Countless

by Karen Gregory

  At the end of the class, I shoot out before Edward or leaky biro owner can stop me. I briefly consider going to physics, but first I need a cigarette to calm me down. I scoot over to the unofficial smoking shelter across the road from the main gates. We’re not technically allowed to smoke at college, but loads of people do. Right now, getting caught smoking wouldn’t exactly be the biggest of my worries.

  I stand away from the small huddle of other students, my back turned, and roll a cigarette. The wind cuts into my bare hands, making them clumsy and numb, the tips of my fingers already turning completely white. I know from experience I won’t be able to feel them for a good ten minutes when I get back inside.

  I keep my head down, still fumbling with the paper and the pouch of baccy.

  I hear someone say, ‘You coming out later?’

  ‘No. My mum’s on a mission, wants me home in time for dinner.’

  A flash of jealousy, like my lighter flaring, then going out. No one’s insisting I get home in time, though this does have the added bonus of no dinner, unless I manage to haul my sorry butt to the shops first. I hit the lighter’s flint again, the metal rasping, but it sputters and dies.

  ‘Here.’ A flame flickers in front of my face. Behind it is a girl I didn’t even recognise the first few times I saw her in college, on account of her complete ugly duckling style transformation into someone impossibly cool.

  It’s Sal.

  I take a long, awkward drag, then say, ‘Thanks’ on the out breath, pushing smoke into the air.

  Sal is the last person I want to see, particularly today. And I definitely don’t want to see that familiar concerned look echoing back at me from Year Six, when I wouldn’t eat any cake at her party.

  I know exactly what’s coming next.

  ‘So … how’s … stuff?’ she says.

  ‘Oh yeah, doing good, thanks. It’s nice to see you. I’ve been meaning to say hi.’

  Sal does a small half-shrug and lights her cigarette.

  Sure I have.

  We both think it. We both know there are too many years between that birthday cake and now. It’s one of the reasons I’ve been keeping my head down at college once I realised it was her.

  I take another drag and this wave of sickness crashes through me from nowhere. I can see in Sal’s eyes that I’ve gone pale. That look of worry mixed with the tiniest amount of irritation, like she’s remembering all those times she sat next to me at lunch, trying to make me laugh, waving Hula Hoops rings I wouldn’t eat on each finger. She got it down pretty quick. But I still remember the Sal from before. The one I used to argue with about who’d be the red Power Ranger (the red one controlled the Megazord and was therefore the best, never mind it was always a he and not a she).

  If things had gone differently, maybe Sal would’ve been a person I’d have asked to come with me for this scan. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, then make myself smile. ‘I need to go. But it was great to see you,’ I say.

  I get the distinct impression she’s shaking her head as I leg it.

  The hospital is full of echoes. I take the stairs to the fifth floor and hand the letter from the doctor’s to the receptionist. She squints at it and then gestures to the rows of chairs. I take a seat as far away as possible from the sea of bumps accompanied by men with ridiculous expressions of pride and worry on their faces. I try not to make eye contact with anyone, focus on counting the seconds in my head. I’m past two thousand by the time my name is called.

  I follow the woman into a little room with a bed and what I assume is the scanner attached to a screen next to it.

  ‘Not waiting for anyone?’ she says in a way that I think is meant to be kind.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right then. If you could lift up your top.’

  I turn my head to look at the wall as she puts tissue round the top of my jeans, squirts gel all over my stomach and presses a wand thing into it quite hard, considering.

  After a second, she says, ‘Ah, here we are.’

  I whip my head towards her, but her eyes are focused on the screen.

  I want to say, ‘Are you sure? There’s really something in there?’ But she’s already talking about measurements.

  Suddenly she smiles and turns the screen towards me. ‘There’s the heartbeat, see?’

  ‘I don’t want to see it!’ My voice comes out way louder than I meant it to. I shift my eyes back to the edge of the room.

  The sonographer goes kind of still for a minute, then clatters away at a keyboard underneath her screen. I think she says some more stuff – I catch the words ‘twenty-three weeks’ – but the second she gets the scanner off me, I’m up and pulling my top down over my jeans, not bothering to let her rub the gel off.

