Death and Other Happy Endings

by Melanie Cantor

  He gets his composure back. “Yes!” he says. “That is good news.” He’s staring uneasily, puffing and blowing. “Sorry! But fuck! Painful mouth. Yeah. Good news.” He smiles a big fake grin.

  “You don’t sound that thrilled, or maybe this is you breaking the rule that says you should be nice when your girlfriend says she’s not dying?” I don’t care about his burned mouth. All I can see are his veneers glowing in the dark.

  He nods his head in exasperation. “Of course I’m thrilled! I am,” he says. “If I sound otherwise, it’s because . . . well, you caught me unaware. I mean, it’s a major surprise, isn’t it?” He leans in. “But I’m thrilled for you.”

  “What about for you?” I say.

  “Yeah, yeah. For me, too,” he says. “Of course. I’m really thrilled.” He looks down at his plate then starts cutting up the fish from under the potato the way you would a child’s. “But it changes everything now. Doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I say, trying to be upbeat. “It does. For the better.”

  “Yes. Of course, for the better, “ he says. He blows at a forkful of potato and smoked haddock and puts it cautiously into his mouth, chewing slowly. We sit in ominous silence. I’m not going to be the one to break it. He owes me an apology.

  He’s staring at his plate. “So I guess I should cancel my plans for a sabbatical then?” he says.

  I stare at him aghast. “Is that the nicest thing you can think to say?”

  He shifts uncomfortably. “Sorry. Sorry,” he says. “Forgive me. This is coming over badly. I’m tired and I need time to properly absorb your news. That’s all.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Trust me. I’ve needed time to properly absorb it too. But for now can you at least pretend to be happy about it? Treat it like good news as opposed to an inconvenience!”

  He rubs his temples. “Oh, shit, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I’ve been ungracious. Look—I’ve had a tough week. Just ignore me.” He stands up. “I need more wine. What about you?” he says. He can barely meet my eye.

  “I’m fine.” It’s obvious my glass is practically untouched.

  He suddenly stops in his tracks and turns back, staring at me, accusation bulging from his eyes. “So why the doctor’s orders?” he says. “Why can’t you drink if you’re okay now?”

  I want to kick myself. Why did I have to say that? Now he’s smelled the rotting rat.

  “Because I’m still . . . because the doctor still needs to check my blood. He’s not entirely happy even though there’s absolutely no doubt I do not have the ’osis.”

  “So there might be something else?”

  “Oh,” I say. “Now you sound thrilled!”

  His eyes do a strange pirouette. “This is all going horribly wrong,” he says. “I’m getting the wine.”

  “Bring in the damn bottle,” I say. “Maybe I need to get drunk after all. One of us should celebrate my good news.”

  He lets out a frustrated sigh and walks toward me, crouches at my knee, and props up my sullen chin. In any other circumstances, I’d think he was about to propose.

  “Don’t be like that,” he says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound anything but thrilled. It’s just . . . what can I say? Unexpected.” He gives me a big cheesy grin. “Good, though,” he adds hastily. “Unexpectedly good.”

  He’s placed a wretched feeling in my stomach that’s going to be hard to shift. This was not how it was meant to be.

  “I’ll get the wine,” he says.

  I sit there, waiting for him, recovering from the upset. I try to tell myself I’m overreacting, that he’s entitled to feel shocked, to feel doubt. He’s tired and uptight. He’s had clients on his case. It’s a knee-jerk response. Of course it is, and I should forgive his clumsy reaction.

  And then I wonder: If I’m pregnant—if that crazy possibility is true—will Harry forgive me?

  “Listen,” he says, returning with the wine. Looking contrite. “Will you forgive me—?”

  “Of course, I forgive you—”

  “No,” he blusters. “I mean, will you forgive me if I don’t stay the night?”

  “Are you going now?”

  “Not immediately, no, but I’m tired.”

  “So stay!”

  “I can’t,” he says. “Too much to do. Can I take you out to celebrate properly tomorrow? When I’m less stressed? You choose where. Tomorrow night will be better. I’ll be in a better frame of mind.”

  I suggest Ham Yard, which seems to be in the forefront of my mind. If Martin brings it up over Christmas, then at least I’ll know what I’m lying about.

  “I’ll book,” he says. But he doesn’t seem pleased about it at all.

  * * *

  —

  Our dinner at Ham Yard goes better than I could have hoped. Harry is back on form. It’s like he’s had time to absorb my news and he’s decided he can cope with the fact it was all a big horrible mistake. I stop worrying about his inelegant reaction. I understand.

  “Isabelle has invited me to spend Christmas with them this year. She’s invited you, too, but I told her you go to your mother’s.”

  “That’s kind of her,” he says. “In fact, my mother has asked if I can stay with her longer this year; she’s getting old, Sally. It’s sad.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I was going to ask if you wouldn’t mind doing Christmas earlier, like a pre-Christmas Christmas, before I go and see her. You don’t mind, do you? We’ve done our New Year’s, after all.”

  I smile at the memory. “That will always be my best New Year’s ever. Of course I don’t mind. Anyway, the earlier I can start celebrating Christmas, the longer it will last.”

