by Penny Jordan
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE telephone rang. Sleepily Zoe reached for the receiver, at the same time automatically moving over in the bed, searching for the heavy warmth of Ben’s body to snuggle into, only remembering as she picked up the phone that Ben wasn’t there.
‘Zoe, darling, I’m sorry to ring so early but I wanted to catch you before you left for work. Could you possibly make lunch today?’
As she heard her mother’s voice Zoe sat up in bed and then tensed as she felt the familiar onset of nausea.
Somehow she managed to hold it at bay, quickly agreeing to her mother’s request so that she could end the phone call and rush to the bathroom.
After she had finished being sick she stood there for several minutes, tears of shock and self-pity rolling down her face.
This should not be happening to her; she should not be having to face this unexpected and unwanted trauma on her own.
Ben should be here with her, sharing it with her; Ben, who was equally responsible for what had happened… Ben, who seemed so oblivious to what she was feeling that he had not even noticed…
She shivered, suddenly icy cold and aware of a frightening and unfamiliar vulnerability, a fear almost.
Was it really only such a very short time ago that she had been so laughingly confident, secure in the belief that she was the central focus in the lives of those she loved: her parents, Ben… ? She loved them, of course, but they needed her, while she had always been free of such a restrictive and hampering vulnerability.
Fear and panic, both totally alien emotions to her, seemed to have taken over her life. Since she had discovered that she was pregnant she had felt as though she had somehow become trapped in an unknown and frightening world where no one seemed to recognise her terror and anxiety.
She could not have this baby, it was impossible, and yet, for some reason she could not even begin to understand, despite the anger that made her feel trapped like an animal in a cage, half demented by her own inability to do what she most wanted to do—which was to turn the clock back before that fatal conception, to wipe out that split-second of time which had resulted in the creation of the life which was now threatening her own—she could also feel within her an awareness, a shadow of a pain so intense and unbearable that it made her want to turn and run in fear, to be saved and protected from the enormity of it. And yet who was there in her life who could protect her?
Not Ben, whose attitude towards his sister’s pregnancy had only underlined what she already knew about his rejection of the very concept of his own fatherhood. Not her parents, who had problems of their own she had never even guessed at.
Was it true that her mother, who had always seemed so content with her life, had secretly hankered after something else, resented her perhaps as she was already resenting her own child? Zoe wondered in sick panic.
She remembered how secretly a part of her had semi-despised her mother for her lack of ambition even while she had loved her.
* * *
At work several people commented on how pale she was looking; her job was demanding in both the physical and mental sense but today the pressure and competition which she normally found so challenging left her feeling drained and helpless.
At lunchtime, when she went to meet her mother, she had still not rung the clinic.
If her mother had been upset by the quarrel Zoe had overheard last night it did not show in her face, her daughter recognised. On the contrary, she looked younger, happier, more vibrant than Zoe could ever remember her looking before.
She was dressed differently as well, Zoe noticed, the elegant silk separates exchanged for a pair of soft, well-fitting jeans that showed off her slim figure, her hair carelessly tousled, a white T-shirt tucked into her jeans, the blazer she had been wearing over it casually discarded.
It was her mother and not she who was drawing the discreetly admiring glances not just of the waiters but of the male lunchers as well, Zoe saw as they sat down.
‘Zoe, I’m so excited,’ she announced as soon as they had ordered. ‘I heard yesterday that I’ve been accepted. On that course I applied for! I tried to ring you to tell you but you weren’t in…’
No, she had probably been on her way home, Zoe recognised, but she said nothing, trying to smile and share her mother’s enthusiastic excitement, all the time a small inner voice asking why it was that her mother had not noticed how subdued she was, how pale… how different from her normal ebullient self.
‘I’m afraid your father doesn’t really approve.’ Zoe watched as her mother made a slight face. ‘But it’s as I told him: I need to do something for myself… to achieve something for myself. I thought he’d understand that. After all, I’ve always understood how important his career is to him. I know you’ll understand, of course. I’ve felt so envious of you these last few years, Zoe… you’ve made me aware of how little I’ve achieved in life.’
How little? Didn’t her mother consider her to be an achievement, then? Didn’t she matter? Wasn’t she important?
‘I had you, of course,’ she heard her saying almost as though she had read her mind, ‘but you’re independent now. You don’t need me any more.’
Yes, I do, Zoe wanted to protest, I need you more now than I’ve ever done, but the words refused to be spoken; how could she say them after all and betray her selfishness; her self-pity almost?
It was like being sucked down into a thick bog of cloying, destructive mud from which she couldn’t fight free.
As she sat silently listening to her mother’s excited chatter, witnessing the quick, almost girlish movements of her body, the interest she was attracting from people around them, Zoe was aware of feeling, not only fear, but anger as well, as though somehow her mother had stolen her role from her while committing her to the unfamiliar and unwanted passivity of merely being an onlooker on life.
Why had she felt that her mother, both her parents, were people who somehow had to be protected and indulged, people who lived only on the periphery of the real vitality of life that was hers?
