Seven Lies (ARC)

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Seven Lies (ARC) Page 35

by Elizabeth Kay


  dered if you might be able to come over. I wanted to catch you before

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  you left for work, you see. There’s still time, I’m sure. But I’m getting 07

  these quite overwhelming twinges. I’ve been up since around three.

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  They come and go, you know, as they’re supposed to, but I just couldn’t

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  get back to sleep. And I’ve been waiting to call you and— as I said— I

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  thought you might be up by now.”

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  “When do you need me?” I asked.

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  There was a long silence.

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  “Shall I come over now?” I asked. “I can bring a few bits with me; I

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  can shower at yours instead.”

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  “Yes,” replied Marnie. “Please. If that’s okay.”

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  She told me that she loved me, really loved me, which was very un-

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  usual and, truthfully, entirely out of character. We didn’t have— have

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  never had— that sort of friendship. We don’t profess love a heartfelt

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  way or make promises of forever. Perhaps that has been our undoing.

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  But, regardless, it revealed to me that she really was very frightened,

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  that she really did need me.

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  I liked it, that feeling of being needed. And being needed by Marnie

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  specifically. I felt that I was sliding backward along the thread of a spi-24

  derweb, toward the place we used to be, when it was just us, and we

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  were friends, and there was nothing to complicate that simple fact.

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  I pulled on my jeans and a jumper, yanking my charger from the

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  socket and throwing it into my leather holdall. I had bought it for Jona-

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  than as a Christmas gift the year before he died. I took a few things

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  from the pile of clean clothing on the chair in the corner of my room—

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  underwear, a spare T- shirt, a small towel— and packed them as well. I

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  grabbed my washbag from the bathroom. I tucked my toothbrush into

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  the front pouch and found all manner of other products there, too—

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  shampoo samples and a comb with missing teeth and an array of tam-

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  pons in colorful plastic packaging and mascara with black paste crusted

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  around the seal— and I zipped it up and threw it all into the bag as well.

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  I darted down the stairs— two at a time, smelling my stale breath as

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  my breathing came quicker— and I arrived at Marnie’s in less than half

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  an hour, shiny with sweat and pink- cheeked, but delighted to see relief 06

  spreading across her face as she opened the door.

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  A man walked past us in a suit and an animal- print tie, his hair still

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  damp and a briefcase swinging from his fist. He must have seen me,

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  marathon red and panting heavily, and Marnie, heavily pregnant and

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  standing in the doorway in a calf- length peach nightdress. He turned

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  his head away quickly. “Morning,” he muttered.

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  “Morning,” sang Marnie.

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  As he disappeared around the corner, Marnie’s hands shot out to the

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  side and grabbed the door frame.

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  “Oh, not again,” she murmured.

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  She stepped backward, cradling her stomach in her arms.

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  The flat fell into chaos around her. I could see the TV screen danc-

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  ing in the living room, and the radio in the kitchen was turned up and

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  music was filtering down the stairs. The hallway was littered with

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  clothing: cardigans over the banister and scarves piled in a corner and

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  the pegs on the wall overflowing with jackets and coats. There were

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  endless trails of things in all directions: tea- stained mugs and empty

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  water glasses heading toward the kitchen, and half- eaten biscuits and

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  sweet wrappers and unopened crisp packets through to the living room,

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  and muslins and onesies and miniature socks scattered on the stairs.

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  I contorted my shock into a huge grin.

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  “It’s happening,” I said in a sort of singsong way and I did an awk-

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  ward jig, shifting my weight between my two feet and clapping my

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  hands together without ever really separating them.

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  Marnie groaned.

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  “Okay,” I said. “Okay. You’re having a contraction.”

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  “No shit,” she hissed, waddling back toward the lounge.

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  I watched her walk away, her feet turned outward, her hands pressed

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  into her lower back, and I felt immediately overwhelmed. I tried to re-

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  mind myself that this was all entirely normal and that women did this

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  every day, all over the world and at all hours. But it felt far from ordi-06

  nary. We had first known each other as children, and then as young

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  women, and as wives, but with her as a mother? The magnitude of that

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  felt impossible.

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  Marnie yelped.

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  I rushed after her.

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  She was lowering herself onto a gigantic blue inflatable ball.

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  “Right,” I said. “Of course. Yes. Deep breathing. That’s the way. In.

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  Out. In. And then— ”

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  “Are you joking?” she said. “Stop that. Shut up.”

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  “Okay. Yes.” I said. “I’ll just wait here.”

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  I perched on the edge of the sofa, holding my leather bag between

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  my legs. She bounced vigorously, up and down, fiercely blowing air

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  through her pursed lips. Eventually, she leaned backward, stretching

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  her chest and stomach up and out, and then she sighed. She began gen-

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  tly bouncing, lifting and lowering her considerable weight.

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  “Should we be going to— ”

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  “The hospital?” she said. “No, not yet. But they are getting longer.”

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  “How are you doing, anyway? Sorry about that. And for getting you up

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  so early. Just”—

  she waved her arm at the surrounding

  madness—

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  “everything’s got
a bit out of hand.”

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  Marnie abhors mess; she categorically cannot stand it. This, curi-

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  ously, is one of the very few things on which we absolutely agree. We

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  work in very different ways. We are our bests in very different situa-

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  tions. I like silence or just the quiet murmur of voices. She likes the

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  radio or music or the television, preferably all three. I am introverted: 31S

  I need my own space and my own company and to be alone. And she

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  is a textbook extrovert, confident and outgoing and thriving off other

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  people’s conversations and opinions and those interactions that drain

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  me so quickly.

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  I’ve said it already, haven’t I? She is light and I am dark. But untidi-

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  ness made us both useless.

