldn’t listen.
My mother’s words, however, are resonating from beyond the grave.
I trace my fingers over the faded brown dots on the sheep’s back and the one on his tummy. Four fingers and a thumbprint.
‘You can’t keep it!’
A memory shimmers and wavers at the front of my mind, making me freeze.
‘It’s dirty! It’s going in the bin!’
That’s right… Dad wanted to throw Lambert away after the accident. I don’t know how long afterwards – it could have been days, weeks, months, but I remember being distraught as he stalked outside and shoved him in the big bin on the driveway. He shouted at me for crying and was so livid that I shut up and didn’t say another word about it.
But I retrieved him later that night – I recall the bin stinking of rotten food. Dad was probably passed out on the sofa. I hid Lambert in my bedroom for who knows how long before Dad found him again. He went mad.
‘NAUGHTY GIRL!’ he shouted. ‘Did you get that filthy sheep out of the bin?’
Yes, I remember.
He tried to rip him out of my arms and I screamed and screamed, and then he let go and burst into tears, sinking onto my bedroom floor. It was the worst thing ever, hearing him sob – and I knew that I had caused his suffering, but I wouldn’t give Lambert up, not even to stop poor Daddy from crying. I recall him abruptly getting to his feet and leaving the room. He never mentioned the sheep again, but I hid him for a long time afterwards, just to be on the safe side.
Maybe I really do need therapy. Is this part of the reason why I’ve always felt so intrinsically bad?
Am I bad, though? I know I’ve made mistakes – appalling, indefensible mistakes – but can I put any of them right?
I run my hand over my stomach. Oh God. What am I going to do about this baby?
Ethan’s option number three pops unbidden into my mind. Keep it and pretend it’s Ned’s…
It’s a repugnant idea, but just for a moment I allow myself to picture it playing out.
The timeframe could work – I might have to find a
way of going to the scans on my own. Maybe Ned would see what he wanted to see and wouldn’t even think to question it, and at the end of the year, we’d have our baby and he’d be none the wiser. Could we be a happy family? Or would my guilt eat me up and infect Ned and our son or daughter?
There are so many other variables, too.
What if the baby looks like Ethan?
What if Ethan changes his mind and wants to be a part of his son or daughter’s life?
What if Ned finds out the truth after he’s loved and raised the child as his own?
And how would my child feel if they found out I’d betrayed them before they were even born?
Option three is not an option. I’m absolutely certain of it. It would be utterly unforgivable on so many levels. I sigh with relief.
That decided, I consider the alternatives.
I could keep it and tell Ned the truth. But it would be the end of my marriage.
Or I could… I could… I could not keep it. I could not have the baby at all.
My head prickles at the realisation of what this boils down to: I have to decide between my marriage and my unborn child.
If I choose my marriage, I’ll have to live with my decision for the rest of my life, and I’ll probably become so bitter and twisted that my marriage will fall apart anyway. Let’s face it, it’s already on shaky ground. Can it take such a hard knock? I would still be betraying Ned – does it get much worse than falling pregnant with another man’s child and having a secret abortion? If he ever found out what I’d done, I’d lose him anyway.
If I choose my baby, at least I could live with myself. At least I would be existing honestly. But the thought of losing Ned is unbelievably, excruciatingly painful.
I shake my head, trying not to ponder it anymore.
I’ve made my decision. I’m having this baby. I’ll probably stay in Australia to be close to my dad. I feel a stab of regret at the thought of leaving London and my friends, but I couldn’t go back and not be with Ned. What will Josie, Alicia and Gretchen think when they hear what I’ve done? Ned’s family will hate me, and who could blame them?
I’ll lose so much more than my marriage, but I have to be strong. I know in my heart that this is the right thing to do.
Taking a deep breath, I try to put thoughts of the immediate future out of my mind for now.
Tomorrow I’ll go to the doctor, just to be sure, and then I can start contemplating how to go about confessing my sins to Ned. Should I fly home and tell him to his face? The prospect is too awful to consider right now. I should try to get some sleep – it’s been a big day.
Just as I think that thought, the home phone rings. I groan, willing myself to roll out of bed, and then I hear Liz pick it up. A moment later she knocks on my door.
‘Amber, are you awake?’ she asks.
‘Yes?’ I reply sleepily.
‘It’s Ned.’
My heart skips a beat as she comes in and passes me the phone.
‘Thank you,’ I reply, putting it to my ear. ‘Hello?’
‘I’m at Heathrow,’ he says. ‘I’m about to board.’
‘You’re coming over?’ I breathe, as fear grips my insides.
‘Yes. I told you I would if I could. Someone needs to talk some sense into you.’
Oh Ned… If only you knew.
‘Give me your flight number and I’ll pick you up from the airport,’ I say, feeling detached from my body.
He does, and then I find it in me to wish him a safe flight. None of this feels real, but it is really happening. My husband will be standing in front of me in less than twenty-four hours and I’m going to have to come clean. If I think I have a hope in hell of falling asleep after this realisation, I’m off my rocker.
Chapter 40
I’m going to see my husband this afternoon. That’s my first thought when I rouse from a fitful sleep. I must’ve drifted off in the very early hours of the morning and now my eyes are stinging painfully and I feel weary to my bones. To make matters worse, I think I’m going to vomit. I stumble out of the bed and race to the bathroom, emerging a few minutes later to find Liz waiting in the kitchen. I hope she didn’t hear me throw up again. I assume she knows I haven’t been boozing all night.
