by Jo Kessel
“Adam.”
My voice points him in the right direction.
“Ali, baby,” he rushes over to my bed, bending over to kiss me and stroke back my hair. “Sorry it took me so long to get here. How you doing?”
“I’m ok.”
It’s so good to see him.
“What do they think is wrong?” he asks.
“I don’t know. They can’t find anything.”
The Doctor comes back, introduces herself to Adam and holds up a small pot of urine. I’m not sure if it’s mine.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to transfer you to a different ward. We really need to do an abdominal scan, but our scanner’s just packed up, so I’ve arranged for a porter to come and get you.”
“Ok,” I say, as a man with a wheelchair pulls up. “This isn’t for me, is it?” I point to the chair, alarmed.
“Your carriage awaits,” she laughs.
“It’s really not necessary,” I say. “I’m fine. I’m sure I could walk there.”
“It’s a long way. I really think it will be better,” she insists.
“Don’t worry,” says Adam, taking my hand.
“Good luck,” says the Doctor. “I’ll try to come check on you later. Oh, and could you hand this to the nurse when you get there?”
She passes the urine sample over and says goodbye. As Adam helps me into the chair and the porter wheels me off down a long, faceless corridor I get a whiff of boiled potatoes and cabbage and my stomach turns. I pray I don’t have to stay here.
“Do you think I’m alright?” I ask Adam.
My voice is weak, thin and scared as I feel another, disconcerting spurt of warm blood ooze into the heavy-duty sanitary towel the nurse had given me.
Chapter 21
Adam walks by my side as I’m wheeled along in the chair. “Where are we going?” I ask the porter.
“Actually, we’re just arrived,” he says, as we approach some glass double doors. He presses on a security button that buzzes a couple of seconds later, to let us in.
It’s a miracle, I think, as he removes the small plastic pot from my iron grip and hands it to the nurse behind the desk together with some notes, that my urine sample’s still intact. I’d been squeezing it so hard, without realising, that the ridged lid and even the pot itself has left deep indention marks creased in my palms.
“We’ve been expecting you,” the nurse smiles.
We follow her into a small room with six or so beds. Only one of them is occupied, by a lady propped up in a semi-reclined position by a mountain of pillows. Her fat belly is strapped with belts and monitors. She’s hard to ignore, the sheer size of her, as she winces before letting out a demure, controlled, back of the throat moan. The nurse pulls the curtain round her cubicle, to give her some privacy.
“Right,” she says, once she’s settled me in. “We just need to run some tests on your urine sample and the Registrar will come by in a minute with the scanner.”
We politely say thank you and settle in for yet another wait. That’s the thing with hospitals. Unless you get lucky and hit the right Doctor straight away, you’re passed from pillar to post, like a parcel with address unknown until they crack the code. This place is worse than A & E. A dampened, discordant opera of pained wails, ranging from baritone to high-pitch soprano, is floating through the impervious walls, pricking my skin with fear. If the nurses weren’t all wearing genuine smiles, where we are could be mistaken for a torture chamber.
“Jesus,” I say to Adam. “This place is hideous.”
He strokes my arm. “How are you feeling?”
“I was feeling much better till they brought me here. What do you th-”
“Hi there,” says a nice looking woman with a blonde ponytail. “Sorry about the wait. We’re up to our eyes in it at the moment.”
The name badge pinned onto her white overcoat says Dr. Sally Watson. Once again, this doctor looks about my age. It’s hypocritical, I know, considering I too am a professional with a great deal of responsibility. Despite her confidence, this woman looks far too young to be making judgment calls on what’s wrong with me. I want someone old and wise, with a little salt and pepper round their temples.
“May I?” she asks, moving her hands toward my lower abdomen. I nod. “Any pain?” She presses down not so gently, kneading dents in my stomach. I shake my head. “Right, well, we’ve run some tests on your urine and I’ve got some idea what’s going on, but I need to scan you, to be sure. Is that ok?”
I nod again. For once, words, questions are escaping me. I fear the worst, because doctors normally elaborate if nothing serious is up.
“Sorry, this might be cold.” The gel Dr. Sally Watson liberally squeezes over my tummy is so icy it makes me gasp with surprise. With her right hand she picks up the probe, which resembles a giant white plastic penis. With her left hand she takes one of mine, gripping it tight. I find this sweetly comforting and am about to say so when she turns the monitor away from me, so I can’t see. This I find terrifying. She starts moving the probe around, tracing lines back and forth along my stomach until she finds a particular spot that interests. Here she lingers, drawing tiny circles, before releasing her hand from mine, turning the monitor back into my line of vision.
“Well, my suspicions have been confirmed. Can you see this?” She points to a large black mass on the screen. I’m no expert, but I get the drift.
