I would like to see you and apologize face-to-face, Emily. It may not be possible to get our friendship back to where it was, but it would be so good to see you again. If you can forgive me?
I wait to hear from you. I hope that you and Michael are well and that life has been kind to you both.
Much love and shame,
Jennifer x
* * *
—
I affix a first class stamp to the envelope and post it. It’s done. And if I hear nothing from her, then at least I tried.
8
Doctor Mackenzie will see you now, Jennifer.”
I climb the stairs of dread to the doctor’s office and knock on his door.
“Come in,” he says. He looks up. “Ah, Jennifer, sit down. Good to see you. How have you been?”
I sit down in the chair. I want him to cut through the niceties. I want him to give me the results so that I can get out of this place.
“Let’s just say I’m a lot better than I was.”
“Still being sick?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm,” he says. “Well, I think I might know the reason.”
He looks concerned. “What is it?” I say.
He coughs, awkwardly, and I tug at the sleeves of my jumper, pulling them down over the tips of my fingers. He makes me feel like I’m sitting in the headmaster’s office and I’ve done something wrong.
“It would seem you’re pregnant.”
I burst into laughter. I mean, it’s the only response that preposterous statement deserves. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “I’m in menopause, remember?”
“You are perimenopausal, Jennifer,” he corrects. “It’s a time when some women are highly fertile. It’s like your ovaries are having their last hurrah.”
“You mean their last laugh.” I fall back in the swivel seat and the wheels roll with me, my arms dangling at my sides. I no longer know what to think, battered by every punch thrown at me. “But that’s impossible.” I shake my head impatiently. “I really think you ought to get your office in order. This is becoming a joke.”
He strokes his upper lip and frowns at me. “Really?” he says. “Impossible?” He leans back. “Well, I remember you said you weren’t with anyone. Should I assume that means you haven’t had sex?”
I stare out the window at the gray winter sky. I really don’t want to have this conversation with him. I allow a silence to hang in the air, as does he, and then I concede to the inevitability of a response. “If you must know, I have. But only once and we used protection.”
“Protection can fail.”
“Well, it hasn’t. I’m sure of it. My partner is vigilant.” The doctor doesn’t seem convinced. “We were together for two years and contraception never let us down. We had a bit of a break and now we’re back together..” I pause to give myself a moment’s reflection. Oh, God, Harry! What have we done?
“No, it’s nonsense, Doctor,” I say, rolling the chair back toward his table. And then it occurs to me. A thrill of realization, “Hang on! I started being sick before we had sex. Definitely.” A sigh of relief. “So that makes it utterly impossible. I am perimenopausal. No doubt in my mind.”
He frowns, picks up a pen, twirling it awkwardly between his fingers.
We stare at each other. I can’t believe he’s humming. It sounds like Frank Sinatra’s “My Way.”
I’m uncomfortable as hell, but I’m not going to sit here anymore allowing him to play Russian roulette with my life. I can’t deal with another one of his staff’s mistakes. It really is becoming a joke. At my expense. I’m actually angry at my mother—my poor dead mother—for making me trust this fool.
“Okay,” he says, as he scribbles some notes and closes the file. He fixes me with an expression that says fair enough and turns to his computer screen. “Well, I was going to suggest this anyway.”
He rubs the bridge of his nose, props on his glasses, and turns to look at his screen. “I think you should have an ultrasound. Just to be sure. Hormones can be very tricky at this stage. Let’s make sure they’re not misleading us.”
I smile triumphantly. I knew this would not be a cast-iron result. “That would be a good idea.”
“There’s an ultrasound clinic I use that specializes in early gestation. They’re normally heavily booked in advance but I can try to get you an emergency appointment, if you’d like? Or you can book it yourself. It’s up to you.”
I take a moment to work out what I want to do. It’s an unexpected conundrum. I’m seeing Harry tomorrow night. I was hoping to tell him positive news not greet him with “What do you want first, the good news or the baby?”
“It’s okay, Doctor. I’ll book it myself,” I say, still unconvinced it’s even an issue. “But thank you.”
He swivels round, picks up a pad and pen, and starts writing a letter in large black scrawl, ending with his scribbled signature. He writes the address of the clinic on an envelope with the phone number and the website. “Don’t leave it too long. Let’s get this sorted. Then come back and we can discuss the result either way. And give them this when you get there.”
“Thank you.” I slip the envelope into my handbag. “Am I the most challenging patient on your books, Doctor?” I sigh.
“Far from it, Jennifer. But you’ve certainly been among the most challenged.”
9
On my walk back home from the doctor’s it dawns on me. What was I thinking? Of course it wasn’t Harry. That was far too recent. I was thrown by Dr. Mackenzie’s news, and as often happens when you’re looking for something under pressure, I couldn’t see it, even when it was right under my nose.
Quick snapshots hover in front of me.
Hazy black and white.
Then vibrant color.
But surely not?
It was ONCE! One, reckless, untypical moment on the heath. What are the odds?
I wrap my coat around my middle and tuck my chin into the folds of my woolen scarf, protecting myself against the cold, mean chill of possibility. I’d accused Andy of being an idiot. Isabelle, too. The doctor. Who’s the idiot now?
