by Lucy Hay
But Dad shushed me. “Don’t wish your life away. Things happen. Sometimes good, sometimes bad, sometimes unexpected. We just have to do what we can and deal with them.” I wondered where this philosophical side of my Dad had come from. For so many years, I had supposed he thought of so little but getting stoned, having a laugh and winding my Mum up by being so flaky. Suddenly Dad was earnest, leaning forward, grabbing my hand. “I know I’ve not been the best Dad, love. I’ve been crap, actually. But whatever you decide – and I mean whatever – I’m behind you one hundred per cent. You got that?”
Mute, I nodded. Dad grinned.
“That’s my girl.” He said. “How about you stay here tonight, I’ll ring your Mum. We’ll get a Chinese takeaway and we’ll both go tell her in the morning… Then we can help you figure out what you want to do. Yeah?”
So as promised Dad and I ordered the takeaway and ate it, watching comedy box sets. For a few hours I was released from my dilemma on how to deal with the pregnancy. For the first time in years I remembered what I liked and admired about my father: his acerbic wit, his unrelenting skill in quoting movies he hadn’t seen for years and his ability to burp on demand, the voracious kind that would take most people at least a litre bottle of cola to achieve. We had drifted away from each other in the years following the twins’ birth, plus Dad’s subsequent departure from the homestead had served to underline it. I had felt angry with him for not taking responsibility for us and even been angry with Mum for allowing it to continue. I had been angry at Sal’s constant mickey taking of the situation; of Hannah’s constant adulation of Dad no matter what he (didn’t) do and even of Amanda’s carefree lack of regard at the whole situation. It had felt sometimes like I was the only sane one in the entire situation, yet just like everyone else I was completely at a loss on how to deal with my feelings. So the deeper my confusion grew, the more angry I became. Yet with no outlet to speak of – Dad was hardly ever there and Mum was always meeting herself coming backwards –my anger turned inwards on itself and festered. But for the first time in ages, that unspoken vitriol cleared from my mind and I was able to enjoy the moment for what it was, without the trepidation of the following morning.
Looking back, I suppose I thought the ache in my guts that day had been worry and its ludicrously named “butterflies”; or maybe I thought it was eating the greasy Chinese takeaway on an empty stomach in the evening. But that night I woke on the futon with my knees up against my chest as pain erupted suddenly in my belly. It was so sharp, for a moment it took my breath away. Just as swiftly that terrible, spiking pain went and I was able to sit up gingerly. Black spots sprang up in my vision and nausea hit me, the back of my throat flooding with sour saliva. What was wrong with me?
Dad was asleep in the beanbag chair, his head thrown back like a child, mouth open and catching flies. With difficulty I got up and lurched past him towards the tiny bathroom, locking the door behind me. I leant against the door, trying to breathe slowly and deeply, but taking in only the stale air from the windowless cubicle. Again, that terrible pain gripped me but this time it was worse. It made me double over, taking my breath away, preventing me from crying out, so only an animalistic whimper made its way out of me. Those spots in my vision seemed to grow suddenly and I wondered for a nanosecond if I would black out, but the pain rushed in again with a vengeance and this time I uttered a single, low guttural howl.
“Lizzie?” My Dad was awake and pounding on the door. “Lizzie!”
Woozy I sat on the toilet. I didn’t have enough wherewithal to answer. I knew what was happening and moments later I confirmed it as I peeled off the over-sized pyjama bottoms my Dad had given me. Blood. It was pouring out of me, pooling on the lino of the bathroom floor. Horror-struck, I made one single observation before Dad broke the door down. It was not like menstrual blood, typically dark crimson in colour. This was bright red, like if you cut your own hand or arm with a knife when slicing bread. Life blood.
