by Lucy Hay
Then there was a beep in the remainder of the car park beyond the market place. Mum wasn’t supposed to park there on market day, but then she had never cared for rules of the road. As my father was fond of saying, Mum saw the amber light as a challenge. She had a glove compartment full of parking tickets at any time of the year. Twice she had even run over pheasants and brought them back to the house to eat, though she had not told us either time until after the meal. Now Hannah refused to touch poultry at all, until Mum assured her it was not roadkill.
I wrenched open the car door and sat down in the passenger seat next to Mum. She was silent, her face impassive, giving nothing away. The radio was not on. The air felt heavy as she waited for me to begin.
“I’m pregnant.” I said at last, taking the plunge.
“I know, Sal said before I left.” Mum said.
Typical Mum. A flash of irritation burst through me: couldn’t she have spared me my confession? But I knew she couldn’t and swallowed my resentment back down. “Are you angry?” I enquired with baited breath.
“Angry?” Mum seemed genuinely surprised. “No. Worried for you? Yes.”
There was a pause as I drank this in. I had expected even just a half-raised voice, or expression of disappointment. Yet Mum seemed to mean what she was saying. “I don’t know what to do.” I said.
“You’re a bright girl, Lizzie.” Mum chastised. “You know what options are available. What you mean is, you can’t decide.”
“It has to be my decision.” I said hastily, remembering Sal’s assertion on the phone. I didn’t truly believe my little sister could be right, but I had to be sure Mum knew my intentions. I would be doing what I needed to, not what she wanted me to.
“Of course.” Mum said incredulously, as if she wouldn’t even entertain me doing otherwise. I smiled, relieved, feeling hopeful for the first time in an hour – until she followed up with: “Shall we go and see your father?”
Mum zoomed me and the car over to The Belle View Hotel, the latest place unfortunate enough to employ my Dad with his endless tea breaks and juggling – quite literally – of crockery. We stalked into the empty foyer, Mum smashing her hand down on the bell. Pablo, the owner, shuffled into view, face like thunder.
“I tell you before.” He says, addressing Mum, “He working. You cannot visit during working hours. Had to chambermaid whole room again!” Mum took the telling off on the chin. I wanted the ground to swallow me up: Mum and Dad… Here? When he was on duty? Eeeurgh.
“Oh do grow up, Elizabeth,” Mum drawled, amused, taking in my horrified expression. “Besides, you can talk!” My mouth dropped wide open: was my mother actually making a joke about my predicament? This was hardly the time. But before I could take her to task, Mum was arguing with Pablo, pushing past him to the kitchen.
“Family emergency,” Mum was saying, then when that didn’t work: “Get out of my way before I knock you down!” Perplexed, Pablo finally got out of the way. Though not a particularly large or meaty man, Pablo was at least a foot taller than my mother; she could no more knock him down than she could a mountain. “Thank you.” My mother said, before barking at me: “Come on, Lizzie!”
Moments later we were down the steep steps to the subterranean, windowless kitchen where my father worked. A CD player was blaring some old band; he had terrible taste just like Mum. It was so loud Dad just about jumped out of his skin when Mum tapped him on the shoulder. He was pleased to see us, though that was short-lived. Mum told Dad my news right away.
“How could you be so stupid?” Dad sighed.
“Don’t talk to her like that!” Mum said immediately, “Besides anything, you’re a bloody hypocrite. We had Lizzie not much older than she is now!”
“That’s different.” Dad said, “We were always going to stay here.”
“Speak for yourself.” Mum scoffed, “I had plans, I got side-tracked.”
“By me I suppose?” Dad countered bitterly; I’d heard them have this argument a million times before.
“No, actually. That would infer you actually stuck around for more than five minutes here or there.” Mum opposed skillfully.
Dad’s face twisted as if he’d swallowed several wasps. Ouch. I watched them argue, disbelieving. I had never imagined this reaction from Mum; my expectations had insisted she would be the disappointed one, the one who would bawl me out for it. I had misjudged her.
