Third Child

by Kate Mitchell

  The story of this game was beginning to take a shape for Cecelia, she was finding the right words to say in her writing. And it was the death of an unborn that had started it.

  Joanna, Cecelia knew had been good friends with Samantha. A conversation with her might shed some light on Samantha’s death or give some understanding as to what had happened. But how to approach someone you’ve never spoken to before?

  Coming to four o’clock in the afternoon, time for the changeover for the evening staff whose duty finished at midnight. Cecelia made this her chance to sit next to Joanna. There was no great or significant news to impart in the changeover, except what new person was in the suites and who since today had left the clinic. After the meeting, the staff made their way to the changing rooms.

  ‘I still can’t get over Samantha killing herself,’ Cecelia caught up and was now walking in line with Joanna.

  ‘Well, it’s something you have to accept. She’s gone and there is nothing anyone can do about it,’ Joanna snapped.

  Cecelia understood that Joanna wouldn’t readily like her, but her sudden indifference to her great friend’s death shocked Cecelia. She had witnessed these two friends together and knew their friendship went beyond the clinic. She couldn’t forget her friend just like that unless something or someone had frightened her.

  ‘I shall miss her; she was a lovely person.’

  ‘Yes, she was,’ Joanna frowning didn’t want Cecelia hanging on to her. The rather dull Joanna didn’t take to people easily and especially to this over-friendly Cecelia. Only a week she had been here and now her friend Samantha was dead. She wouldn’t put it past the clinic to hire a worm to find out what their staff thought about them.

  ‘Joanna,’ called Emma catching up to them both. ‘Are you going to Angelina’s,’ she stopped and acknowledged Cecelia, she was another one who also didn’t trust this new stranger.

  ‘Yes,’ Joanna said while eyeing Cecelia. They had to keep guard; she was an invader who couldn’t be trusted.

  ‘Can I come?’ Cecelia piped in seeing this as her opportunity.

  ‘Come where?’ Joanna was fearlessly aggressive.

  ‘To Angelina’s funeral.’

  ‘How did you know about her?’

  ‘Samantha told me.’

  ‘I don’t believe Samantha would discuss anything about Angelina to you.’

  ‘Samantha was my friend. I asked her about Angelina—it’s not a secret, I read about it in the paper and her tragic accident. I said I would like to go along to the funeral. It was appalling to die so young. But if you don’t tell me where it is, I can find out for myself.’

  They both stared resentfully at Cecelia.

  ‘It’s tomorrow at two in the afternoon at St Edmund’s.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Cecelia’s eyes brightened. ‘I’ll be there, and I’ll buy her some flowers.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ the two friends walked off together.

  Puzzled, Cecelia found herself walking slowly to the changing room. She had never come across such hostility before. Sure, people kept to themselves, and if they didn’t want to talk to you, they moved out of your way, but usually, in the end, they befriended you. But these two were extraordinarily belligerent like they had something to protect and something which made them afraid.

  But tomorrow she would be there for Angelina, a person she had only met twice and hardly knew. And tomorrow was her first weekend off.

  ‘How are you feeling today?’ Peter was waiting for Cecelia again on her return.

  She had gone shopping for something to wear for tomorrow’s funeral. He saw the bags and showed interest. Was she going to show him?

  It hadn’t surprised Cecelia to find Peter waiting for her in reception, in reality, she hoped he would be there so she could show him what she had bought. In her bag was a new black dress for tomorrow’s occasion.

  ‘I’ve bought myself a dress, would you like to see it?’

  This invitation meant that she was inviting him into her life, his eyes beamed with pleasure. That awful sulk and suspicion he was wearing yesterday dissolved and disappeared, like the early morning mist.

  ‘You should have said you wanted a dress. I would have been pleased to buy it for you. I have more money than you and it would give me great pleasure to spend it on you.’ In his correct and incisive mind, Peter had already worked out that this dress was for her uncle.

  ‘Tell me,’ began Peter, ‘how long has your uncle got now?’ he was hopeful, looking forward to the time when she would tell him that her uncle was dead.

  Though this uncle didn’t exist, it still surprised Cecelia that Peter should be optimistic about his demise. But this uncle’s supposed death depended on finding out if the dismantled baby had actually existed, and for that, Cecelia needed proof Angelina’s story had been real.

  And it all depended on Ruth. But Ruth had admitted to having had abortions, but information of when she had them was existent only on the flimsy times of the past.

  Yet, it still was a shocking notion that people with money enough to buy an entire country could execute their child to satisfy their vanity, and without any consequences. But what can anyone do to the parent when it was their child they had terminated? Did you put the mother away when she was cutting out her flesh? So, when did these fetuses rights kick into life when they didn’t have a voice? And who would miss them if they didn’t have a name?

  Somehow, it seemed to diminish Cecelia’s own status and rights to life compared to a woman as powerful as Ruth. An incomprehensibly wealthy person could decide that if they didn’t like you, you could be sentenced to death with one word. The pasts warning to the future of the consequences of what happens if you don’t listen to it. Torturing and illegal deaths, 3,257 people had to die for the vanities Marcos in the Philippines, and there are many others.