“Oh God, Lizzie. Lizzie!” There was a crash as the door yielded and Dad was in the room. I was only peripherally aware of him and the fact I didn’t even have anything on my bottom half, yet for some reason I didn’t even care; normally I would be mortified. But in the here and now, all I could concentrate on was the blackness that threatened to invade me: I knew I had to keep it away or I would be lost. I tried to stand, but my knees buckled. Dad grabbed me and wrapped me in a towel, running out on to the flat balcony with me in his arms like a small child. He was shouting, pleading, but his voice seemed so far away. There were more shouts and slammed doors and Flo’s husband Jonno was out on the balcony, yelling for Pablo who came running in a dressing gown and slippers, holding keys to one of the hotel vans. Dad grabbed them and shoved me in the passenger’s seat, turning the key in the ignition, all the time saying to me, “You’ll be okay, baby. You’ll be okay.” And I wondered why he would say that because it was obvious I was losing the baby, but I realised he was talking to me.
Then I passed out.
Ectopic pregnancy, they said: where a fertilised egg tries to develop outside the womb, in the fallopian tube. They’d had to take my tube as well. They told me later I’d been very lucky, but I didn’t feel lucky. It was unusual in someone in my age, they said, but not unheard of. Just my luck, typical me. In the hospital I regarded the small scar next to my bellybutton and was reminded of my mother’s cat when she was spayed. She had had a similar scar, made obvious where they had shaved her fur away. No fur to grow back and hide mine, either. I wondered what it would do to my chances of having a baby when I wanted one and then marvelled at the turnaround of my mind in less than twenty four hours.
I was only in hospital a short time, but there were visitors. All the family crowded around my bed. The devastated, put-a-brave-face-on-it smile of my mother; the wide eyes of my sisters and the sympathetic glances of my Dad, the only one who really knew what had happened or my doubts about the pregnancy in the first place. There was a part of me that felt relieved the situation had been taken out of my hands: I had been too young to deal with such a huge decision, especially after the shock of Mike washing his hands of me. But curiously, at the same time, I felt horribly cheated. It had been my choice to make, yet before I could decide, it had been snatched from my hands.
Just before I was due to leave, Mike arrived at the hospital. My parents and sisters gave us a wide berth so we could talk as they waited for my discharge papers. Mike brought a large bouquet with him, probably bigger than he could afford. I wondered fleetingly if he had taken Francis’ credit card again, but accepted the blooms with a murmured “thank you.” Mike was awkward and embarrassed, making veiled enquiries about how I was and whether I was “okay now”? I wondered whether he would bring up the pregnancy and its abrupt end, but ten minutes into the clumsy exchange it was clear he was not going to. Like before, he was going to skirt around the subject, sweep it aside and hope for the best.
“I could have died, you know.” I said.
Mike averted his gaze from mine, as if he couldn’t handle what I was saying. But what was new? He stared at the floor, tapping it with his foot like a child caught out. “I know.” He muttered.
“I don’t think you do.” I said coldly. “I don’t think you care.”
“How can you say that?” He wailed for the second time in just a few days.
“I don’t think you’re a bad person, not really.” I said. “Just selfish. Bet you, your first thought was, “thank God for that”?”
“No… no.” He replied unconvincingly. “I was worried about you.”
“I wish I could believe that.” I said.
“We can still go to the same university.” He pleaded. “We can live together, if you like?”
I was genuinely shocked. “If I liked”? It had not occurred to me Mike would think we could find our way back after this, or even after his non-reaction in the café. As far as I was concerned, that was the test of our relationship: could we pull together when we needed to?
But he had made it clear he had no concern for me or us when faced with a situation he did not expect. Yet days later here he was, saying everything could be “normal” again … As long as I made the decision again! But I knew I would never feel the same way about him; if I even had, in the first place. The miscarriage was simply too huge an event, a cut-off point between us, a brick wall that could never be breached. Our relationship was as dead as the short-lived pregnancy.
“Goodbye, Mike.” I said.
So Mike had gone on his way again, his face a picture of bewilderment. He had no clue or comprehension of what had happened, what he’d done wrong or why I was rejecting him. I felt sorry for him. Could he really have so little idea? My mother appeared around the curtain the moment he was gone, all breezy smiles, packing my bag for me, trying to distract me. When she came to the flowers, she regarded them grimly. “What do you want me to do with these?” She enquired.
