by Kate Hewitt
‘No, I’m suggesting we follow the proper protocols and procedures. Encourage Sasha to relate her experience with a colleague, friend, or union representative present. Make detailed notes and record the conversation if necessary. Ask Mike for his perspective on whatever happened, with an appropriate representative. And consult the company solicitor to make sure we’re covered legally.’
‘Fine.’ Lara exhales again, shrugging impatiently. ‘We’ll follow the protocols. Let me know when the meeting is arranged.’
I’m not sure it’s a victory as I leave her office on shaky legs, but I decide to count it as one. This will be the first sexual harassment case I’ve handled since I became Assistant Head of HR. My experience of the other cases has been typing up notes and watching teary-eyed employees leave Lara’s office clutching a bunch of tissues. I want to make sure I do this right.
Of course, I know I can’t assume Mike’s guilt, and I don’t. I even feel a flash of pity for him, because whatever happened, I doubt he thought it would end like this.
For a second, my mind drifts back down the years, to when I was younger than Sasha, and just as uncertain and afraid. When I wasn’t sure what was right or wrong, or who, if anyone, was to blame. But then I shut down that line of thinking because I try to think about it as little as possible.
Sasha doesn’t come back the next day or the day after that, and when I send her an email reminding her to return, she doesn’t reply. I decide to leave it for a bit; I don’t want to be accused of harassment, either, and maybe she just needs a little time to gather her courage, or perhaps she has rethought the whole situation, and it’s not as clear-cut as it seemed. When Lara asks me about it, I tell her Sasha has gone silent, and she smiles, satisfied.
On Monday night, I call Milly to ask her about the embryo transfer, and she says she’ll know whether she’s pregnant in twelve days. It seems like a long time, but in less than two weeks everything could change. Milly might be pregnant. And in the smallest, strangest way, it will feel like my pregnancy too. But that’s not something I tell her. It’s not something I let myself think about too much, because it makes me feel guilty, as if I’m doing something wrong.
So I overcompensate a little over the next few days, by being the most supportive friend I can. I text Milly, I listen to her monologues about phantom pregnancy symptoms and whether it’s too early to feel nauseous/tired/dizzy, and on Saturday I bring over some doughnuts and coffee, and we eat them at her kitchen table, Matt having gone for a run.
‘I bought a pregnancy magazine,’ she whispers, as if confessing to looking at porn. ‘Isn’t that terrible? I’m going to jinx it—’
‘Milly, you aren’t even superstitious.’
‘Still, it feels… presumptuous. There is such a thing as tempting fate or God or whatever, don’t you think?’
I consider that for a moment. ‘No, I don’t, not unless fate is some mad bitch with PMT out to get you.’
Milly smiles a little at that. ‘Maybe not. But I don’t think I should have bought it, anyway.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because there’s this whole pull-out section in the middle… like a centrefold, except it’s pictures of a woman giving birth. I’m serious, Anna,’ she says sternly, because I’ve started to laugh, ‘it shows right up her you-know-what. And I mean right up, with the baby’s head right there.’
‘Who on earth wants to see that?’
‘Exactly! But there are multiple photos and – good grief.’ She shudders. ‘I do not want to think about that part of it at all.’
‘You could always have a C-section.’
‘No, I wouldn’t want that, either.’ She rests her chin in her hand, sounding wistful now. ‘The truth is, I do want it – the contractions, the pushing, all of it. I don’t care if it hurts or my lady parts are never the same—’
I shudder theatrically. ‘Eugh, Milly—’
‘I mean it, Anna. I want it all. I want to push her out, hold her in my arms.’ She smiles with self-conscious zeal. ‘I’m already thinking of her as a girl, and I might not even be pregnant.’
‘But maybe you are.’ I reach over to squeeze her hand, ignoring the pang that goes through me – the pang I don’t want to analyse or name. A pang I suppress so quickly I’m able to convince myself I didn’t feel it at all.
* * *
The evening before Milly’s appointment, a text pings on my phone.