  More extraordinary was the fact that it could be covered up with the help of their friends. An association of like-minded people, who will look after your back for you with the promise that you will look after theirs when they were in need.

  This was not Cecelia’s world, she didn’t recognize anything about it, the gains and profits of selling your soul. To her, this was a world of insecurities. One day you could be on top of the world, the next day quite the opposite. These people’s radar maps were selective. It was like joining a club where everyone followed tribal rules. In fact, it was unreal and yet, it had an impact on everyone’s lives. People in the middle who got caught up in the middle of nowhere.

  ‘So, what are you doing with yourself now?’ she asked Peter while they dined on another meatloaf.

  ‘I’ve been looking at houses, somewhere for us to live. I don’t know about you, but I would prefer to live in the countryside and away from the noise and drama of life.’

  So strange for Cecelia to think about. Getting a house together was for her still up in the air. The fact that she was going to spend her life with someone she barely knew came with the new idea that she was to spend it with him in the countryside. When she had always lived in towns.

  Would she be lonely or more alarmingly, would this man turn into a controller who once he had got her away from everything could turn her life into a living hell? Sometimes, handsome and wealthy don’t tick all the right boxes.

  Coincidentally, this was the conversation that Ruth had with her and the complaints she found in living with her very wealthy husband. Would Cecelia also find this out for herself when or if she lived with Peter? He was very handsome, but was this enough?

  ‘I have never lived in the countryside,’ Cecelia said shyly hoping that Peter wouldn’t think this as a criticism.

  ‘Well, I used to live in the countryside when I was a boy. It’s all right. There is plenty of hunting to be done when we have our own estate. We can rear our own food, kill it and eat it.’

  Killing her own food? She had lived in town and her meat had also come in hygienic packages. There were no feathers or fur. To see their eyes open and a
live with trust, and then to witness their death especially by her own hands. To know that their hearts had stopped beating as the creature slips to the ground, no, she couldn’t do that.

  But in a way, this had happened to Angelina when the torso of the unborn lay helpless in her hands. It must have appeared like it had waited for this moment to open its baby blue eyes to her. This first and last look was impregnated on her mind forever. If this had happened to Cecelia, she didn’t know if she could ever delete this image from her memory. The impact of such innocence would walk every step with her, each and every day of her life. How would you deal with such a memory? Would you contemplate killing yourself?

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Peter was smiling into her face. She had gone somewhere without him being there and he didn’t like it. He too had been doing his own thinking and musing and had concluded that he didn’t want to be on his own anymore. It was a shocking fact that he had just owned up to.

  ‘I was just trying to picture you as a young boy living in the countryside. Somehow, I could never envisage it.’

  ‘I know,’ he was gazing into the distance. ‘It’s something that I too find difficult to believe. A time when I was innocent. But life can be cruel to the innocent, it takes everything away which you would like to keep,’ and then he laughed and looked to Cecelia. ‘I’m so anxious for us to start our lives together that I can’t help hoping that your uncle will die quickly. Do you think that’s wicked of me?’

  ‘No, my uncle is nothing to you. It’s as if he doesn’t exist. So, no, you are not wicked. I can understand.’

  ‘Let me come with you tomorrow?’ he took hold of Cecelia’s hand. His plea urgently needed to be fulfilled.

  ‘No, I can’t—I’m sorry I can’t,’ she was panicking. ‘My uncle is very weak and seeing you with me might kill him.’

  Peter smiled. It was the smile of the devil; it was easy to guess what was going on in his mind. He would certainly be shocked to know what was going on in hers.

  Would he understand what she was doing when she told him later? Already, she had broken the first trust of their delicate relationship. Sometime later, when Angelina’s story was set on paper. Would he understand when she explained that she had to do it this way?

  13

  When the gray Saturday finally arrived, peeping over the top of midnight and sinking its yellow-gray jaws into the young milk of the day, Cecelia met Peter at the breakfast table and was astonished to see that he was dressed in a mourning suit.

  ‘An explanation,’ Peter said sitting down at the table. ‘I thought I should go and visit the family’s grave since you won’t allow me to come and visit your uncle. But when you see me tonight, you shall see a different me and a time for celebration. I think we should both go out tonight. It’s Saturday night which makes everything okay.’

  Again, she hadn’t been listening to him. Occupied in Cecelia’s mind was how would she wear the black dress without Peter seeing it? She might just have to take that chance or wear another dress on top of the black one, just in case.

  At half-past twelve, Peter was nowhere to be seen on Cecelia’s approach to the door. A quick exit outside and a walk to the Metro, no turning back to see if he was watching. Relief came when it now seemed like he had already left the bed-and-breakfast for his own strange rendezvous.

  Once out of the station, she was given directions by someone who wasn’t too much in a hurry. It was a big church which couldn’t be missed, he was pointing to the northwest and then swirled his arm to the south.