My first instinct was to throw them away. But on the same ward was an older lady. She was perhaps in her late fifties, though her hair was thinning like an old man’s and she seemed much older. She sat at the ward window all day in a large green chair. I wasn’t sure what was wrong with her, though both her legs bandaged from ankle to knee, her feet in incongruously gaudy fluffy pink slippers. I’d attempted to engage her in conversation once as I’d shuffled back from the toilet, but she’d merely glanced at me, a little irritated, before staring back again at the gargoyles that occupied the eaves of the building opposite. The only time she ever seemed to move was to get into bed at night. She had not had one single visitor in all the hours I had occupied the same space as her. I felt sorry for her. I picked up the flowers and approached the woman, who as usual had taken up her spot in the green chair next to the window. I held the flowers out to her, but she didn’t appear to notice me. So I moved forwards, closer and said, “Would you like these…?”
The lady looked at me. Her expression was vacant, almost like a small child’s. Though she had seen me many times in the past few days, she regarded me as if she had first laid eyes on me. She said nothing.
“Please, have them.” I said.
The lady made no move to take them from me. Not sure what else to do, I stepped even closer and thrust the bouquet into her arms. “Well, goodbye.” I said.
Still the lady said nothing. But she smiled.
Finally I was discharged and Mum took me down to the car. Dad had taken the other girls back to the house in the hotel van, she said; I could have some peace and quiet on the way home. Getting in the car, I wanted to ask her so many things. Had I done the right thing about Mike? How could I feel cheated and relieved at the same time about the pregnancy? Would I ever feel “normal” again? But I was so tired and I knew there would be time for that later.
As Mum’s little car travelled back towards home, I felt the telltale vibration of my mobile in my coat pocket. I hadn’t looked at it in days. It had been left behind when my father had dashed me to the hospital and returned to me only by default when he’d brought my coat to me that day. I slid the handset out and looked at the LCD, surprised at the number of text message and voicemail icons on the LCD. But before I could open or listen to any of them, the mobile rang in my hand.
“You going to get that?” Mum said, not taking her eyes off the road.
I looked back to the screen. On it, a name blazed: SHONA…
SHONA
“… Hello! Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”
The demand cut through the fog in my brain and I opened my eyes. For a moment, I had thought the words were one of my sister’s; Amanda possibly, shaking me awake to tell me of her exploits the night before, unable to keep them to herself . But then I realised I was alone. I was standing in those marketplace toilets again, the phone glued to my ear. The warm summer air felt stale and I caught sight of my reflection in the aluminium mirrors next to the hole-in-the-wall sinks, my expression impossible to read. At some point I must have kicked off one of my flip flops: the grimy tiles felt cold underneath my bare foot, the shoe nearby. My bag lay on the counter, its contents spread everywhere. Lip gloss; a pocket dictionary; a half-eaten bag of crisps; a crumpled ball of receipts; various pens, most leaking; eye liner; chewing gum; a cracked compact mirror; a box of tampons (Won’t be needing them… a tiny voice in my head piped up). And finally a notebook, two words written in capitals at a diagonal and underlined multiple times its message written ages ago, yet fitting now: OMFG.
“What?” I said, confused.
“Honestly Liz, you are unbelievable.” Shona said, with her habit of elongating any word with more than two syllables, always heavy on the stress: unbelIEEEVable. ExCCCEPTional. HilAAARious. I could see her in my mind’s eye, sprawled on the bed in her Emo black and purple room, the blinds permanently drawn, rolling her eyes at me. “Are we on for tonight or not?”
“Tonight?” I said, gathering my thoughts, but nothing else seemed to get through. What were we doing tonight? Whatever Shona – my best friend - and I had agreed, I didn’t care. I stared at the pregnancy testing stick in my hand, the extra line that denoted the result: positive. Only that existed.
It was not the first pregnancy tester I had ever seen, but it had been the first that was mine. Before it had been Shona’s, just a few months’ previously: “I can’t do it.” Consumed with dread, Shona turned over and shoved the duvet over her head. She wouldn’t even look at the kit I offered. I sighed. It had been up to me to buy it for her in the local pharmacy and face down the inquisitive looks with a nonchalant glare, hoping no one who knew me – or more importantly, knew Mum or one of my sisters – saw me.