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  I think she could probably have handled the pain and the discomfort

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  and the fear of labor itself— I wonder now if she really needed me there 06

  for those things— but she simply couldn’t function amid that much

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  disarray.

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  “I can see that,” I said. “What happened?”

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  “I know,” she said. “The place is a state. I was trying to go with the

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  flow, eat what I needed, and focus only on the contraction, and then I

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  thought I might just tidy up a bit, just to get ready, you know, and then 12

  everything got a bit intense, and, well”— she circled her hand over her

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  head again— “it all looks like this now.”

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  “Right,” I said.

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  I knew what she wanted from me. I knew what she needed. I always

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  had. And she had always known that I would deliver it, whatever it was

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  that she wanted: without question, without complaint.

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  “How about you stay there,” I said. “And I’ll do just a quick tidy- up?”

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  Marnie smiled, and it felt nice that at this precipice, at the begin-

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  ning of yet another stage of our lives, it was time again for “just a quick 21

  tidy- up.” I think it reassured me— wrongly, as it happens— that things 22

  weren’t going to change, that there was no reason to feel overwhelmed

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  by the significance of this moment, that everything would be fine.

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  Marnie bounced on her ball and I flitted between the rooms, gather-

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  ing and rehoming clothing, clearing litter into the bins, and folding the 26

  strangest, smallest, freshest- smelling blankets. I opened the windows.

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  It was one of the first bright days of the year— I hadn’t needed a coat—

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  and the breeze through the flat felt refreshing. When the apartment

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  was spotless, I had a quick shower and then made us cups of tea— hers

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  with plenty of milk, mine with just a thimbleful— and sat down on the

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  sofa to watch the twenty- four- hour news channel and hold her hand.

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  “Will you call my mum?” she asked.

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  I hadn’t expected that. “What?” I replied. “Why?”

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  “Perhaps she’ll want to be there? She might at least want to know

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  what’s going on.”

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  “Okay,” I said. “Are you sure?”

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  She nodded.

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  “Well, all right, then.” I went into the hallway and I hovered there,

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  and I neatened the coats on the pegs and kicked a feather into a gap

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  beneath the skirting board and I called her mother and I felt relieved

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  when she didn’t answer. I left a brief, mumbling message that probably

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  wasn’t particularly clear and returned to Marnie a few minutes later.

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  By the early afternoon, Marnie’s contractions were three minutes

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  apart and I called for a taxi to take us to the hospital. She changed into 16

  a light summer dress. She said that she was too hot and uncomfortable

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  for anything else. We sat together in the back and she grunted as we

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  went over the bumps, her eyes closed as though the darkness made the

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  pain bearable.

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  We arrived at the hospital and she shuffled through the main recep-

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  tion to the elevator and I was surprised when we arrived at the mater-

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  nity ward. It had all the trimmings of a normal hospital— the pale walls 23

  and a tiled floor and that smell of disinfectant— but something was

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  different. Perhaps it was the lighting or the smiles on the faces of the

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  staff or the pastel uniforms, but it didn’t feel quite so threatening.

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  We’d passed so many sick people on our way through the corridors;

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  ghoulish elderly women being transported along hallways in beds that

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  made them look tiny. And yet here the patients were all swollen and

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  sweating and bursting— literally— with life.

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  A smiling midwife in a blue and white tunic led us to a side room.

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  “Here you go, pet,” she said. “Get yourself comfy and I’ll be back to

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  check on you in five.”

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  Marnie held on to the bed frame and swayed from side to side, her

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  cheeks puffed out, her eyes again closed.

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  “Will you stay?” she whispered. “For it all? Until the baby gets here?”

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  “Of course,” I said. “Of course I’ll stay.”

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  Because where else would I have been?

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  06

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  Audrey Gregory- Smith was born at ten past seven in the evening on 08

  the twenty- fourth of April. She was small and angry and her face was

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  red and her eyes were squeezed firmly shut, closed almost as tightly as

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  her fists. She had thin tufts of fair hair on her scalp, wrinkles across her 11

  knees and elbows and knuckles, and pink pouting rosebud lips.

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  Marnie clutched her little girl to her chest, caught between joy and

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  panic, insisting simultaneously that she might be sick and that she

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  might drop the baby and then suddenly shouting, “Who’s in charge


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  here?” to a bustling room.

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  I reached over to place my hand on top of hers. “You.” I didn’t want

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  to frighten her, but wasn’t that the truth? “You’re in charge now.”

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  “Oh, fuck,” she replied and then grinned manically. “Well, that’s a

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  worry, isn’t it?” And then she began to sob.

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  I shushed her and stroked her hair away from her face.

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  “Where’s my mum?” she asked. “Is she on her way?” She looked

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  up at me.

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  “I don’t know,” I said. I didn’t think that her mother deserved to be

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  there for a moment that important.

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  “You did call her, didn’t you?” she asked.

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  “Yes,” I replied.

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  “Yes?” she repeated.

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  “Definitely,” I said.

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  “And she said she’d come?”

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  “Not exactly,” I said. “She didn’t answer. I left a message. I guess

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  she’s probably listened to it by now. I didn’t want to worry you. I thought N32

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  that she’d come to the hospital. But I suppose . . . Shall I call her now?

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  Let her know the good news?”

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  “No,” said Marnie. “I don’t think so.”

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  Which was exactly what I’d hoped she would say. Because this was

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  a moment for the most important people in that child’s life.

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  Chapter Thirty- Two

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  k

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  M

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  arnie was staying in the hospital overnight, and so I traveled

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  home by myself. I was thinking, in the taxi, as we slipped

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  through the backstreets of the city, how much had changed in the

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  course of that one day. And how world- altering days must happen to

 

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