  There was a large crowd outside waiting to go into the church. To the side of the crowd and waiting, hiding almost by the bushes next to the church were reporters. Cecelia could recognize her own sort anywhere. They knew they didn’t belong, but they had to do a job, this is what she told herself. It emphasized her mission. Life must be reported, history must be recorded, the toll of the innings of wrongs and rights had to be rung out. It was part of life’s cycle of justice. A voice suppressed is a wound that will never heal.

  But why were they here with their big flashy cameras, an overstatement to show how powerful their work was? Although she knew this type of person, these people here at the church were ones she didn’t know personally. It was fortunate because this meant that she could ask them what they were doing here. Relaxed as if she knew everyone, Cecelia wandered off into their direction and when she approached, she smiled.

  ‘You’re from the press, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes mam, we are,’ at least he took the trouble to dress in darker colors. ‘Are you attending this funeral?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes,’ she could see his paper and pen coming out. She had better hurry up and ask them before making her getaway. ‘Why are you covering it?’

  ‘With a beautiful woman like that, her sudden death has made the news.’

  ‘But it was a tragic accident, she fell in front of a bus.’

  ‘It was tragic, that’s for sure, but our boss believes differently. He thinks she was pushed. But that’s his decision, either way, it’s still tragic. How did you know Angelina Madison?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ Cecelia turned with a smile and began to walk away.

  These men wouldn’t pursue her not at a funeral. Despite what they say about reporters, only the bad media guys get the worst kind of coverage. The profession usually gets invited into an event because these people want others to know about how well they’ve done, who they are being seen out with and other festive things. But they are only wanted when life is going well for these sudden celebrities.

  Drizzle slipped through the air making this affair all the sadder. Looking about on this gray Autumn day Cecelia saw the other people from the clinic, huddled coldly together. They were waiting for Angelina’s body to arrive. Black bodies flocking united in a conspiracy of grief.

  Strange how the body swiftly becomes the possession of the crowd, when once this soul and body had been identified as an entire entity. But not anymore, Angelina had gone away released from the compound of her flesh. If people had spirits, would she now be looking down on them and feeling pity?

  A large black car, a shiny polished hearse was now approaching slowly. Inside lay Angelina, her eyes closed in her eternal sleep while she waited to be delivered into the ground. It was one of those disconcerting moments filled with unutterable somberness and sorrow. One day, we will each make that journey. This was the thought which entered the minds of everyone waiting.

  Now as the hearse approached, the chill from the waiting flock spoke a word of respect, the hush of reverence. It stuck in your heart how sudden and sad this slow movement from life to death bore its passing.

  Moving to the side of the congregation, Cecelia needed to witness the car coming through the drive to the church, it was her acceptance of what had happened, and the beginning of closure. But then she stopped to catch hold of her breath for watching and waiting was the unexpected figure of Peter.

  What was Peter doing here? He shouldn’t be here, and neither should she. Yet, her eyes would be more forgiving than his. And if he saw her would he question her reason and then her honesty?

  Quick, get out of here, Cecelia warned herself seeing their eyes meeting ahead in the future. He must not see her because questions would be asked, and she had a great deal more to conceal than he did.

  Keeping her face masked from his eyes, Cecelia used other people’s bodies for her camouflage. Yet, if he should turn now, he would catch her running out of the churchyard, a lone figure on an unforgiving landscape before she reached the black iron gates.

  Came that question which stopped her to hide behind one of several mausoleums. Why was he here? If she went to him now to ask him why he was here, their answers might be similar. But why give him any information about herself? She had the advantage now; it was a good idea that she kept this secret to herself

  Once the casket had entered the church, people started their walk silently in after it. From behind the mausoleum, Cecelia
watched Peter analytically moving among the crowd of black-draped mourners, it was as if he was looking for someone. Discreetly, he looked from side to side to inspect everyone’s face before they went in. It was almost like he was making sure that their feelings were real and wretched enough before going into the church himself. Yet, before he went in, he took one last look about him as if he was making sure about something.

  Quickly, as Peter’s eye survey the funeral perimeters her head jerked back to her asylum. Had he caught sight of her, the whisk of her hair or shape of her profile and made that answer that she was spying? Had he seen her? Would he turn back and come across and catch her watching?

  He didn’t.

  What was going on? Why was he here when he said he was going to see his family’s memorial? Was Angelina a relative? How awful if she was? Yet, he had never mentioned anything about Angelina and the grief he bore. She must be one of Peter’s cousins.

  Perhaps her death was too painful for him to talk about. Poor man. But should she mention that she had seen him at the funeral? And if she did, what would be his question to her? Why was she at the funeral when she said she would be somewhere else?

  Back at the guest house, Cecelia picked up her cell phone which she had purposely left behind and found that Ruth had rung her four times. This was an order, not a request which meant that she better call her back now.

  ‘I’m in the clinic,’ Ruth said, her voice frightened and panicking. ‘I think I might be going into labor. Where’ve you been? You said that you would be there for me when I give birth.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Cecelia begun. ‘I was at a funeral.’