by Casey Watson
Tash was wonderful and even though she was a brand new mum herself now – she, too, had had a baby boy – she still stopped by frequently in the days that followed, leaving her baby with her auntie, and seemed dauntless in the face of Emma’s lassitude. She was a great girl, so giving, and I hoped their relationship would deepen; she had a maturity about her and a spontaneous warmth – whatever the details of her own difficult upbringing, someone along the way had clearly done something right.
My main concern, however, was for Emma’s health. She was carrying a new baby now, and with the weight dropping off her – weight she couldn’t afford to lose in the first place – I began to fret about making sure she was fit enough. I tried to bring it up more than once, to gently encourage her to think about the new life inside her, but, perhaps understandably, it fell on deaf ears. For all her insistence that she didn’t believe in terminations, it was as if the human inside her – whose right to life she had so championed – was no longer of any consequence whatever.
And I could understand that, because she ached so much for Roman. The silence was deafening, as was the absence of baby mess, the absence of that distinctive baby smell. It hurt me enough, so God only knew what it was doing to Emma. It would be a physical, visceral pain. She had been to see him once, and it had clearly been a traumatising experience. She came back ashen and silent and would not talk about it. So I didn’t press her, realising it would do more harm than good. She was depressed, plain and simple, and, with medication a complete no-no, I knew time, and the hope that she could one day have him back with her, were the only routes that would help her find her way out. I was all for keeping positive about the likelihood of the latter, however doubtful Maggie and Hannah might be, but time was something, in terms of the baby growing inside her, that we didn’t have an unending supply of. She needed to think about the here and now, and get into pregnancy mode. She needed to be seen by the local GP – our ever-reliable Dr Shakelton – and have antenatal appointments and scans arranged.
I gave it three weeks, then I knew I needed to put wheels in motion, and when Riley was round one day with the boys – we were going on a picnic – I had a brainwave. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking,’ I told her. ‘You two must be the same amount gone, give or take. Do you think – assuming you’re willing – that we might be able to organise it so she can go for hers with you?’
Riley laughed. She had been such a tonic since Roman had left us. It was such a comfort to know she knew how I felt. ‘You mean “be dragged along with me, kicking and screaming”, don’t you, Mum?’
‘Well, kind of.’ I smiled ruefully. She’d hit the nail on the head there. In her current state, left to her own devices, Emma would be giving birth behind a bush. ‘I just think it would help her to focus,’ I said. ‘Have some of your enthusiasm and energy rub off on her, too.’
‘Energy?’ Riley scoffed. ‘I’m not so sure about the energy bit, given that I now have a whole summer ahead running around after the boys. I’ll be nodding off on her shoulder, no doubt.’
It seemed such a simple plan that I knew, due to sod’s law, that there would be some reason it wouldn’t happen, but Riley didn’t see why it couldn’t. ‘And you’re right. It will be good for her,’ she mused. ‘And nice for me as well. Someone to keep me company during those long tedious hours in the waiting room, with nothing but a sugar-coated “what to expect” video running on a sick-making loop.’
She was lying, of course. Riley was a very social animal. She would probably pitch up in the antenatal clinic at 2 p.m. and by 5 have made three brand-new friends. So I was particularly touched that she was enthused by my idea. She’d made a good choice when she’d decided to go into fostering. She had the biggest heart imaginable, and I loved her for it.
And she was as good as her word. Over the next few weeks it was as if she had quietly appointed herself as Emma’s guardian angel. It was a huge relief and I was so grateful. David was his usual reliable self, looking after the boys more than usual – quite often when he was knackered after a long, long day working – just so Riley could linger at ours and bond with Emma. And, slowly, it seemed to be working. Riley was just such a good counsellor, alternately pretending not to notice Emma’s long face and lack of interest – jabbering on endlessly about baby things and new pregnancy tips and any other trivia that popped into her head – and then sometimes, with her acuity, sensing the time was right for it, gently coaxing Emma to open up more. Best of all she listened. She never tried to foist opinions or offer solutions. She just listened. I couldn’t have been more proud of her.
