Who We Were Before

by Leah Mercer

  And we are, of course we are. No one can claim motherhood is easy, and sometimes my head aches from the relentlessness of it all. But just like I imagined, those little moments every day – the moments when your child flings his arms around your neck, or when his giggles burst like bubbles in the air – make the hardship fade away into oblivion. I can barely remember my life before him; it feels empty somehow, without this weight of love and emotion.

  Edward’s trying to be calm about the whole thing, but I can see the disappointment and longing in his eyes when I tell him, month after month, that it hasn’t happened. He nods, gives me a hug, then just says we’ll keep trying. I want to ask how long – how long all this will go on for, because I don’t think I can bear year after year of failure. Instead, I clamp my lips closed, breathe in his scent, and tell myself that if it doesn’t happen, it’s fine. We have our family, we have the world’s most wonderful boy, and anything else is just a bonus. Perhaps we’re being greedy wanting more. Perhaps we should just bask in what we have. It’s hard, though, when desperation pours from Edward’s every cell.

  ‘Mama’s coming!’ I call to Milo when the banging and shouting reaches such epic levels, I’m afraid the door will cave in. Sighing, I pull up my knickers and wash my hands, gazing at my reflection in the mirror.

  Anything else is just a bonus, I repeat like a mantra, opening the door and gathering my wiggly son in my arms, breathing in his little-boy scent. He bites my nose and squirms away, and I lever myself into a sitting position just as the front door swings open.

  ‘Daddy!’ Milo breaks free and streaks towards his father, throwing his chubby arms around Edward’s legs.

  ‘Hey! Good day?’ Edward ruffles Milo’s soft brown hair, then bends down and kisses me. ‘Any news?’ He knows my period’s due today, and I try not to seem too anxious as I shake my head.

  ‘No. Not this time.’ I look away from Edward and over at Milo, unable to stand the disappointment etched in Edward’s face. ‘Come on, little boy. How about you tidy up before you trip on a toy?’

  We both watch as Milo runs to his toy box and proceeds to empty the rest of it rather than the reverse. Edward laughs, and I let out a big sigh. It’s only funny when you haven’t been tidying toys all day.

  ‘Come here.’ Edward pulls me up and over to the sofa. God, it feels good to sit on something cushioned rather than the hard floor I’ve been playing with Milo on all day. I lie back and shut my eyes, feeling myself relax now that Edward’s home and the weight of responsibility for Milo has been lifted a bit.

  ‘I’ve been thinking . . .’ Edward’s voice cuts into my haze, and I reluctantly lift my lids. ‘I know we haven’t been trying that long, but maybe I should get some tests done, just to see what the picture really is.’

  I sit up and rub my eyes. ‘Yeah, that makes sense.’ If it makes him less anxious, I’m all for it. ‘What do you need to get the process started?’

  ‘I’ll see our GP,’ Edward says, stretching out his long legs. I make a face, eyeing a hole in the seam of his jeans. I really need to take him out shopping soon. ‘The last time, it took about a month to book me in for testing, so I’d expect the same again.’

  I swing towards him. ‘The last time? What do you mean? You had the tests done before?’

  Edward shifts on the sofa. ‘Well, no. I didn’t actually go.’

  My brow furrows and I try to straighten it out. Mum keeps telling me I’m going to get wrinkles, and she’s right. ‘Why not? When was this, anyway?’ I cast my mind back over the past couple of years, trying to remember if he ever told me he was going to get tests done, but the results come back blank. And why would he not tell me, anyway?

  ‘It was after Kate told me you were pregnant. I wasn’t sure what to think – if it was even possible – so I went to see the GP, who booked me in for the tests. But then when you told me it wasn’t mine, then it was, and everything, well . . . there really didn’t seem to be much point.’

  ‘Ah.’ Both of us are staring at anything other than each other. It’s the first time we’ve ever spoken of that terrible chain of events – of the terrible thing I did. Looking back, I can’t believe I told Edward that Milo wasn’t his. I can’t believe I lied like that to the man I loved, the man whose son was inside of me.