“You have to.” I insisted.
Snorting, sighing, the very epitome of teenage stereotype, Shona rose at last from her bed. She snatched the kit from my outstretched hand and swept into her en suite bathroom, slamming the door behind her. I heard the toilet seat lower, then just as quickly she was back at the bathroom door again.
“I can’t go.” She said.
I traipsed into the bathroom and turned the tap on. “There.”
Shona just stood there. “I’m not going in front of you.” She snapped.
“You’re not going at all. Apparently.” I countered.
A loaded – pregnant? – pause passed between us. I regarded my best friend, my arms folded, determined not to back down. I had never stood up to Shona before: always it was her lead, her ideas, her desires we followed. Yet that day, the tables turned, just for a short while, as she and I faced up to each other.
Shona pursed her lips. “Bobby Kingsmith.” She said, finally.
“That’s who it was?” I said, unable to contain my surprise. Of all the boys I had guessed Shona might have been with to prompt this pregnancy scare – and there were many - Bobby was not even on my radar. Bobby was short, nerdy, the type of guy who tucked his shirt into his jeans and brought sandwiches and a thermos flask to college. Bobby kept to himself, mostly sitting alone at college at lunch, even in class, jealously guarding his work from prying eyes. An all-rounder, Bobby was a brilliant student and was expected to fly into any university of his choice. Bobby’s almost-guaranteed success was not just because of his grades either, but because of his tireless volunteer work. He worked in the local hospital’s radio station five nights a week, playing golden oldies for the Geriatrics ward. On Saturdays he could be found at school fetes and country fayres, covering them for the local rag. The eldest child of a single parent family, Bobby helped his mother out wherever he could: I’d seen him race off to do the weekly shop in-between college classes and he delivered his younger sister and brother to school in the mornings so his Mum could make it into work on time. Where could he have found the time to squeeze sex with Shona into his busy schedule?
Shona’s face crumpled. “Yes.” She replied and suddenly she was crying. At first I thought it was shame. I expected her to tell me she hadn’t set out to have sex with Bobby. I waited for her to tell me she had been drunk: when wasn’t
she, when chasing boys into bed? I even wondered if she would tell me it was a bet she hadn’t felt she could lose face on or something equally far-fetched… Something simply more Shona. But she sat down on the bed with the still-unused pregnancy stick, her lip quivering: “This will ruin everything for him.” She said.
My mind reeled. Shona actually cared what Bobby might think or how an unplanned pregnancy might affect him? “You… know him?” I said, trying to get a handle on the situation as it turned ever more strange. Shona nodded, almost imperceptibly. “When did this happen?”
“It was after Joe McIntosh’s party.” Shona said in a small voice.
“Bobby wasn’t at Joe’s party.” I replied. I didn’t have to try and remember this fact. Bobby never went to parties. Bobby was always too busy. Except when he wanted to have sex with Shona, apparently.
“I went to see him afterwards.” Shona sighed.
“Why?” I was genuinely confused. “How?”
The only time I had ever seen Shona interact with Bobby was on a maths project in Year Eight and she had sulked the entire time, speaking to him only when strictly necessary. Our teacher, Mrs. Moss had decided it would be “just great” if everyone could partner with someone of the opposite sex. Of course no one wanted to and so she’d forced us all. I’d got Simon Kitchen (“…who sleeps in the kitchen!” as we’d always chanted at primary school). Simon was a thin, willowy boy who won the four hundred metres every school sports day and smelled perpetually of the lemon fabric conditioner his Mum used. I could remember little else about him, except the fact he died in a car accident the summer before we began Year Ten. No one ever spoke about him after that, as if to do so would invite death upon us next. Instead, there had been an assembly where the headmaster had talked in a low voice about how tragic Simon’s “passing” was (he never used the word “death”). Next had come a bench dedicated to Simon in the school quadrangle, the little brass plaque the only testament to him ever being part of our lives.