  I don’t take the pictures she tries to hand me.

  Chapter 4

  ‘Hedda? I’m Mary. The specialist midwife? We spoke on the phone?’

  She’s early.

  I have a packet of noodles clutched to my chest which I shift so I can shake the hand she’s offering. She has a cavernous bag at her feet and I wonder what she’s got in there. Better not be scales.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  I’ve been staring at the bag, I realise, and I shuffle back, open my arms. ‘Be my guest.’

  I see her look around the more or less empty flat, but subtly. I try to ignore the heavy bass coming through the wall adjacent to the bathroom. I remember the first evening here, trying to sleep through the sound of loud music and later the shouting in the hallway, huddled tight under a stupidly thin duvet, my coat slung over the top of it, too keyed up to sleep. Seems incredible to think that was six months ago. It’s the longest I’ve been out of hospital since I was twelve; usually I’d make it three, four months then wind up straight back in. Even three days out seemed too long that first night at the Yewlings. I didn’t know how to be on my own at the best of times, never mind suddenly being in my own flat where apparently things like keeping the electricity on and – hollow laugh – buying food were supposed to be my responsibility. I’d nearly called Mum then and there, to beg her to change her mind. She probably would have, given that they were burying Molly the next day, but I couldn’t make myself call. Too shocked, for one thing.

  Mary turns warm eyes on me. I scan her face and can’t find any hint of that fake professional look of pretending not to judge. She must see all sorts, in her line of work. And she’s fast, I’ll give her that. I only had the scan two days ago. Two days where I’ve basically done nothing but stare at the internet which, despite being the biggest source of information ever known to man/woman/whatever is not actually helping much when it comes to working out what the hell I do now. Babies don’t happen in my world.

  ‘You want a cup of tea?’ I say.

  ‘Yes please. White and one.’

  I flick the kettle on, turn round to see she has a big pack of notes with a sheet of stickers. I make the tea and sit at an angle to her, arms crossed over my – as of yet – more or less non-existent bump.

  ‘Lovely, thanks,’ Mary says. She looks for somewhere to put the mug and ends up resting it on the floor. ‘So, shall we have a little look through?’ She scans the notes. ‘Could you confirm your date of birth?’

  We go through some general questions: address, height, weight (I lie, obviously).

  And then she asks the kicker: ‘Is the father involved at all?’

  A quick flash of fumbling fingers, my jeans round my ankles, a rough cold wall. The G & Ts, the first and last alcohol I’ve ever had, sloshing in my stomach like acid. Over the memories, like the credits from some surreal film, scrolls Molly’s List. The one she wrote for me before she died.

  I turn my face quickly away. ‘No.’

  Mary steeples her fingers together and considers me. They’re wrinkled at the back, hands of a woman older than I’d first pegged her. Her hair is dyed in a red shade that clashes with her burgundy nails. She’s carrying a few extra pounds around the middle.

 
‘And you’ve considered all your options?’ she says. ‘You’ve had counselling?’

  I try not to think about the session with Felicity I missed yesterday, or the message she left me on my phone. Internet research counts as counselling, right?

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I say. ‘I know what I want to do. I don’t want it.’

  Mary’s voice is gentle. ‘Hedda, your scan put you at –’

  ‘Twenty-three weeks.’

  ‘Yes. That’s –’

  ‘Late. I know.’

  Mary’s hands come apart with a sucking sound. ‘Yes. But an abortion isn’t impossible. Given your history, it might well be the safest option.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘Well, I should warn you that it’ll be a surgical procedure.’

  ‘I know. I looked it up.’ I don’t mention the pictures I saw of tiny babies, their arms the size of a finger. ‘I wish I could … but I can’t. I can’t have this thing inside me. I said I didn’t want it and I don’t. What the hell would I do with a baby? It’s ridiculous.’ I’m trying to sound definite, but the words are coming out wrong.