And it seemed their blossoming relationship was helping in one particularly important way: helping Emma work through her feelings about Tarim. It was almost teatime one afternoon and I was in the kitchen, peeling potatoes, and the girls were sitting half-watching a music channel on TV while Levi and Jackson were kicking a ball around in the garden.
My children seem to think I share their taste in popular music. I don’t, but I like to humour them so I still smiled and nodded when Riley popped her head in to tell me she’d leave the door open so I could hear too and wouldn’t feel left out. Yes, it was a bit drony, but I didn’t much mind – like any mum or gran, I guess, even if I was getting on with something else, I liked the background hum of family being around.
It also meant I could hear the pair of them chatting, and on this occasion my ears immediately pricked up. I don’t know what had prompted it but I realised they were talking about the day Emma had bunked off and taken those pills.
‘What made you do it, Ems?’ I could hear Riley asking. ‘You know, what actually triggered it? Something he said?’
‘It was insane,’ she said with feeling. ‘It’s like a blur now, the whole thing. I’d got so drunk – you know what it’s like. Someone’s like “Down it! Down it!” and you do –’ There was a pause and I could imagine Riley nodding sagely, picturing this. ‘And I just got it in my head to phone him – I don’t know what for. It was the stupidest thing to do, ever – specially considering he knew I was pregnant. And he went mad about it – like he always did. He’s such a piss-head’ – she laughed – ‘an’ yet he always gives me so much grief about me drinking. And of course he did his usual thing of telling me he was on his way over and was going to kill me …’
‘Kill you? A bit harsh …’
‘Oh, that’s what he always says. Thinks it makes him seem so hard – but it so doesn’t. And of course I made the huge mistake of telling him not to bother doing that ’cos I was round Brett’s house, and there were like half a dozen lads round, and that was it. And then the next thing is he’s off on one about that boy I told you about – the one that fancied me? He’s a mate of Brett’s, of course, but there’s never been anything going on, ever – and he’s like, “Actually, you know what, slag, you can fuck off out of my life. Cos neither of your sprogs are mine, bottom line” – and then spouted all that DNA crap – and that’s when it hit me. And I wanted to get him back, and I thought, sod it, I’ll show you …’ She tailed off then, and I could imagine Riley comforting her.
‘And, like you say, Ems, you were pretty drunk.’
‘Exactly.’ I heard her sigh and sniff. ‘God, I was such a twat.’
There was a pause. ‘So, how about now?’ Riley said eventually. ‘Do you still think Taz loves you like he says he does?’
There was another pause. ‘You know,’ Emma said eventually, ‘I just don’t know. He says he does. Keeps calling. Sends me, like, a zillion texts a day. But it’s like I only speak to him because I want to punish him – can you get that? I hate him. I think I hate him now. I know it sounds strange, but I almost wish he was still in prison. It was better then. When he was there for me, an’ he loved me and that, but I could still have my own thoughts? Whenever he’s around it’s like I can’t be me – like I’m on edge. Like I don’t know what to think unless he tells me. It’s like I’m actually better when he’s not around. Does that sound completely mad?’
‘Not at all,’ I heard Riley saying. ‘It makes a lot of sense.’ She paused to speak to Levi who’d obviously come in and needed something. But then she went on. ‘You know, the bottom line is that if you love someone, you love them, and that’s fair enough, but if you want my opinion you can do much better than be with someone like him. Sure he says he loves you, but if he properly did, he’d love you – not some doormat who does everything he tells her. If he did, you’d feel yourself when you were with him, wouldn’t you? Tell you what, Ems, you’re so pretty and smart and strong, and being with someone like Tarim takes that away – it makes you weak.’
There was another long silence before Emma finally spoke. ‘You know what,’ she said. ‘That’s what Tash says. That’s what everyone says. And it’s like now I can think clearly and I can see why I lost Roman. Everything bad that’s happened to me lately was either because of what Tarim’s done to me or the way he’s made me react.’