  But I’m not the same person. I’m not that woman who baulked at forevers, at filling in the blanks of my future, at building a life full of love. Hell, I even want more of it, despite what that means – more sleepless nights, even less freedom and even more juggling.

  I’m not afraid any more.

  51

  EDWARD, SUNDAY, 7 A.M.

  The wail of an approaching ambulance cuts through the wall of pain that’s imprisoning me. I try my best to turn in its direction, but it hurts even more. I must have hit my head really hard.

  ‘English?’ The paramedic asks when he reaches me, accompanied by the man who first helped me.

  ‘Yes,’ I say through gritted teeth. Even speaking that much is agonising.

  The paramedic tries to turn my head and a sharp yelp escapes me. I’d be embarrassed, but honestly, I’m still too drunk to care and it hurts like fucking hell.

  ‘You come with us to hospital,’ the paramedic says. ‘A doctor will need to stitch this.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ I say. ‘Can’t you just put a plaster on it?’ Suddenly, a thought enters my mind. What time is it, anyway? Fiona’s train will arrive this morning, and I’m in no fit state to meet her. I can only imagine how she’d embrace the winning combination of booze and vomit. At the very least I need a shower. A trip to the hospital – a French hospital, at that, where I’ll have no clue what’s happening – is not on the agenda.

  But the paramedic has other ideas. He’s already taking my arm and helping me up. ‘You don’t get that stitched, you’ll have a big . . . what do you call it? Scar. Plus risk of infection. Come. It won’t take long.’

  Yeah, right. Since when have hospitals been known for their speed? But Fiona still hasn’t rung, and I don’t want a scar or infection either. Sighing, I let the paramedic lead me into the back of the ambulance and position me on a stretcher. The doors slam closed, the engine starts up, and my eyes close as it pulls away.

  The clang of the doors opening again jerks me back to consciousness. I try to sit up but the pain is blinding, so I lower my head. As the paramedics carry me into the hospital, the bright lights and the smell of antiseptic, dust and the musky scent of people crowded together hit my senses.

  All of a sudden, a wave of memory sweeps over me so quickly I don’t have time to push it back.

  It’s the day of Milo’s accident, and Zoe’s just rung. She’s in the back of the ambulance with him, she says, in a voice so flat and lifeless, it sounds like a stranger. Sirens blaring in the background, she asks me to meet her at the hospital, then hangs up. I try to call her back, but the mobile signal at the godforsaken location my company’s holding their corporate retreat is so weak, I can’t get through.

  Why the fuck has this happened on the one day I’m miles from home?

  I hastily make my exit and grab a taxi to the train station, praying to God the next train is soon. For once, my luck is in. A train pulls in with a screech and I hop onto it, my heart beating fast. At this time of day, there are plenty of seats, but I can’t bear to sit. Instead, I stand in the doorway, as if being right there at the ready will make the train go faster. All the while I dial Zoe’s number over and over, but it just keeps ringing, then goes to voicemail.

  As the rows of suburban houses and chimneys flash by, my mind fills with images of Milo, lying in the back of the ambulance – if they could get him to lie down, that is. We always joked he’d need to be sedated before anyone could get him to be still; putting him to bed could sometimes take hours. Maybe it’s a broken arm, or a twisted ankle? A knock on the head needing observation? Perhaps he’s sitting up, tugging at the cords and banging on the wall. I pace back and forth across the narrow space, trying to
speculate on the nature of the accident and cursing my wife for not telling me more.

  Finally, the train pulls into the station. I press the door release button over and over, willing it to hurry up. When the doors hiss open, I dash off the train and down the platform, then up the stairs and over the bridge to the waiting rows of taxis.

  ‘Royal Surrey Hospital, please,’ I say, barely able to speak after my burst of exercise. I try to ring Zoe once more, the mobile phone sweaty in my grasp. Still no answer.

  I throw a few notes at the driver as the car pulls up to the hospital, then slam the door and hurry into A&E. We’ve been here once before, a few months ago when Milo had croup. Christ, that was scary. Just listening to him struggling to breathe put the fear of God into my heart. Seeing him in pain made me physically sick, and in that one night, I realised I couldn’t bear to lose him.