  We go back to my place and he leads me by the hand up to my bedroom and we make love. He’s armed with the obligatory protection.

  In the morning when I wake up, I reach across the pillow but he’s already left. There’s a sweet note apologizing for his early morning getaway. He says he’ll call.

  As I’m making the bed, I notice something on the sheet. My heart misses a beat. It’s blood. Not much but enough to panic me. I clasp my hand to my mouth. Maybe I am pregnant? Am I going to lose it? Probably. But no cramps yet. I sit down and place my hands protectively across my stomach. And that’s when it occurs to me I know exactly what I want.

  I want it all.

  16

  I’m going to put some jelly on your tummy and it’s going to feel quite cold. Okay?”

  I want to tell the sonographer I’ve done this before, but I don’t feel inclined to say anything. I’m frozen with fear. My tummy is exposed. With me lying down, it looks pretty flat. Empty.

  “Okay,” I say, only it comes out more like a squeak.

  “Right, then I’m going to move this around your stomach and let’s see what happens.”

  I close my eyes as she rolls the probe across the cold jelly, then slowly peel my eyelids back, staring sidelong at the screen watching without any comprehension of what I’m seeing.

  “Well,” she says, all merry and singsong. “There you go, Mummy. Clear as anything.”

  “What’s clear? I can’t see anything.”

  She points at a blurry gray blob as it shifts shape, looking completely meaningless, and I feel the strangest sensation as she sweeps her hand across my stomach.

  “There’s baby,” she says, and I lurch.

  “Are you sure?”

  She laughs. “Positive. Look! See its little heartbeat!” She pushes quite hard into my stomach, making deep circles and I feel a little bit sick, but I’m trying to see a heartbeat. Then she travels over my tummy, making like a massive whoosh as though she’s shifting my insides, “And here’s the head. Look, Mummy!” She’s staring at the activity on the screen, lapping it up as if it’s a revelation to her, too.

  I swallow the lump
of anxiety that’s gathered in my throat. “Listen,” I say, quietly. “I know it’s all very lovely but would you mind not calling me Mummy. Not yet.”

  “Oh,” she says, sounding a bit taken aback. “Oh! I’m sorry. Most women get excited when I say that.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I say. “But most women probably aren’t forty-three, nearly forty-four, thinking they’re in early menopause.”

  She looks across at me. “Oh dear,” she says. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea that’s what . . .” She’s prattling, pedaling anxiously. “I’m very sorry. Someone should have told me.”

  I shake my head. “It’s okay,” I say. “It will be okay. It’s a bit of a shock, that’s all.”

  “I understand.” Her voice mellows, sounding less effusive, probably more like her own voice.

  Silence. Just the sound of whooshing coming from the speakers on the screen.

  “Would you like to know how many weeks?” she ventures.

  Please don’t tell me. Just say it’s not true.

  “No,” I say, then I put up my hand. “And I don’t want to know the sex, either.”

  “That’s fine, it’s too early for that.” She carries on in an uncomfortable silence. She stops and then starts again, then stops and turns toward me. “Listen. This is not my business but I hope you don’t mind my asking. . . . Do you want this baby?”

  I feel it rising, that sense of fear, that sense of not knowing what’s happening to my body. One minute I’m dying, the next I’m creating life. I’m aware of the responsibility. A new life. One I wasn’t expecting. It’s so confusing. Of course I want it. But under these circumstances?

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  She takes my hand. “Well, that’s perfectly fine. Not everyone is sure. And it’s been a shock for you. Think carefully. You may never be totally sure, but be honest with yourself. And your partner. You’ve still got time if you want to do something about it.”

  “If Mother Nature doesn’t get there first.”

  Everything crashes down on me. Every shock, every high, every low of the past few months. It’s all too much. I burst into tears in front of this stranger.

  To my surprise, she takes me in her arms and I sob on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “This has all been so overwhelming. It’s been an emotional few months.”

  She holds me until my sobbing subsides, then looks at me, taking my hands in hers, her eyes brimming with sympathy. “It’s okay,” she says. “You mustn’t feel guilty about not wanting it. It’s your body. Your right.”

  “No,” I say. “Maybe I do want it.” I’m shaking her hands with emotion. “But maybe not. I mean, I’ve always wanted a baby, but this is so not what I was expecting. Not now. Anyway, I daren’t allow myself to believe that I’ll be the one to make the decision.” I swallow hard. I start to sob again. “I normally lose them before twelve weeks.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says. “But let me reassure you on that one. There’s a fetal heartbeat. That’s a good sign. But I completely understand where you’re coming from.” She gives me a hug and looks me in the eye.

  I nod. “I’m good now. Thank you.”

  She grabs some paper towel and wipes the jelly off my stomach, then from the front of her white coat where I’ve rubbed against her. “Let me get you some water.” She pops outside and the door swings softly shut behind her.

  I blow my nose, glad that this woman has been so understanding. I guess she sees people like me all the time. She walks back in and hands me a plastic cup of ice cold water.

  “I might have had a tiny show, last night,” I say, knowing I should tell her.

  She eyes me with that same concern. “How tiny?”

  “A drop. Literally just a drop. But fresh blood.”