“She doesn’t even know what she wants to do yet.” Mum said.
“Lizzie, you have plans…” Dad began, but one look from Mum silenced him.
“It has to be her decision, Dan.” Mum said. “Whatever I think, you think, the girls think… It’s irrelevant!”
“What about the baby’s father?” Dad said.
Mum visibly deflated. It was obvious she’d forgotten about Mike. With a sudden pang, I realised I had too. I’d wanted to avoid thinking about his reaction; I was afraid what it might be. I couldn’t believe he would be angry, but then I did not believe he would welcome the news, either. I knew whatever I said or whatever his reply might be, I would be left with disappointment.
“You need to tell him.” Mum said to me.
I wanted to argue with her, but I knew it would be fruitless; she would never allow me to simply keep my mouth shut. Mum was all too aware of the fact so much of the village looked down on The Carmichaels based on prejudice: the scally father, the chain-smoking mother, the endless brood of children. Every time she’d had to go seeking help at the likes of Social Services, Mum’s cheeks burned with shame at what others would think, especially the inevitable accusation: why have so many children if you can’t support them? Except it was never as simple as that. Mum and Dad had never set out to drain the state any more than I was planning on it now; life had got in the way and rearranged various things for us all. And should our decisions be based on what others thought, anyway? Mum and Dad did what they could; Mum significantly more than Dad. She had raised us all to be honest and to do our best, too. What else was there?
“I’ll tell him tomorrow.” I found myself saying.
“No, today.” Mum saw me baulk at this and her expression softened. She gave me a quick hug for reassurance. “Just get it over with, sweetheart. I’ll wait for you.”
The day felt like a whirlwind: barely an hour past after telling my Dad, I was seated in Francis’ living room with Mike. Mum and Francis sat awkwardly together over tea the colour of dishwater in the kitchen, the radio turned low on Mum’s insistence, “just in case”.
“Your father went mad when I told him I was expecting you,” Mum had said on the way to Mike’s. “Of course, he reckoned it was my fault; I had planned it; I was trying to “trap” him… Though exactly how he could never answer. Anyone would have thought he had a big career planned.” Mum sighed. I could read the expression in her eyes in the rearview mirror: I wish.
“You didn’t live together then?” I’d said, wide-eyed. This was news to me.
“Oh, no. I was still with GanGan back then. Your Dad and I had Amanda as well before we set up home together.” Mum said, negotiating the road. “And then of course he was gone again more or less after Hannah, even before we had the twins. Not that he could stay away for long.”
“Why do you put up with him?” I asked suddenly, cringing at the thought of the answer. Whatever his faults, he was still my Dad. Yet at the same time, I felt I needed to know.
“I love him, I suppose.” Mum said. There was absolutely no hint of the starry-eyed teen about her as she said it, either. “There were times I tried to break it off, but my heart was never in it. Besides, perhaps I…”
“… Okay, okay.” I said hurriedly, sure Mum was going to say something embarrassing about sex or similar. The thought of them together just made me heave. They’d never gone to any particular effort to hide their sex life. I’d come home to the squeaking of bedsprings even in the middle of the day countless times. It got to the point that if I had friends over, I’d leave them outside first and che
ck out the terrain. Why couldn’t I just have normal parents, ones that actually lived together and couldn’t stand each other? Everyone else did!
“I was going to say, perhaps I liked my independence.” Mum said frostily. “Raising you girls my way, no interference. A man who was interested in us all, supported us when he could, yet kept his distance. I was both a single mother and one as part of a partnership – and all that includes – maybe I had the best of both worlds?”
I had never thought about the situation like that before: I had always been so wholly focused on the negative, with the blame set squarely at my Dad’s feet. I realised I had seen my mother as a victim of circumstance, dependant on my father’s whims. My mother, a victim! How ridiculous. Yet it had never occurred to me to the situation might suit her, or even suit them both.