I stop for a moment and lean my back against a brick wall, pausing for breath. An old woman passes in front of me, gray haired, tweed coat, hunched over a shopping trolley, the wheels squeaking and lurching with every tug. She stops and cocks her head. “You okay, dear?”
“Mrs. Mumford!” I say, embarrassed. “Yes, I’m fine. I’ve been meaning to come and see you.”
She looks bemused. “Are you from Social Services?”
“No. I live on your road.”
“Well, you might want to go see a doctor. You don’t look well, luvvie.”
“I will, I promise. And I’ll pop by soon. I’d like to help you! With your shopping.”
She gives me a strange look. “That’s very kind, dear. But see a doctor first.”
She trundles off and I make a mental note to ensure I see through the promise I made to myself. No more empty excuses.
But what’s my excuse for unprotected sex on the heath? Which I initiated with my foolhardy kiss. I haven’t thought about that stranger for forever. Carelessly forgotten, so quickly replaced by Harry.
I all but take myself by the scruff of the neck. YOU DO NOT FEEL PREGNANT, I say inwardly. You know what that feels like and this has not been the same.
Or has it?
I wander past the chemist, hesitate for a moment then decide against it. I need to be patient. I don’t need to pee on a stick. I’ll book an ultrasound. I don’t want to ruin my weekend with the man with whom I’ve been given a second chance. The man I love. Who loves me . . .
Despite my resolve to be patient, as soon as I get through my front door, I rush to the kitchen and throw off the dustbin lid. It’s practically empty. I remind myself I threw a full bag out the other
day—the one with my calendar in it. I go outside to the wheelie bin. But the council has done its job. It’s empty. Now I have no conclusive evidence of when that heath aberration happened. It seems like it was years ago, in another life. If only it was. I wish my mind could chuck the entire interlude into a wheelie bin so it could be taken away. Then I could forget it ever happened.
I lie down on my sofa, needing to take stock.
Truth is, when I was pregnant all those years ago, I suffered from morning sickness. Back then I thought being sick was good. Because that was what I had read. Or someone had told me. Being sick was a sign that my pregnancy was strong. It was fact.
But the signs lied. The facts lied.
Three times, they lied to me.
“I’m sorry it wasn’t viable,” the nurse said after the first miscarriage, while I was getting dressed, sobbing. “Sometimes it’s for the best. Nature has a way of rejecting the ones that shouldn’t survive.” She said it like she was offering me something to be grateful for, like I should be relieved not to have gone full term with an imperfect baby. As though it’s not possible to love imperfection.
“I hate nature,” I sobbed.
Andy took my hand and I flinched because although I wanted to be kind, although I knew he had suffered loss, too, I really didn’t want to be touched. Not then. Not when it had just happened. I was too sensitive. My nerves were like raw wires ready to flare. Besides, I was trying so hard to keep myself together, any show of kindness might have torn me apart.
The second time, Andy was sympathetic for a while—until he wanted sex, of course. And by the third time he just said, “Oh well,” dismissing it like an ill-chosen meal that would be set to rights by the next one.
But I couldn’t let go of it like that. With each pregnancy, I had a visceral connection to the life growing within me. Dependent on me to keep it alive. And I had failed. I couldn’t simply move on like Andy could.
I tried my best. I really did. I wanted to be happy, to make Andy feel okay about everything, but what I really longed for was a baby to nurture and to love and to connect us as a family. I felt sorrow beyond words.
Today, although I’m being sick, it doesn’t feel the same. Surely, if I were pregnant, it would have had an air of familiarity, like a scent that transports you back to a memory long forgotten. And my body would look different.
It’s another mistake. I’m certain of it. I only hope it’s not mine.
10
I decide to carry on my evening as originally intended and start my preparations for dinner with Harry tomorrow night. First, though, I want to see if I can get hold of Isabelle. Her lack of communication is becoming more and more disconcerting. I hope she’s all right and I haven’t messed things up between her and Martin.
I retrieve my phone from my bag and call her number.
“I can’t talk,” she says, in a whisper.
“Is everything okay?”
“No,” she says. “I’ll call you later.” She disconnects. I stare at the phone. This is not good! I’m worried. She sounds really stressed.
I go to dial my mother, then recoil in horror.
It’s the first time I’ve done that in years. Four years on and it’s still possible to make that mistake. It shocks me. I realize I want to hear her voice even though part of me knows she wouldn’t necessarily say the words I needed to hear. I bury my head in my hands. I would really like today to go away.
I dial Anna Maria. I’ve behaved badly toward her, ignoring her calls since the reiki session, knowing she was looking for reassurance that Rita’s powers had helped. I can hardly criticize Isabelle for not calling me when I’ve left Anna Maria dangling. At least now I can tell her in all honesty I’m healed. She doesn’t need the precise details.
“How are you?” she says. “I’ve been so worried I haven’t heard back from you. You’re always so good at getting back.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “It’s been a difficult couple of weeks, but I have good news.”