I got your number from Matt. So how about that drink? Jack
For a second I feel nothing but surprise, and then a flicker of wary pleasure. So Jack wasn’t scared off by my tearful confession? I didn’t think he’d call again. I’d told myself not to expect it, and now, looking down at his words, I realise I’m pleased he’s been in touch. I want to see him again. At least, I think I do.
I wait another few minutes, deliberating, and then, my heart fluttering just a little, I text a reply.
Sure. When and where?
Nine
Milly
I’m pregnant. I’m actually pregnant. I hug the secret to myself, even though part of me wants to go up to every stranger in the street and shout the truth. I’m pregnant! I’m pregnant! I’m going to have a baby! Me!
Instead, I float around in this translucent baby bubble, hardly hoping, barely daring to dream. It’s still such early days, and so much could go wrong. I will be seen by my specialist Alicia until I’m twelve weeks and out of the typical danger zone, and then I can transfer to a regular midwife.
Matt and I agree not to tell anyone until then – except for Anna and Jack, who were both thrilled – because it would hurt too much to have to explain to everyone if it all goes wrong, which, unfortunately, is still a distinct possibility.
We don’t tell our parents, which isn’t such a big deal for Matt’s, who are in the middle of a four-month cruise, but I know mine will be hurt. My mum has rung after every appointment, asked me about every development. Until the last few months, I’ve always been happy to share my news, but I made the choice not to tell her about the premature menopause diagnosis or the IVF. I knew I couldn’t cope with her anxious interest and constant analysis; it was hard enough as it was. But now it feels as if I’ve been keeping too many secrets, and my pregnancy is one more.
In any case, my parents haven’t been in touch these last few weeks, something I realise in hindsight is unlike them. I’ve been so busy that I haven’t noticed their absence, and it makes me feel guilty as well as concerned.
I leave a message on their answerphone, asking if we can see them on the weekend, and then, on Saturday afternoon, we drive across the Severn Bridge from Bristol to Chepstow, where I grew up. It’s early April, and everything feels fragile and new, from the daffodils waving in the still-chilly breeze to the sunlight making the surface of the Severn shimmer, and the very slight swelling of my stomach.
I am only eight weeks pregnant, just starting to feel sick, the waistband of my clothes the tiniest bit tight. I relish the symptoms, and I’ve shared each one with Anna, because they feel like milestones, triumphs. She has marvelled in them too, reminding me how wonderful it is that we are in this together. I feel like we’re a team, and it feels good. Maybe this pregnancy, this baby, will bring us together closer than ever before.
My parents have set up lunch in the conservatory at the back of the house, overlooking the garden, my father’s pride and joy. It is not quite as well kept as I would have expected at this time of year, when the flower beds have normally been dug out, the raised vegetable beds freshly tilled. It reminds me, with a pang, that they are both getting old; my mother will be seventy-five this year, my father seventy-seven.
‘Milly.’ When my mother hugs me, she feels fragile too. My parents are both tall and blond like Anna, Nordic giants, while I am small and dark and fey. It’s no wonder people have commented on our differing appearances over the years.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch recently. Things have been manic.’ As I sit down, I can’t keep my hand from creeping
to my belly. Now that I am here, facing both my parents with their benevolent smiles and kind eyes, I feel as if I shouldn’t keep this news from them any longer. I want to share it, but I am also scared, because it is still so early and it could all go wrong. I can only cope with so much disappointment, so much sympathy.
‘That’s all right,’ my mum says quietly. ‘We haven’t been very good at keeping in touch, either, lately.’ My father goes to the kitchen to bring out the lunch, and I have a jarring sense of having missed something important, yet with no idea of what it is.
My father brings in a wooden board laid out with various cheeses and meats, along with a sliced baguette and a salad. Matt chats to them about the latest NHS funding crisis, and I only half-listen as I observe how my parents aren’t quite meeting our eyes, and my mother picks at her food.
At first I wonder if I’ve hurt them, by not being in touch. Perhaps they’ve realised something has been going on, and that I wasn’t sharing it with them. My parents have always wanted to be involved in absolutely every aspect of my life, and occasionally it has felt suffocating – the endless questions, the picking over of details, the over-the-top concern and sympathy.