“But I also had the worst of both worlds.” Mum continued, drawing up outside Mike’s, wrenching the hand brake and turning off the ignition.
“But you just said…?” I trailed off, confused.
“… Paradox.” Mum said.
That word again. I remembered the eleven year old Shona and her belief it was possible to have choices and yet still be destined to do certain things. Mrs. Jenkin-No-S would have sat both of us down that night at Shona’s parents’ and probably insisted on a nip of vodka herself, all while looking through a dictionary: “To know a word is to be able to define a word” as she was fond of saying. But I could already define the word “paradox”: “A seemingly contradictory statement that is nonetheless true”. The word was derived from the Latin “pardoxum” or Greek, “paradoxon”, meaning “conflicting with expectation”. But even knowing the word didn’t make it easier to comprehend when it was applied to real life and real situations.
“It will be okay, won’t it Mum?” I said suddenly, desperately wanting her approval and support, like a child. Only I wasn’t a child any longer; I was having one of my own.
Mum smiled. “That I can promise.” She said.
But her words did not fill me with comfort, as I’d hoped they would. Really I wanted her to make the decision for me. But she couldn’t; only I could. So I broke the news to Mike. I explained everything: how neither of us had addressed the issue of the night he got thrown out the pub; how I’d not been able to face the doctor, nor had the twenty pounds necessary to buy the morning after pill. I left no stone unturned in the hope he would not blame me or start the accusations. And in the event, I needn’t have worried; Mike listened quietly with wide eyes, all too aware of my mother and his father in the next room.
After I had finished, he said simply, “What next, then?”
“I’m not sure.” I said, “I was hoping you would tell me how you felt.”
Mike shrugged. “Well obviously I’m not happy about it.”
I felt absurdly hurt. I had always imagined having a child one day, but I had never seen it played out in my mind like this. In my imagination’s version, the father of my child would be overjoyed and ridiculously impressed somehow with my fertility, as if I had done something remarkably clever. But in the here and now, I couldn’t blame Mike for his misgivings; I had not exactly been thrilled either. I suppose it was his choice of words: Obviously I’m not happy about it. As if the news of my pregnancy was a mere irksome event, like visiting relatives he despised or having to write a particularly dull essay.
“Nor am I.” I said, trying to keep a lid on the burgeoning irritation in my stomach, which threatened to travel up my throat and burst out my mouth. Losing my temper now would help no one.
“So what are you going to do?” Mike enquired, bald as ever.
I felt the last candle of hope inside me extinguish. So, it was up to me. Not what were “we” going to do. Instead, it would be my decision and mine alone. And not because he respected my right to choose either, but because he’d just rather not deal with it. Typical Mike. In that moment, I felt something click in my head as I considered what my gut instinct was. Now was one of those times I could rely on it – I had to. I remembered my mother’s words in the car park, “You know what options are available. What you mean is, you can’t decide.”
“I’m keeping it.” I said. The words sounded almost unreal to my own ears, yet as soon as I uttered them aloud, I knew it was the right decision somehow. This was my choice. This was what I wanted and needed. I could figure out university and all the other life stuff later. It wasn’t going anywhere. Mike’s face remained impassive, like he was made of stone. There was no reaction from him whatsoever, yet his cold stare, meeting my gaze, never wavered. Guilt immediately pierced my heart. What if he didn’t want the child? Did I have the right to inflict one on him, regardless? But then of course, it could be said one had already been “inflicted” on me, by him: I was the one who would have to deal with the consequences, no matter what Mike chose to do next. He didn’t have to stay. He could walk away whenever he wanted. I, however, would be the one whose life was truly affected.
“Are you okay with that?” I dared to ask, virtually holding my breath.
“I guess I’ll have to be.” He sighed.