  Mary’s fighting it, but the judgement is there now – I read it in the faintest stiffening around her eyes.

  ‘OK. Let me make some phone calls,’ she says. She shuffles my notes together and stands up.

  I walk her to the door.

  I can feel Nia behind me, bony hands resting on my shoulders. I want to lean back into their hardness.

  ‘This is the right thing to do,’ I say.

  But somehow I’m in front of the door and I can’t seem to make my hand reach out for the handle. I think, suddenly, of Molly and the promise I made her: that I’d keep out of hospital. I think of Nia, watching all these months as I’ve kept my word, like a bird of prey who I take out and fly round the room every once in a while – because Nia isn’t something you just let go.

  ‘Are you OK? You’re very white,’ Mary says.

  ‘Yes. I’m fine.’

  I go to open the door, miss the handle and lean on it heavily. Then I look at her.

  ‘No. Not really,’ I say.

  We go back to the sofa. Mary waits for me to speak.

  Impossible thoughts swirl around my head – and over them, Nia whispers. I shut my eyes and try to focus.

  ‘What if … ?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What if I went through with it? The pregnancy?’ I say. It’s not like I haven’t considered it. I’m not completely selfish. Perhaps.

  ‘That’s an option.’ Mary is choosing her words with care.

  ‘Would it be OK? You know, with Nia – I mean, the ED. Have I damaged it?’

  ‘The baby?’

  ‘The foetus. But, yeah.’ I rush on. ‘There’s people out there, right? Who’d give it a good life?’

  ‘You’re considering adoption?’

  I nod.

  Mary looks at my notes again. ‘And you want to know if … ?’

  ‘If the – you know …’ I gesture at my middle section. I can’t actually say the word ‘baby’. ‘Will it be all right?’ There’s an edge to my voice. My head is full of chatter that swings round and round like a fairground ride, trying to work out possibilities, what to do. I lean back and push a hand against my chest to feel the faint, rapid pulse of my heart.

  ‘Well, the scan did show that baby is a little on the small side, if you’re sure about the timing.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ There was only that once.

  ‘Otherwise it was all fine. Surprisingly so, I’d say.’

  Mary carries on looking through my notes while this sinks in.

  Finally, she says, ‘Adoption is certainly an option. But you need to consider this carefully. I know it’s late on for a termination, but in your circumstances, with your history … Everything seems to be fine now, but you look terribly thin to me. Generally the baby takes what it needs from its mother, but that’s not possible if there’s nothing to take.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Do you? Because if you continue with this pregnancy and don’t get adequate nutrition, you’re going to put your own health and this baby’s health at very high risk.’ She begins to reel off a load of complications.

  After a while I hold up my hand. ‘I understand. I do. You said the scan showed that everything is developing OK.’

  ‘It is, for now. But if you decide you’re serious about carrying this baby to term, then you need to think hard.’ She stops and gives me a very direct stare, her head level. It’s a bit like someone has thrown a bucket of cold water over me. ‘If you want to continue with the pregnancy, you can’t mess around. It’s not a game and it’s not only your life you’d be playing with. If you have this baby then you have to eat.’

  Crap Things about the Unit, Number Two:

  The Rules

  There’s a lot of Rules on a unit. Times you’re supposed to be up, times you have to eat, go to Group or School or Therapy. Your days were laid out in front of you so you never really needed to think about what you might want to do, what you liked. Although it was easy to say what you didn’t: getting weighed, obviously. Exercise rationed. Being pushed about in a wheelchair.

  There were Rules about being in each other’s rooms to try and stop us egging each other on – not that it made much difference.

  Before Molly, I didn’t really care much about the other patients, except in an ‘am-I-thinner-than-her?’ sort of way. I suppose I was A Bad Influence. I suppose that once I’d learned every trick going and then some, I passed it all on. Maybe it’s something I should feel guilty about – who knows?

  Thing about the Rules on a unit was, we broke them over and over. If you wanted to, you could see it as a game. Who could get one over on the staff. Diddling the scales. Trying to get away with it, to win. Us against them. I was good at it. Except there wasn’t much of a prize in the end.