Not keeping them involved in this, the most intimate part of my life, is a big deal, and I know I should have told them, but I wasn’t ready for my mother’s gushing concern, all the probing questions she would ask that I wouldn’t want to answer.
While Matt and I weren’t planning on telling them about my pregnancy for another four weeks, I’m not sure I can last the meal without admitting the truth. And part of me – a large part – wants them to know, to rejoice and be glad with me.
But, over the course of the meal, it becomes clear that this isn’t about me. The more I sit there, watching my mother toy with her food, the more I realise this is about them. And then, when I’ve cleared away the dishes and my father puts on the kettle, my mother breaks it to us both.
‘Milly,’ she says. ‘Matt.’ She pauses, and I tense. I feel frozen inside, like I can’t move, can barely breathe. ‘We haven’t been in touch these last few weeks because… well, your father and I received some news and we wanted to process it ourselves first.’ She smiles with sorrowful wryness, a smile that tugs at me. It hurts. ‘Anyway, it’s not good news, as I’m sure you can imagine by now.’
Dad comes in with a tray of teas and coffees which he puts on the table before going to stand behind my mum, one hand on her shoulder. She reaches up and clasps his hand with her own. I swallow hard.
‘I have cancer,’ she says, with that same sad smile. ‘Perhaps you knew I was going to say something like this.’
And I did, even though I didn’t want to admit it to myself. All through lunch, I did. ‘Oh, Mum…’ I can’t get any other words out. I feel guilty for not calling, for being too wrapped up in my own little life.
‘It’s stomach cancer,’ she continues. ‘And I’m in stage three.’
‘What…’ I don’t want to form the words. ‘What does that mean, in terms of treatment and a… a prognosis? Have they said…?’
‘It could be better,’ Mum answers with a small, wobbly laugh. ‘They could have caught it earlier—’
‘But it’s not too late,’ my father interjects, sounding determinedly upbeat. ‘She’s eligible for surgery, and it’s going to be scheduled in the next few weeks, and then a course of chemotherapy afterwards.’
‘That’s good.’ My voice is shaky and Matt reaches for my hand.
‘But I am nearly seventy-five,’ Mum reminds us. ‘I’ve lived a good life—’
‘Oh don’t, Mum.’ The words are out before I can stop them, and a hurt look flashes across her face. ‘Don’t write your epitaph just yet, is all I mean. This is the beginning of treatment, surgery…’
Mum is silent for a moment. ‘I don’t think I like these kinds of beginnings,’ she says at last. ‘And I’m honestly not sure how much of a beginning it is. At my age, Milly, they can’t do the really strong chemotherapy or radiation that they might try on someone younger. I wouldn’t be able to withstand it.’ She speaks gently, but it tips me over the edge anyway. I blink back tears, not wanting to cry, not wanting to make this about me. More than ever, I want to tell them about my pregnancy, about something good that truly is a beginning. But it doesn’t feel right in this moment; this is about their news, not ours.
‘I’m so sorry, Mum.’ I reach over to hug her, and again I feel how fragile she is. Normally so comfortably solid, she is now diminished in my arms. I fight the urge to hold on, to squeeze, as if I can somehow anchor us both to this moment.
Matt and I leave a short while later, and we’re both silent in the car until we cross the bridge. ‘Should we have told them, do you think?’ Matt finally asks.
‘I thought about it, but I didn’t want to take away from what they were telling us.’ I press my hand against my belly. Will this baby ever know my mother? ‘Perhaps we should have. I know my mother especially would want to know…’ What if her time is limited? My father insisted the odds were good, that at her stage of cancer the five-year survival rate was over fifty per cent, but it still feels tenuous and uncertain, and that makes me want her to know even more. To have more time knowing. ‘We’ll tell them the next time we see them,’ I decide.
Matt reaches over to hold my hand. ‘I’m sorry, Milly.’