What an anticlimax. Would anger have been better? I wondered this many times on the way home from Francis’ that day and in the months that followed. As with his reaction at the house, nothing much more was forthcoming from Mike as my pregnancy progressed. As planned, he went to university a few weeks after my announcement. “It’s better this way” my parents and Francis said, which I echoed, knowing they were right, yet not feeling it at all. I stayed at home, taking a job with Mr. Edwards at the local chemists and hiding my growing bump beneath long cardigans and under the counter from my employer. At least I could always pick up my Mum’s prescriptions for her.
Mike would call and regale me with tales of Freshers’ Week and parties and my cheeks would burn with envy. With every phone call he’d say a hurried “I love you” and ring off, leaving me doubting the validity of his words and if he even believed them, either. Was it something he just said, because he felt he had to? And was the same true for me? Shona too trotted off to university and to my hurt and dismay, dropped me like a stone. Promised phone calls never materialised; visits never came. Our relationship was instead acted out on Facebook walls and via texts as she told me how much she missed me and how I should come and see her, but with so little money and a baby to save for, this was impossible for me. As time progressed and my stomach grew, I started to doubt her posts’ sincerity in any case.
I tried to move on, but it was difficult to find new friends: it was as if all the teenagers around our way had vanished. Perhaps most had? Going to university was the perfect escape route. I knew no other girl even close to my age having a baby. I went to a couple of antenatal classes in town, but discovered the only Mums-To-Be there were old – thirties and forties even – and more than a bit weird. The nurse or midwife (or whatever she was) patronised us, asking to us to hold plastic dolls during “circle time” and getting us to tell everyone our hopes for when the baby came and how we feel our lives might change. I stifled a laugh as I heard various woman’s proclamations for their future children and how they felt their lives could only improve: had they never heard of varicose veins or postnatal depression? Had they ever considered their children might be twenty four carat brats or their husbands might leave them? By the time the midwife-whatever got to me, it was the end of the session and I felt relief. I had absolutely no idea how my life would change for the better! Um, I would have a baby? That bit I was almost looking forward to, once I got over the feeling of trepidation. But the lack of money terrified me; babies were expensive. And what was my future now? I had no idea how my life would work with a child in tow; it was as if my whole life had a massive question mark hanging over it.
At home, tensions were high between all the girls as usual. Amanda had more or less failed her qualification in health and beauty: she’d barely turned up for class at all – even though it had been just two days a week - and had been hiding letters down th
e side of her bed from Mum. Mum had gone nuclear and grounded Amanda for about seventeen years, though Amanda still managed to go to Open Mic night at the pub in town every Tuesday; first waiting for Mum to go to bed, then hiking the miles necessary there and back. I’d hear her clamber into bed at three in the morning, smelling of Pirnod and giggling. In direct contrast, Sal had received glittering results for her GCSEs – as predicted – and was now at the local college doing maths and all the sciences at A Level. As far as she was concerned, it was now official she was better than the rest of us, but especially me. Sal kept referring to me as the “breeding sister”, which I had to take on the chin and count to ten or become embroiled in full-on warfare. Hannah had begun her GCSEs and kept changing her options every five minutes, driving Mum mad with numerous calls to the school principal. As for the twins… They were just the twins. They discovered a mewling bag in a brook near the house and inside, were seven kittens, much to Mum’s chagrin. She told the twins they couldn’t keep them and they promised to put a card up in the local post office, but the card never materialised and before long all seven of the kittens were cats and sleeping under Mum’s bed with her own favourite feline, Monty.
My pregnancy progressed as it should. Being young and having a mother as experienced as mine, it couldn’t really gone any other way, without extreme bad luck. Never a big eater before, I discovered I was ravenous most of the time, with salt and vinegar crisps, orange juice, chocolate and even chunks of ice carved out of the freezer on my constant hit list. Before long, I looked as if I had swallowed a beach ball. I put weight on rapidly on my stomach and legs; my small frame felt suddenly huge with child. To my dismay, my belly soon looked like a road map of red lines as stretchmarks took their toll. I had them under my arms and on my thighs too. I became convinced I was massive, which was not helped by Mike when he came to visit at weekends and during university holidays.