  I push past a huddle of tired-looking people towards reception. Normally I’d be mortified to queue-jump – I’m a proper Brit that way, Zoe always jokes – but now, I don’t even care.

  ‘My son was brought in by ambulance an hour or so ago,’ I say, wiping the sweat off my brow. ‘Milo Morgan. Please can you tell me where he is?’

  She looks like she’s about to order me to the back of the line, but something in my face must have communicated my desperation, because she asks for his date of birth, and then clacks away on the computer.

  ‘Have a seat right here,’ she says, her tone brisk, but her eyes have softened. ‘I’ll get someone to bring you to him.’

  I move a few steps back but there’s no way I can sit. I run a hand over my face again, and once more it comes away slick with sweat. Somewhere inside this huge behemoth of a building is my son. I need to see him, to hold his hand and to kiss his chubby cheek. I need to make sure he’s okay, or that he’s going to be soon. I need him to know that Daddy is here.

  ‘Mr Morgan?’ An orderly appears at my side. ‘Come this way, please.’

  I follow him through a set of swinging doors and down a corridor, the only sound the squeaking of his shoes. As we move away from A&E and through yet another nondescript hallway, my brow furrows. Where are we going? Has Milo been transferred to another unit? I want to ask, but I don’t want to slow the man down. I just want to get to my family as fast as possible. The orderly is moving quickly, thank goodness, and I churn my legs to keep up. I’d run if I could.

  He ushers me into a lift, then presses a button and the lift shudders into action. As the doors slide open, a blue sign with white letters meets my eyes. It takes a while before the letters actually gel together to make a word, and when my mind understands what that word is, my feet refuse to move any further. They can’t move any further. I’m not going there. That’s not for me – not where Milo is. They’ve somehow got it wrong.

  The sign says ‘Morgue’.

  The orderly is halfway down the hallway, the squeak of his shoes even louder now in the silent corridor, before he turns around and sees I’m not behind him.

  ‘Mr Morgan?’

  I’m still rooted to the ground, my muscles shaking now as the tremor that started inside me spreads through my body. My head shakes back and forth too. Every part of me, every cell, rejects where this man is taking me.

  ‘I’m looking for my son,’ I say, my voice somehow emerging from the desert that is my mouth. ‘My son. Milo Morgan.’

  The orderly steps towards me, and uncertainty mixed with panic flashes across his face. For the first time, I realise how young he is – he’s probably not even twenty.

  ‘Er, yeah, I’m sorry, reception told me to bring you here,’ he says. ‘For the boy that came in by ambulance, right?’

  I nod, and the orderly bites his lip.

  ‘Please follow me.’ It sounds more of a timid request than anything else, and even though I still can’t believe I’m in the right place, in a strange way, I feel compelled to help out this young man. I force my legs to move towards him, then around another corridor, until we stop outside a room. There’s a small window with a curtain drawn across it, and I can feel my breath catch in my throat.

  ‘Your wife is inside here, along with your son,’ the orderly says, then turns and walks quickly down the corridor again, the squeaks increasing in frequency as if he can’t wait to escape the scene.

  I still can’t believe they’ve got it right, but I need to allay the dread and fear inside. Like something in a nightmare, in slow motion I raise my hand and knock on the door, my heart pounding as I wait for whoever’s inside to open it. Please let it not be Zoe. Please let it not be Zoe. Please let it not be Zoe. A desperate kind of prayer runs through my head as footsteps approach.

  I see the door handle twist, and then Zoe appears, and everything inside me goes black.

  52

  ZOE, SUNDAY, 8.30 A.M.

  There’s no way I can stay in this hotel room and just wait for Edward to appear. I need to move, to do something. My days of drifting around waiting for the time to pass are over.

  I slip his wedding band in my pocket, then thump down the narrow stairs and over to reception.

  ‘Could you tell me when you last saw my husband? Edward Morgan?’ I ask the receptionist. It’s a small hotel, so there’s a chance she might remember. She gives me a pitying stare, likely wondering what kind of pathetic marriage we have that I don’t even know where he is.