“Oh my God Adam,” I clap one hand over my mouth and with my other hand grab his. “I have a tumour.”
“I don’t think so,” the doctor smiles.
“Well what is it?” I stare at the monitor.
“Well, this is the head and this is the stomach, and this,” she moves the probe down, “is a foot I think. Oh, and that,” she laughs as the picture jumps, “is a somersault.”
I’m confused. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you’re saying. Please, just tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong. Well, not exactly. Unless you call being pregnant an illness?”
***
“I’m sorry,” I choke. “What did you say?”
“I think congratulations are in order,” says the doctor. “From the looks of things I’d say you were coming up to three months now. And he or she looks like they’re very happy in there.”
“That’s impossible,” I object. “You’re confusing me with the woman over there,” I point to the now curtained off cubicle opposite. “I can’t get pregnant. We’ve been trying for ages. Tell her Adam.”
Adam’s not listening. His eyes are glued to the monitor, transfixed, watching this little blob bounce up and down. He’s mistaking the scanner for a television.
“And I had a period just over two weeks ago, and one before that and one before that. So it’s impossible. I can’t be pregnant.”
“Some women have periods the whole way through their pregnancy. Did you have pain with them, were they maybe a little lighter than normal?”
“I don’t know,” I say, flummoxed. This doctor’s got an answer for everything. “And what about all the bleeding today? You’re not supposed to bleed when you’re pregnant. I must have lost a gallon of blood. That can’t be normal.”
“It’s not normal, but it’s not uncommon either. Plenty of women bleed at some stage during their pregnancy. I’ve had a good look. I can’t see where the bleeding’s coming from, but the good news is it’s not coming from the placenta, so it’s got nothing to do with the baby. The baby is fine. Look,” she points at the screen. “It’s waving. Can you see?”
I look and I see this tiny little hand with five little perfect fingers move a little and I burst into tears.
“Adam, tell this woman to stop making all this stuff up. It’s not fair.” I look at him, pleading and see that his eyes too are moist to the point of brimming.
“Ali,” he grips my hand tight. “I think she’s telling it how it is. I can’t believe it either. The day’s getting more surreal by the minute.”
/> “Am I going to wake up in a minute and find out this is all a dream?” I ask the doctor. She shakes her head.
“Pinch me Adam and hard,” I command, offering my arm. “Ouch,” I squeal, as he obliges a little too enthusiastically. “Not that hard.” I turn to the screen, concentrating harder this time, with fresh, semi-believers eyes. I prod the glass with a trembling, smearing finger.
“Is that the head?”
The doctor nods.
“And the nose?”
She nods again.
“And the eyes?”
“And the eyes.”
We all go quiet, just watching, as she holds the probe still.
“Oh my God,” I burst into tears again. “Adam, did you see that? Did we just see another somersault?”
He hugs me tight.
“It’s a miracle Ali,” he whispers in my ear. “I love you.”
“But I’ve been drinking like a fish and eating all sorts of stuff I probably shouldn’t?” I babble. “I’m not sure babies should do sushi.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Just be more careful now you know.”
“And what about the bleeding?”
I return to the reason I’m here in the first place, the reason I now know what I know.
“We just have to keep our fingers crossed that it all settles down. If you’re really worried about it, then by all means come back and see us.”
“When can I stop worrying?”
“At eighteen?” the doctor suggests.
“What, when I’m eighteen weeks pregnant?”
“No,” she stops and laughs. “When the baby turns eighteen. Perhaps then you can stop worrying.”
***
We both decided, not surprisingly, to take the rest of the day off and chose a taxi over the tube to get back home. Whilst the doctor had advised to carry on as normal and just keep our fingers crossed that the bleeding subsides, she also said it wouldn’t be a bad idea to take it easy, put my feet up for the next couple of days or so. “But my parents are here,” I’d worried, as soon as we’d settled in the cab. “They’re our guests, they’re not here for much longer.” Adam had said to not even think about it, that he was in charge now and it was all under control. So I stopped worrying and started focusing on my tummy, on the new life growing inside. As if that weren’t a weird enough concept in itself, I had to backtrack over the last three months, looking for clues that anything different was up. I guess, putting it under the microscope, there were a few flimsy telltale signs. My periods had been lighter, more pain free. I’d been sleeping better, more tired. I’d had less of an appetite and the occasional objection to certain foods. Nothing, though, that major. Even now I don’t feel much different. I don’t FEEL pregnant. I just feel shell-shocked and dazed by how the day’s panned out. This morning I left the house wanting to kill my Mother and now I’m on my way to becoming one.
“We’re home,” Adam announces as we let ourselves in, just in case they’re there. I’ve no idea what my parents had planned, but they certainly wouldn’t be expecting us back now, just gone two in the afternoon.
“Adam, is that you?”