  Chapter 5

  Mary’s gone. I make myself a cup of tea and put an entire teaspoon of sugar into it and a bit of milk, then sip tiny scalding mouthfuls while I think about everything she’s said. Am I completely out of my mind, thinking I could carry a baby? Everything seems a bit fuzzy and distant – even more than normal.

  I do a couple of tight circuits of the flat, searching for something to hold on to. I spot my rucksack from the day of the pregnancy tests and pull out the book I grabbed from the library. The Life-changing Magic of Tidying. Huh. I flick through. Apparently tidying will dramatically transform my life, which might be worth a go if I had much in the flat to tidy away in the first place. I think about the chaos of Molly’s room at Dewhurst; the staff were always having a go at her to pick her crap up off the floor. Felicity even went in with a bin bag one time, which caused one of the longer unit stand-offs I’d seen for a while. I almost smile, thinking back, then snap the book shut and chuck it in my rucksack.

  Something else pops into my head from about a year ago, just before I met Molly. I’d managed to trip and fall down the stairs at college. Well, maybe I fainted, but I wasn’t about to admit that. I’d only been out of the unit since just after GCSEs finished so I was seeing Felicity every week as an outpatient, like I am now. She came to visit me on the inpatient bit of the unit the night my status got downgraded yet again. Or upgraded, depending on your perspective. She had this really pinched, tight look on her face. We did that eye-lock thing, and for once, I was the one who looked away. Then Felicity said, ‘You know, there’s a term for what you’re becoming. Career anorexic.’

  I didn’t care back then. Maybe I even thought it was some sort of achievement. But now? Now, I don’t know.

  I put my hands on my stomach and try to imagine what’s in there.

  The Thing, Nia whispers.

  There is a life inside me. In me. Of all people. It shouldn’t be possible, but it’s happening. There has to be a reason for it. I wonder if Molly can see me, wherever she is now. If so, then maybe this isn’t just the worst kind of cosmic joke. Maybe it’s fate or something.


  There’s a baby in there. The thought of it moving around, growing and growing, making me fat, sends me spinning to the toilet. I double over the bowl, but then the weirdest thing happens. At the last moment some force that feels like it’s not even coming from me makes me straighten up, swallow warm tea and bile back down and chuck the window open to get some fresh air. Being sick is not going to be good for the baby. The baby I’m only a tiny bit sure I can even carry, and less sure that I should.

  I sit on the sagging sofa and gaze for ages at the cracks in the plaster on the wall opposite. This is all some bizarre dream. I can’t be pregnant. I’m only seventeen, for God’s sake.

  Like life’s going to pay attention to that.

  Maybe I should get the abortion.

  I go into the little kitchen area, make some noodles and eat them standing up. Then I go in for some fruit. This is all safe food, stuff I can do. I’m still, more or less, following the meal plan from the unit. Sort of. To tell the truth, there’s been one or two modifications, a few things quietly dropped. Living on a tiny budget comes in handy when you realise you can only afford to eat 15p noodles all week. Now Mary’s words come back to me again and I know that noodles are not going to be enough.

  I stare and stare at the apple core on the counter, trying to work it all through, and that’s when I feel it. A funny little twitch, down low and to one side. I’ve felt it before actually, but not as strong as this, and I realise now what I didn’t then: it’s not indigestion, or a muscle spasm. That’s a kick. A baby, a real live baby inside me, kicking. It’s real.

  This time I manage to grab hold of the counter and sort of sink to my knees before I pass out.

  I’m only out for a second or two. When I wake I see dingy white tiles overhead, and think I’m back on the unit, until I turn my head and see the door of the washing machine hanging open and realise everything is the wrong way around. Then I remember: I’m out. For the first time ever, no one is watching me – not Mum, not staff. I’m in my own flat, because social services didn’t have anywhere else to put me, which is insane when you think about it. But I’ve been doing it, sort of. Treading water while I try and keep my promise to Molly. Or not.