  ‘I haven’t seen him this morning,’ she says, ‘but I’ve only just started my shift.’

  Ah, of course. ‘If you do see him, can you please tell him his wife is looking for him? There’s a note in the room,’ I say, not wanting to go into details. She’s already starting to look bored.

  ‘Of course. And may I remind you that checkout is at eleven?’

  Cheeky cow, I think, as a flash of panic goes through me. What if I don’t find Edward before checkout? How will I get home? It’s funny that now I actually want to go back. I’ve spent the past two years trying to get away.

  But I’ll find Edward again. Of course I will – all his things are still here. Unless . . . My fingers worry the ring in my pocket. Unless something’s happened to him.

  He’s a big boy, I remind myself, pushing back the niggling fear. I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for why his ring was on the pavement. I bite my lip, thinking that maybe I’ll call a few hospitals . . . just in case. I never told Edward, but it’s something I used to do whenever he came home late from work, in that first year after Milo’s accident. Life – or death – had shown me how easily something could be yanked away, how quickly someone you loved with all your being could just disappear. And even though I wasn’t hanging on to Edward during that time – I couldn’t, I didn’t have it in me – there was still a part of me that feared losing him. I called so much that the hospital refused to answer my queries, and eventually I stopped. But I don’t think my fear ever did.

  But this isn’t the same thing, not even close. We’re in a strange city, he hasn’t been here all night, and his ring was on the pavement. I know in my heart of hearts that something isn’t right. I head back down to reception, knowing she’s going to think I’m crazy and not even caring. I gave up caring what other people think about my state of mind long ago.

  ‘I’m worried about my husband,’ I say to her now. ‘It’s not like him to be out all night. I’d like to call the hospitals just to make sure he’s not there. If you could give me the number—’

  ‘I do it,’ she says, surprising me with her responsiveness. ‘It will be easier if I do it.’

  ‘That would be great, thank you. His name is Edward Morgan, he’s tall and thin with dark hair . . . He should have his ID on him.’ I bite my lip again, thinking that if his wedding ring was missing, maybe his wallet is, too. What are the chances of us both getting mugged in this city?

  She nods and looks up a number on the computer. I hold my breath as she dials it, then asks the operator something in rapid French. I catch Edward’s name, and then she nods. ‘I have called the n
earest with an emergency department. I am on hold; they are checking admissions now. It could take some time.’ She looks pointedly at a chair in front of the desk, but there’s no way I can sit.

  He’ll be fine, I tell myself. He has to be. After everything I’ve been through, there’s no way I could lose him, too. Not like this.

  The receptionist lets out a stream of French to whoever’s on the other end of the line, then turns to me. ‘He’s at hospital Hotel Dieu,’ the receptionist says, and my heart jumps.

  ‘Is he okay? What happened?’

  ‘They wouldn’t tell me anything,’ she says, dialling another number and shooting French into the receiver. ‘I’ve called you a cab, and it should be here in a minute. It will take you there.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The words emerge in a trembling voice. My legs somehow carry me to the door, my heart beating against my ribs like it wants to get out. This can’t be happening. Not again.

  I won’t let it.

  53

  EDWARD, SUNDAY, 8.30 A.M.

  ‘Monsieur?’

  My eyes fly open at the sound of a voice. A doctor is hovering over me, poking and prodding at the wound on my head. Christ, that hurts.

  ‘You will definitely need stitches,’ he says, turning away and pulling open a drawer where the torture instruments await. ‘One moment, please.’ He slides open a curtain and I rest my head against the hard mattress again with a soft groan. My skull is pounding so hard it’s practically levitating off the pillow with each throb, and the less said about the state of my digestive system, the better. What the hell was I thinking, drinking so much?

  My eyes drift closed again, and Zoe’s face flashes into my mind, exactly how it looked that day at the morgue: not my wife, not someone I know, someone frozen . . . someone locked inside so firmly she could barely move. I should have hugged her, or tried to, anyway, but I couldn’t. All I could see, once my vision cleared, was Milo.