‘Exactly,’ said Riley. ‘And you’re stronger without him.’
‘I know,’ Emma said. ‘That’s what Tash and I’ve been saying. I think I’m better off being on my own for a while.’
The potatoes were done, the pan filled, the gas lit. In the middle of the kitchen I raised both arms towards the ceiling, then brought them down again, fist clenched. Yes! I mouthed. Result!
It turned out that they were both expecting girls. They’d both been keen to know, when they went for their eighteen-week scans – and went together, to the bemusement of the ultrasound operator. I went along too, of course, which caused some degree of consternation when we all piled in.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘You have two daughters expecting at the same time, I see. Two grandchildren all at once, eh? You’ll have your hands full!’
We put her straight but, of course, she was absolutely right. There was a busy and emotionally intense time ahead. What I thought, but didn’t say, though, was that I’d been thinking about that a lot. We’d committed to keeping Emma till she was sixteen – at least – but that had been before we’d known she was pregnant. It was something we’d need to discuss with John before too long, because if Emma wanted to try and get Roman back – which she did – then she would need to convince social services that she could function independently, as a single mum, living on her own.
But that was for the future. Right now, I was just happy to see both Riley and Emma smiling, as the paddle swept over the gel on their tummies in turn and the operator said, ‘Yup, definitely a girl.’
Mike was over the moon, too, when I told him. As was Kieron. His principal concern, however, was that we mustn’t be stereotypical – she must learn to love football just as much as her older brothers, and to that end he’d be buying her the same baby football strip that he’d got for both Levi and Jackson. Which made us all laugh out loud.
But if I’d thought everything was kind-of falling sort-of into place now, I was in for a nasty shock – we all were. And from a quarter that, preoccupied with the young girl in our care, I had never once imagined it might be coming. But just over a week later, at around 10 p.m., I took an unexpected call from Riley’s David. He was so distraught he could hardly get the words out to explain. She’d had a miscarriage and had been rushed into hospital.
Chapter 19
Just as a pregnancy is an everyday miracle, so a miscarriage is an everyday tragedy. There was no rhyme or reason behind Riley losing her baby. It was just one of those things. Some glitch in the process. And though there had been blood tests and would be an investigation into all the whys and wherefores, the reality, as the doctor pointed out the next day, was that we’d probably never know.
Riley was crushed, just as any other mother to be would be, but also stoical. As she kept saying over and over, she had her boys, so she was one of the lucky ones, and the best thing she could do now was get over the physical upheaval, let her body heal and then get on with her life.
Emma – so young, so vulnerable, so understandably empathetic – was devastated too. When we told her the news the next morning, she was inconsolable. In an adult I might have been inclined to consider her distress self-indulgent, but she was just a child and had grown so close to Riley over recent weeks that I didn’t doubt the sincerity of her feelings. She sat and sobbed for so long that she ended up puffy-eyed and exhausted, and once she’d stopped crying the smallest thing would set her off again, clutching her tiny bump and wailing till she had no tears left to shed.
I understood. I had a hunch these tears were partly for Roman, and perhaps cathartic – an opportunity to really express her sadness. Which, to some extent, I felt she’d really yet to do. Yes, she’d been low – her coming out of that was a joy for all to see – but at the same time the sense that she had brought it on herself complicated the business of grieving for her little boy. I felt strongly that she sensed she had no right to wallow in self-pity and that it had stopped her from forgiving herself.