It sounds like my Mother’s upstairs.
“Actually it’s both of us. I just didn’t want to startle you.”
“Your Dad went out to the shops a few minutes ago,” she says, coming down to meet us. “Hi,” I smile as Adam leads me protectively into the lounge and onto the sofa, raising my feet on a couple of cushions. I could get used to this. My mother, however, is not so comfortable. A growing look of concern spreads across her face, as she follows us, watching like a hawk.
“Are you ok Ali? How come you guys are back so soon?”
Kayla’s due to join us for the special sticky lamb chops my Mum’s promised. We’d planned to tell everyone the news then, but I’m not sure we’re going to be able to wait that long, with Adam treating me like an invalid.
“Something happened on the tube this morning,” I start.
“A bomb?” she freezes. She lives in perpetual fear of terrorism, thanking God that they moved to Canada not America.
“No, nothing like that,” I reassure her. “Something happened to me. I got rushed to hospital.”
“Oh my God,” she rushes to my side, kneeling.
“Ali?” says Adam.
“It’s ok. I might as well tell her.”
“Tell me what? Ali, darling, please.”
She looks so worried I decide to put her out of her misery.
“Ok, I’ve got good and bad news.”
I build up the suspense.
“The bad news is I was bleeding a lot, but I’m alright now.”
“And the good?”
I bloody burst into tears AGAIN, and then tell her, catching my breath between a hiccup, that she’s going to be a Grandma.
***
I worked out, later that day, the other major telltale sign. My turning into a tap, my mood swings. I’ve felt, of late, like I’m on an emotional roller coaster. The slightest thing has set me off. At least that’s what I blame it on, my hormones, for being so snappy, so uppity with my parents since they’ve arrived. The progesterone overdrive may even have been responsible for my paranoia concerning Adam. My mother cried, on cue, the moment I told her. My father held back a little, but I could tell that he, too, was moved, big time, by the news. Neither of them could believe that they were going to be grandparents. It must be a weird concept for parents, handing over the baton to their children, accepting that they are to be the next generation, another, more unflattering, coming of age. Dad had started talking about perhaps coming back to England to live. Mum was already working out dates, wanting to come and stay for a while when the baby was born. I’d instructed everyone to lay off, not get too excited, reminding them of the blood and that the coast was not yet clear. Kayla threw her arms around me, looking genuinely pleased, burying the hatchet on our recent run-ins, or so I’d thought. “I told you it would happen,” she’d laid a hand on my stomach. The day had started as a living nightmare and ended a dream, made even the more special because my parents were here to share the euphoria. It wasn’t until Kayla got me alone, towards the end of the evening, that my bubble burst. “So, sister dearest,” she held onto my upper arm a touch roughly as she pulled me into the downstairs toilet, “tell me about the conception.”
Chapter 22
“So Ms Kirk, how’s life treating you at the moment?”
It’s a while since I’ve been summoned to the lair of Maxwell Hood QC, but here I am, feeling uneasy about it once again. It’s the first day back after what became an extended long weekend. I’d managed to shove work and work-related matters well out of my head. What with my parents being here and with the unexpected turn of events, there was plenty to keep my mind occupied. Kayla had made certain of that. I’d have preferred to stay in denial, but she was having none of it. Whilst everyone else was giving me the royal treatment - Adam was breakfast in bed, running baths and tying up shoelaces Monitor, Mum was on constant kitchen duty – Kayla was busy giving me a reality check with the full force of an asteroid. She came by the next day all sweetness and light, with a mountain of pregnancy magazines, but lured me out for a gentle walk around the block to discuss the matter further, in private. So I never got to enjoy the fact that the bleeding actually cleared up.
We’ve decided not to tell anyone that I’m pregnant until my skirt bursts. The reason I gave Adam for keeping quiet is that I encounter quite enough discrimination at work for being a woman, let alone an expecting one, but the real reason for not sharing the news is because of Anthony. I woke up this morning in a hot sweat that had nothing to do with the weather outside. It was to do with hormones and with what I knew I had to do today, no matter what. Things must be brought to an unequivocal end.
Maxwell Hood QC and his set-up of big chair and big desk and big question sit uncomfortably. “How is life treating you?” It’s an innocuous enough enquiry, but in my current state, paranoia is stil
l running riot. For all I know, he’s got an arsenal of information up his sleeve.
“Life’s treating me very well, thank you,” I say.
“Nice break?” he asks, taking off his glasses, folding them and settling them down on his desk, still in his clasp. He usually only does the glasses on/off thing when he’s in for the long run.
“Why?” I blurt out defensively, and immediately try to rectify my tone with a damage limitation smile.
“Just checking that you’re well, that you’re comfortable on the Scott Richardson case. We don’t want to send you to an early grave, working you too hard.”