  “Well. it could have been the placenta shifting. If that happens again, you should come in straightaway.”

  “I had just had sex.”

  “Hmmm, well,” she says. “The biggest indication is the heartbeat. Just go easy.”

  “You mean no more whips?”

  She all but recoils.

  “I’m kidding,” I say.

  Reality is, I might never have sex again. Not if Harry knows I’m pregnant. I’ll be waving him good-bye, that’s for sure. He won’t want a baby, least of all someone else’s. Or will he? God, I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now. I need time to collect my thoughts.

  The sonographer is standing at the sink scrubbing her hands. “Well, I hope this works out whichever way you want it.” She gives me the sweetest smile. “And maybe I’ll see you again. Can you find your way out?”

  “Yes,” I say. I unhook my cardigan and my coat from the back of the door and throw them over my arm.

  As I wander through the reception out into the street, I think on that encounter.

  I’m glad I asked her to stop calling me Mummy. Before, I would have stayed silent, allowing her to trill on merrily, her hand rolling across my exposed stomach making me feel vulnerable, getting silently pent-up. I would have festered all the way home and we wouldn’t have had the important conversation we ended up having.

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned from these last few months, the more I speak up, the more I make myself heard, the better people seem to respond. Good people. The rest of them—the ones who get defensive and mean and bitter—those people don’t matter.

  But what does matter, what matters overwhelmingly, is

  I.

  Am.

  Pregnant.

  17

  Olivia and I are doing our Christmas shopping, hoping that Sunday will be less busy than Saturday, except by the look of things, everyone else has had the same idea. I’m excited, though. Only recently I never thought I’d get this opportunity. I have a long list of silly presents to buy, a celebration in itself.

  It’s slightly overshadowed by the fact that I need to tell Olivia the news that I’m pregnant. The whole truth. I have to own up to sex on the heath. It all feels a bit tawdry and ridiculous now. I’m going to bide my time. Shopping first.

  I get to Selfridges early and gather up a few small gifts, piling them into a basket, ticking the recipients off my list. I’m standing in line waiting to pay, finding my head immersed in my confused thoughts.

  “Jingle bells,” says Olivia, right in my ear, making me jump. “Sorry,” she says. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.” We kiss. “How are you?”

  Pregnant, I think. “Good,” I say. “Hope you don’t mind. I’ve made a head start.”

  “Snap!” she says. “So have I!” She holds up some carrier bags.

  The queue moves forward.

  “So what are you buying Harry?” says Olivia, peering into my basket.

  “Oh, these aren’t for him. I’ll get him something ironic. What are you buying Dan?”

  “We’ve agreed not to buy each other anything this year. We’re putting the money we might have spent toward the honeymoon fund.”

  “Oh, Liv!” I say. “You can’t do that. Let’s go to Primark. Buy them both a terrible Christmas jumper.”

  “Ha!” she says. “I love that idea.”

  I pay at the till and we make our way out the store, battling through the crowds, across the road, to fight for a couple of silly jumpers.

  “What do you think?” says Olivia, holding up a black sweater with stars.

  “Absolutely not,” I say. “That’s almost nice. It misses the point.”

  She looks at me as if to say, Seriously?

  I pull out another one in vivid green with a cartoonish reindeer’s face and big red nose. “Here!” I say. “Couldn’t be more embarrassing.”

  “Brilliant,” she says. “I hate it.”

  I grab a red one with a massive Christmas pudding decorated with holly and icing. It’s perfect for Harry.

&nbs
p; “Sorted!” I say. “Listen. Have you got time for a coffee?”

  “Sure,” she says. “Desperate for one.”

  We go to a café she knows along Bond Street, which is noisy and very Italian. “They do the best, strong stuff,” she says as we sit down.

  “Good,” I say. “You’re going to need it. Now please don’t scream.”

  She looks at me like I’m mad.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  “You’re WHAT?”

  I flap my hands telling her to keep it down. “I’m pregnant,” I say out of the side of my mouth.

  “Blimey. Harry’s a fast worker.”

  “It’s not Harry’s.”

  “Is this conversation happening?”

  “Yes. It’s not his, Liv.” I hunch toward her across the table. “I have a confession.”

  “Go on.”

  My voice drops to a low fast whisper. “I had sex with a guy on the heath when I thought I was dying.”

  “You WHAAAAT?” she yells.

  “Shhhhushhh. Exactly what I just said. Don’t make me say it again.”

  “And you never told me?”

  “It didn’t feel necessary.”

  A waitress hovers into view.

  “Two cappuccinos, please,” Olivia says with a huge smile then turns back to me and gawps. “But now it does?”

  “Obviously. I’m pregnant!”

  “How many weeks?”

  “Not sure. I told the woman who did the scan I didn’t want to know.”

  “Why?”

  “I wasn’t ready. Anyway, the doctor will no doubt tell me. I have to go back to see him. It’s early though. It may not—you know . . .” There’s no way I can relax. Not even in the knowledge that a fetal heartbeat is a good sign.

  “I understand,” she says. She squeezes my hand, biting her lip. “So was it a total shock? Didn’t you have any clues?”