In any event, a few days later she seemed transformed. We were well into the autumn term now, Levi and Jackson back in their usual school routine, and Emma too, albeit that it would be only temporary once again, was back in her unit, reconnecting with her education. I had obviously encouraged this, though not for the reasons usually given. Emma could finish her education at any point she chose to, truth be told – we now lived in a world where it was seen as a lifelong thing, learning – and I wasn’t unduly worried that the best time might not be yet. What was more important, to my mind, was that she get back into a routine, just like the boys had – have a reason to get up in the mornings, go somewhere, have something to achieve every day and, most importantly, be among friends. She’d also mentioned that she quite liked the idea of eventually training to do hairdressing, reasoning (with exemplary logic, I thought) that it would work well with children, as she could become a mobile hairdresser. Which thrilled me, not only because it showed she was thinking about a future, but a future that she was confident would include Roman.
In the meantime, however, she had other plans. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said to me when she got home from her unit one afternoon, ‘that I need to spend more time with Riley.’ It was just a week after the miscarriage and I’d taken her round to see her twice, and she’d clearly been mulling things over.
‘Ri-ight,’ I said, anticipating there was still more to come. ‘And?’ I patted the sofa, beckoning her to come and sit with me.
‘And I was thinking that, just for the moment, I need to be spending less time at school and more time helping her out. Not stopping school, exactly –’ she was quick to reassure me. ‘Just going in a bit less so I can be there to help Riley in the daytime. Like taking the boys to school and picking them up for her. I could do that for her next week, at least, couldn’t I? I mean, she’s still supposed to be taking it easy’ – she was impressively well informed – ‘and David’s got work, and it would be a big help to them, wouldn’t it, if I did that?’
I resisted the urge to point out that these were all things I’d done before, was still doing and would continue to do, as long as was necessary, because that was of no consequence. She was so anxious to help out, bless her. And why shouldn’t she? ‘And then there’s the cleaning,’ she went on, causing me to blink back my surprise. ‘I could go round and do that for her, couldn’t I? Help keep the place straight. And it would be company for her, wouldn’t it? Take her mind off things.’
I agreed that it would. And that perhaps I could have a word with the head at the unit and explain that, for at least a couple of weeks, she’d be in rather less. Frankly, the whole thing was a revelation. She seemed so grown up, all of a sudden, as if overnight someone had come in and swapped the demanding teenager for a more sensible girl, much older than her years. And it was irrelevant that this might well be as much about her own loss as Riley’s. What mattered was that she wanted to help and that she felt Riley’s pain. That was what counted. I reached out and gave her a big hug.
‘That’s so kind of you, lov
e, but you know, you don’t have to do all that. You’ve got school and your friends to see and, well, you’ll want to make the most of having fun with your mates while you can, won’t you? And’ – I paused, unsure whether to broach it – ‘you’re still hurting too – hurting for Roman – and you need time to get yourself together too.’
Roman was very much the elephant in the room. Emma had been twice to see him now, at the same family centre she’d visited with Tarim, and on both occasions had come home pale and drawn and uncommunicative. It was the one area in which even Riley couldn’t make headway, Emma telling her, as well as me, that it was something she just didn’t want to talk about. That she’d feel better if she didn’t. It was the proverbial closed book. We had to respect that, obviously, but I hated to see this outwardly functional, mostly chirpy teenager keeping so much hurt locked inside her, out of reach.
But then I hadn’t had her upbringing, had I? Perhaps that was a defence mechanism that worked for her – perhaps she was right to keep Roman in a tightly closed emotional box. She had probably spent most of her life doing that, in any case, the pain of her mother’s repeated rejections being a definite case in point. She hardly spoke of her, and that was fine – again, she must deal with things her own way. And perhaps this was the same; only when and if she knew she could allow herself to believe they might be reunited would she allow herself to share how she felt.
She shook her head now. ‘You’re wrong, Casey,’ she said, and she looked like she meant it. ‘This isn’t about me, this is about Riley. She was there for me when I felt like there was no point going on, and now I want to be there for her.’
All the same, I felt I’d better run Emma’s ideas past Riley first. In my enthusiasm for encouraging Emma’s emotional development, I didn’t want to add to her misery by forcing Emma’s pregnancy in her face. While Emma was out with Tash for a bit, after tea I phoned Riley to run it by her – explain what Emma wanted to do, and share my reservations.