I shake my head, still reeling. I’ve known my parents are getting older; they were forty and forty-two when they adopted me. But they’ve been so hale and hearty, hiking in the Chilterns and spending hours in the garden. Yes, they’ve had creaky knees and the odd senior moment, but this still feels like a shot out of the dark, shocking in its force.
And it makes me realise how much I love my parents. How much I depend on them – and how much I take them for granted. I’ve found my mother’s concern exasperating, even annoying; I’ve rolled my eyes at my father’s jolly bonhomie. Now I feel like such a selfish cow, for having so much while acting as if I don’t have enough. For feeling as if something was missing in my family, when perhaps nothing really was. Do families ever get it right? Do they ever truly work?
Again, I press my hand against my non-existent bump. Our family will be different, I promise myself. We won’t take each other for granted. We won’t get annoyed at the little things. We’ll treasure every moment, mark it as precious, even if it is hard. I know these are promises no one can keep, at least not perfectly, but I mean them all the same. I mean them utterly.
* * *
The next few weeks seem to pass in a haze. My mum gets an appointment for her surgery at the end of June, when I will be fifteen weeks pregnant. I tell Anna about her cancer, and she drives out to Chepstow to visit my parents herself, taking a huge bouquet of flowers and a stack of paperbacks for my mum to read in hospital, things I feel I should have done, brought, but I’ve been so stunned by it all that I didn’t. She also sends me a card and flowers, and I am touched by how thoughtful she is, because I know this news will hit Anna just as hard as it is hitting me.
At twelve weeks, I have my first scan, and it feels miraculous. Matt and I hold hands as we watch the monochrome squiggles and lines morph into a baby with arms and legs, a beating heart. Our baby.
‘Everything looks healthy,’ the technician tells us cheerfully. ‘All good. Shall I print out a photo?’
That evening, I meet Anna for a celebratory drink – sparkling apple juice for me, champagne for her. I feel extravagant, as well as grateful. So, so grateful – my baby is healthy, my mother is scheduled for surgery. Despite the hard things, life is good.
Anna squints comically at the photo of the scan, her face screwed up with concentration. ‘I see it,’ she finally says, her voice ringing with excitement that makes a few heads turn. ‘I actually see it. An actual baby.’
‘Well, that is what it is.’ Anna’s excitement makes me smile; she looks so happy, her eyes alight, her mouth curved so I can see her dimples.
‘Yes, but still… how big is it now
? The baby?’
‘I don’t actually know.’
‘Let’s check.’ Quickly she swipes and scrolls on her phone. ‘Twelve weeks, right?’
‘Almost thirteen.’
‘Your baby is as big as a lemon,’ she reads off her phone. ‘And weighs almost an ounce. An ounce!’ She looks up, marvelling, making me laugh, before returning to read. ‘Wow, check this out. Your baby is developing reflexes, and if you poke your tummy, he or she will squirm, even if you don’t feel it. Isn’t that amazing?’
‘It really is.’ I picture my lemon-like baby nestled inside me, sucking his thumb, kicking tiny legs.
‘That is so cool. You are actually growing a baby. It’s like… Chia Pet, but so much better.’
‘Chia Pet! You mean those ceramic animals you grow grass on?’ I pretend to shudder. ‘Yes, this is much better.’ We laugh, and I feel a rush of love and gratitude, that I can share this with Anna. That she is so excited for me, that she is happy to walk alongside me in this. ‘What’s going on with you, Anna?’ I ask as I sip my sparkling juice. ‘We can’t just talk about baby stuff all the time.’
‘Well, we could.’ She smiles, and again I think how happy she looks. She’s wearing a top I don’t recognise, in bright pink with a scalloped edge. It looks good on her.
‘Anything new going on?’
Anna purses her lips, considering, and with a flicker of surprise I realise there must be something. It’s unexpected, because Anna’s life is usually so placid, so predictable. Then she laughs and shakes her head. ‘No, not really, unless you count Lara being more offensive than usual.’
‘She’s going to get fired one day. Or sued.’
‘As if.’ She shrugs. ‘She’s protected by the company. I think she always will be.’
‘So nothing else?’ I press lightly, because I still think there is something, and I wonder why she isn’t telling me.