This woman facing her now was not someone who needed to be protected from the fact that her daughter was pregnant and needed her help, her support; this woman did not need to lean on her, Zoe recognised, and with that knowledge came a small, slight lightening of her burden, a sharp, resuscitating sense of relief and hope.
She leaned forward across the table.
‘Ma, there’s something—’
‘I can’t tell you how much this means to me, Zoe,’ her mother continued, not hearing her. ‘I’d forgotten how good it feels to be valued as an independent person, to be able to make my own decisions, to be judged as a person, not someone’s wife or mother. It will mean time spent away on various courses, of course, which your father won’t like, but it will put something back into our marriage which I had begun to think was lost. Your father says he loves me, but he also takes me for granted; sometimes when he talks to me these days it’s as though he feels he’s talking to a child, not an adult.
‘You’ve made your own life, which is just the way it should be; you’re independent of us, of me, and, although I’ve only begun to realise and accept it very recently, selfishly I’m glad. If your life were still at the unsettled stage I’d be worrying too much about you to give the commitment I need to this course.
‘I love you, Zoe, and although I never thought I’d say it I love you far more as an independent woman than I did as a dependent child…’
She was still smiling as she stood up, glowingly aware of the admiration she was attracting, a poised, self-confident, happy woman looking outwards towards life, and excited by the challenges it promised her.
Silently Zoe stood up as well. How could she tell her now? How could she claim her concern and support after what she had just heard?
Numbly she kissed her goodbye and wished her luck.
* * *
She was sick again during the afternoon at work, arousing the curiosity of one of the other g
irls who came into the cloakroom while she was there.
She couldn’t go on like this, she acknowledged numbly as she stared at her pale face in the mirror. If she did, it wouldn’t be long before someone guessed.
In her office she opened the telephone directory and then picked up her phone.
* * *
‘You seem very sure that you want a termination.’
‘Yes,’ Zoe agreed wearily.
Her appointment had been at five o’clock but it had been closer to six before she had actually seen anyone. The woman seated opposite her was professionally detached and calm. She had already explained the various options open to her, but Zoe had not really listened. They both knew the reason she was here.
There was only one reason why people… women… came to these places, wasn’t there?
‘The child’s father… what does he think or want?’
Zoe stared at her. ‘Ben? He doesn’t know,’ she told her, caught off-guard by the question. ‘I haven’t told him.’
‘Don’t you think you should? It is, after all, his child as well as yours,’ the kind, firm voice pointed out.
His child… Bitterness curled Zoe’s mouth, hardening her eyes.
‘Ben doesn’t want children,’ she told her flatly. ‘Not ever…’
‘A lot of men say that and then change their minds. Even these days men… boys grow up with the inbuilt male belief and fear that it’s up to them to support their partners and their children, and this is often why they seem to fear and reject parenthood. Who can blame them? Having a child is a frightening emotional and material burden. Is that why you feel you should have a termination? Because you believe it’s what Ben wants?’
‘I don’t believe it’s what he wants. I know,’ Zoe told her curtly, ‘and I’m not just doing it for Ben’s sake… I’m doing it for my own as well. We can’t afford a child… not just financially but professionally as well…’
‘For Ben’s sake and for your own… but what about the child?’ the woman pressed.
Zoe felt sick. She stared at her in mingled resentment and disbelief.
‘I came here for an abortion, not a lecture on the sanctity of life,’ she told her furiously.
The woman remained calmly unruffled.
‘We provide a counselling service for pregnant women, offering them a variety of options, allowing them to make their own decisions. It is not my job to persuade you either to continue with the pregnancy or to terminate it, but it is my job and my responsibility to make you aware, not just in the short term, but in the long term as well, of the far-reaching consequences of whatever course of action you decide to take.
‘What we can give you is a physical end to your pregnancy; what we cannot give you is emotional immunity to the consequences of such an action.’
She saw Zoe’s bitter expression and sighed gently.
‘Believe me, if I could promise you that a termination would resolve all your problems, that it would be guilt-free and that you could continue your life as though you had simply never conceived, I would. The only way we could do that would be if we had some way of wiping the mind, the memory clean of its knowledge.
‘We may have invented a process which will remove the physical reality of what has happened from your body, but so far no one has produced one which will have the same effect on our minds and emotions, and, left up to the male sex, I doubt that we ever will,’ she added sardonically.
‘I know you think I’m trying to persuade you to go ahead with your pregnancy. I’m not. Just as much suffering can be caused by doing that as can by termination. All I’m trying to do is prepare you for the fact that you will suffer pain. Contrary to what the media appear to believe, I have yet to deal with a woman who has not done so… maybe not always immediately…
‘Think about what I’ve said. Tell your partner. Let him make his own decision.’
‘I can’t do that,’ Zoe protested. ‘It wouldn’t be fair to burden him.’
‘And so you prefer to protect him at your own expense. That’s a very dangerous course of action which can lead to a very deep and destructive sense of resentment, not just on your part but on his as well if he does ever discover the truth.’