“You do? Go on. Tell me. No wait!” she says. “I know what you’re going to say. I can feel it.” There’s a beat. I can almost hear the lightbulb flick on in her head. “You’re healed, aren’t you?”
Yes! Exactly to order. I’m thankful for her unerring confidence in the esoteric. “I am,” I say. “Rita must have worked her magic. She’s amazing.”
Anna Maria lets out a scream that pierces my eardrum. “DUDE!” she screams. “That Rita. She’s a master. I KNEW IT. I’m thrilled for you. I’m just so excited. You wait until I tell her. She’ll put you down as another of her success stories. You will write a testimonial for her, won’t you? Because, you know what?”
“What?”
“If you write your story, you will probably NEVER have to pay for another session again. Lifelong reiki. For free. Have you any idea how much that’s worth?”
“A lot of £40s,” I say.
“When can we get together?” she says. “We need to celebrate and see Rita. You should be the one to tell her the good news.”
“I’d rather just see you, if that’s okay. For now, anyway. I’m taking my recovery slowly.”
“And so you should. Holy moly!” she says. “Got to run. I’m late for my spiritual healing night. You should come sometime. They’d love you. Inshallah!”
“Physician, heal thyself,” I say.
“Oh, I do,” she says. “I’m working on myself all the time.”
I laugh as I disconnect. Anna Maria is so unremittingly upbeat I wonder whether there isn’t something to be said for what she does, a joy to be gained from an unerring faith in a belief system. She probably will live to be ninety-five.
11
Somehow I get through the rest of the evening, occasionally stopping to consider how I feel, questioning if my body is behaving differently in any way. I check my face for signs. There is nothing. I peel the potatoes in preparation for tomorrow night’s fish pie and pop them in a bowl of water into the fridge.
I watch the 10 o’clock news but give up halfway. It’s all too depressing. More worrying is I still haven’t heard back from my sister. I daren’t phone her again. I go to bed hoping to find solace in sleep but there is no respite. My dreams are full of babies. I leave them on buses or forget I’m cradling them and drop them from my arms.
My hormones are seriously up the creek.
* * *
—
It’s six o’clock in the morning and there’s no point in trying to get back to sleep. I lie there, mulling everything over, knowing I’m going to be sick, which now bothers me for a very different reason.
I dare myself to check my boobs and examine my waistline. There are no telltale signs and I’m not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. I tell myself this is the last time I’ll do this, otherwise I’ll drive myself insane.
I check my phone for messages. There’s a text from Harry saying he loves me and is looking forward to seeing me tonight. Normally this would make my heart sing, but this morning it makes me squirm. Nothing is straightforward anymore. I have good news to tell him, I should be excited, but the phantom of pregnancy is overshadowing everything.
And still nothing from Isabelle. This doesn’t bode well. I can’t be the one to keep calling and messaging her. I wonder what’s stopping her from calling me? I sense disaster.
I sit down at the table with a notepad and make a list of everything I have to deal with.
In no particular order I write:
Isabelle ☹
Harry ☺ or ☹
Fish pie
And then I write, in tiny letters so it doesn’t seem too daunting:
book ultrasound
Why couldn’t it just be simple? Suddenly the prosaic menopause has a whole new charm.
The ring of my mobile releases me from my pondering. Isabelle, I think, at last. But a
name flashes on my screen that I haven’t seen in years. It’s Emily! I certainly wasn’t expecting to hear from her quite so quickly. My letter worked. I take a deep breath and pick up.
12
I call Olivia immediately. I’m in shock.
“What’s wrong?” she says. “What’s happened?”
“I wrote that letter to Emily,” I tell her.
“And?” she says, dropping her concern.
“Michael called me today. I thought it was Emily, but he was just using her phone for my number.”
“So typical. Gets her husband to call because she’s too pathetic to call herself.”
“No. That’s not it. Michael had read my letter.”
“That’s a bit unscrupulous, isn’t it?”
“Under the circumstances no. Emily is in a coma.”
“What! That’s AWFUL! What happened?”
“She tried to kill herself.” Olivia gasps in the same way I did. I’m relieved her lack of feeling toward Emily does not limit her compassion. “Took a massive overdose, but luckily Michael found her just in time. He said he’s wondering whether he’s done her a disservice by trying to save her. He said he’s sure she really wanted to die this time. THIS TIME. Apparently she’s tried twice before. How awful is that? Our friend, Liv! Did we ever realize how sad and desperate she was? Why did we never take her seriously?”
“It’s terrible. I feel awful now about everything I’ve said. It goes to show, we never really know people.”
“Poor Emily. Poor Michael. What a shocking thing.”
“Thank God, in a weird way, you wrote.”
“Yes, exactly. Michael asked if I minded if Emily’s mother called me and of course I didn’t. She was my ‘Auntie’ Marion. I loved her. So we spoke and she asked if I would go and see Emily in hospital. Talk to her. See if it helps. I told her that we had fallen out and she said it really didn’t matter. We had shared history and the memories are what count. They’re what might help. She was so lovely and calm even though she must be in a terrible way.”
Death and Other Happy Endings Page 20