‘Good morning,’ I mumble.
‘Not well again?’ she replies.
I avert my gaze from her face.
‘No.’ I swiftly change tack. ‘Ned is on his way to Australia.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Is he?’
‘He was calling from Heathrow last night. I hope it’s okay if he stays here?’
‘Of course it is.’ She looks momentarily flustered.
I want to tell her that he won’t be staying long – just long enough for him to tell me how much he hates me and to demand a divorce, but I keep that to myself. She’ll know soon enough.
‘Why is he coming all this way? I thought you were going home on Friday.’
‘I told him I was planning on staying longer.’
‘Aah,’ she says, giving me a knowing look. ‘So he’s coming to convince you to go home to him, is he?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Well, good luck to him,’ she states annoyingly.
I know she’d like me out of her hair, but Dad wants me here, and he’s the important one.
I head back to my room in a mood.
As soon as Dad’s local doctor’s surgery opens, I ring to make an appointment. There’s one available at ten o’clock.
I haven’t heard from Ethan since Monday, two days ago, but I need to let him know about Ned’s visit. At the very least, I have to ask him to stay out of the way. I don’t think he’ll have too much trouble with that.
I ring his mobile, but it goes to voicemail. He’s probably in the winery. I remember him saying he has the girls on Wednesdays, so I leave a message, being careful not to give anything away in case anyone else picks it up.
‘Hi, Ethan, it’s Amber. Just to let you know that Ned’s coming to Australia so I’m going to be a bit tied up for a while. Oh, and I’m off to the doc’s in a bit to see about that sick bug. Speak soon. Bye.’
I sound bizarrely breezy, which will probably freak him out. But he hasn’t even called me to ask how my meeting with Doris went yesterday. None of my friends have.
*
I sit in the surgery waiting room, feeling a deeply unpleasant mix of morning sickness and apprehension.
The last time I came to the doctor to confirm a pregnancy, Ned was with me. I walked out into the waiting room and saw his hopeful face, and all I had to do was smile before he leaped to his feet and almost crushed the breath out of me with his hug. He was so happy. I was happy, too, but I hadn’t expected it to be so easy. I almost took it for granted because I thought we’d be trying for months, not shooting and scoring practically the first time.
I can’t believe he’s going to be here later today.
I have already produced a urine sample, so when Dr Molton calls me into his office, I’m ready to go.
‘What can I do for you today?’ he asks, directing me to a seat.
‘I’m pretty sure I’m pregnant,’ I tell him as a flurry of nerves bounces around my stomach.
‘Have you done a test?’ he asks.
‘Yes, but I want to be sure when I conceived.’ My face heats up, but I try to divert attention by holding up the urine sample.
‘Ah, good,’ he says, taking it from me. ‘When was the date of your last period?’
‘It was at the beginning of March.’
‘Can you remember the exact date you began menstruating?’ he asks, glancing at me over the top of his specs as he passes me a calendar.
I stare down at the month of March and try to rack my brain while he gets on with his task. I had so much going on at the time. I know that I spent Valentine’s Day on a plane to Australia, and my next three weeks were mostly holed up at the hospital. I remember putting a tampon in at the hospital after one of Dad’s speech pathology se
ssions, but I don’t recall there being much blood. My periods have always been a bit hit and miss – heavy one month and light the next. I tell this to the doctor.
‘Okay,’ Dr Molton says, looking at me directly. ‘Well, you are definitely pregnant.’
I close my eyes, the disappointment still crushing, even though I knew it was coming.
‘This is not good news?’ he asks astutely.
I shake my head. ‘No.’ I’m too ashamed to tell him why. ‘I miscarried the last time I was pregnant,’ I explain.
‘I see,’ he says, his brow furrowing. He wants to know the details of my miscarriage so I fill him in.
‘Can you tell how many weeks I am?’ I ask.
‘If we go by the date of your last period, you would be almost five weeks pregnant,’ he says, ‘which means you conceived approximately three weeks ago?’
I nod miserably. That would pretty much fit in with Eden Valley and the fire.
‘But your hormone levels indicate that you could be further along than that,’ the doctor adds. ‘This bleeding concerns me,’ he says. ‘Especially considering your history. You say you had only a very light period?’
‘Yes.’ I nod quickly.
‘What about the month before, the beginning of February?’
‘It was normal, I think.’ Yes, it was heavy. I had bad cramps and was even snappier with Ned than usual. I remember our arguments.
The doctor nods. ‘I’d like to send you for an early scan so we can get a more accurate reading of how far along you are.’ He turns and reaches for the phone, surprising me by calling the hospital then and there. I wait on tenterhooks while he speaks to the person at the other end of the line. When he hangs up, he looks pleased. ‘Can you get there straight away? They’ve had a cancellation for eleven fifteen.’
I hurriedly gather my things together and go and pay. They might not have the NHS in Australia, but in my current situation the shorter waiting time compensates.
The scan is taking place at the Women’s and Children’s Hospital in North Adelaide, and I’m a bundle of jittery nerves as I wait, half expecting to see Nell wandering around the corner at any given moment. I’d really like a bit more time before I have to explain this sorry situation to my friends and, at the very least, Ned should be the next person I tell.