‘It doesn’t matter what you say,’ Zoe told her stubbornly, desperation lending a sharp edge to her voice. ‘I’ve made up my mind that I want to go ahead with a termination.’
‘Very well. I’ll arrange for you to see our doctor. It will be at least two weeks, possibly closer to three before she…’
‘What?’ Zoe stared at her. ‘But I wanted… I thought…’ She stood up abruptly.
She had come here fully expecting, believing that the termination procedure could be carried out almost immediately. That was what these places were for, wasn’t it?
‘I’m sorry,’ the counsellor was saying gently. ‘But we always insist on giving women time to think things through properly before we operate. We’ve got yourtelephone number here, haven’t we? I’ll make an appointment for you to see the doctor as soon as possible and ring you. She’ll discuss all the medical procedures with you then…’
* * *
Ben rang ten minutes after she got back to the flat. His voice sounded harsh and faraway.
‘Where have you been?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve rung three times.’
‘Er… I was… I had to work late,’ she lied tersely. ‘How’s Sharon? When are you coming back?’
It was several seconds before he replied and when he did his voice sounded even more distant.
‘That’s why I rang,’ he told her. ‘I’ll be back later this evening.’
‘And Sharon?’ she pressed.
Again he was silent.
‘I can’t talk about it now. I’ll tell you everything when I get back.’
* * *
Miserably Zoe stared at the meal she had just made for herself and now no longer wanted. He would eat on the train, Ben had told her, because he didn’t know what time he would be in.
She felt drained and depressed. When she had made that appointment at the clinic, she had thought… hoped…
She knew what she wanted to do, what she had to do, she thought angrily. She didn’t need any more time to think; she had done enough of that already. Her head, her brain ached with the strain of it.
What had the woman been trying to do? Make it even worse for her than it already was? All right, so she would feel guilt… maybe even regret… Quickly she pushed that knowledge aside. Why was it that everyone got so damn sentimental over conception? And how many of them wanted to know once the child was born? You only had to look around you to see how many children suffered every kind of deprivation and cruelty, and not necessarily in the Third World and supposedly less aware countries.
Surely it was far better to end it now, when the only person to be affected was her? If she allowed the child to be born, would he or she thank her? Would Ben? Would her parents? All of those closest to her in then-separate ways had betrayed their real feelings.
She got up, pacing the flat restlessly. Why couldn’t she have got it all over and done with straight away? This waiting, this awareness and knowledge that with every day that passed her child tightened its hold on life, was a burden she was not equipped to carry.
Ben was back earlier than she had expected. He looked tense and tired when she let him into the flat.
‘You’re here, then,’ he said flatly, almost as though he half hoped she might not be.
A tiny shiver of sensation brushed icily over her skin.
‘Of course I’m here,’ she agreed, forcing herself to ignore it. ‘Where else would I be?’
‘Working?’ Ben suggested.
‘What does that mean?’ she demanded.
‘You weren’t working late. I rang the hotel.’
Her heart sank, panic and ice-cold churning sickness in her stomach.
‘Yes, I was,’ she insisted, but she couldn’t look at him. ‘I was probably in the loo or something when you rang.
Tell me about Sharon.’
‘She’s fine,’ he told her quietly. And then he turned his head and looked away from her. ‘The baby isn’t, though. She lost it.’
She was totally unprepared for the feeling roaring over her: the pain, the despair, the anger and anguish she felt.
‘Well, what are you looking so miserable for?’ she demanded cruelly, driven by what she was feeling to make him hurt and ache as she was doing. ‘That’s what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it? You should be pleased, not…’
‘Zoe, for God’s sake, that’s not…’
She could hear the anguish in his voice, but she had gone too far to respond to it, her own feelings too emotive, too strong for her to give any recognition to his need.
‘It’s not what? Not what you wanted?’ She looked mercilessly into his haunted face. ‘Don’t he, Ben. Not to me. I know the truth. You never wanted Sharon to have her child.’
‘No!’ he denied thickly. ‘What I never wanted was for her to get pregnant. To distort her life before she had had any chance to even think about what she really wanted. That was what I wanted. This… this senseless, pointless destruction of… this was never… never in my mind, Zoe.’
His voice thickened as he made a small imploring gesture, reached out towards her, and for a second she hesitated. This was Ben, whom she loved, wanting her, needing her, wanting her to recognise and share his pain… but he had not recognised hers. He would never have to suffer what she was suffering now; the very nature and structure of their relationship precluded her from burdening him with her problems.
‘I’m tired,’ she told him distantly. ‘I’m going to bed.’
She still loved him, she acknowledged miserably half an hour later when he slid into bed beside her. It would have been easier if she didn’t. But mingled with that love was also anger and resentment as well as a confused awareness that she was being unfair, that he could not be expected to read her mind, nor to understand that for her the very pivot of their relationship had changed and, from being the one on whom others leaned, there was now a need for support and protection within herself.
‘Zoe.’