Crap Things about the Unit, Number Six:
the Other Patients
OK, so this one is sort of tricky. It’s hard to explain what it was like, the relationships you develop with the people in there with you. The way you need them and sort of hate them. The way you really love them. The drama and intensity of it all as a handful of society’s truly messed-up squeeze themselves into this artificial space and bond, like in that film One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, but on teenage hormones. How we were all so innocent. Sad, yeah, but innocent too. And then, all of a sudden, we weren’t any more.
Chapter 9
12 WEEKS TO GO
I’m at the doctor’s, waiting for my appointment with midwife Mary and a social worker I’ve not met before. I’m twenty-eight weeks pregnant today and it’s definitely starting to show. I spend half my day sideways in front of the mirror, trying to suck it all in and make my stomach concave, like it should be, but it doesn’t work. So, I put on the baggiest clothes I can find and try not to think about the chart in the kitchen where I mark off each meal.
252 to go. The number makes me go hot inside and I have to count my breaths to calm myself down. Tonight I’m planning the same thing I’ve had every night. It feels safer that way. Although I’m really, really starting to hate chicken. More than usual.
Mary put me right at the end of clinic hours so we’d have more time, but the waiting room still has at least three other pregnant women, all clutching their set of notes. I’ve remembered mine, as I’m trying to be non-selfish and adult and all that, but I’ve taken them out of their silly little folder and squashed them down in a rucksack. With my hoodie pulled over my stomach, I don’t really look like I belong with the others. I hope.
I flick through a magazine, the type that puts big red circles around cellulite snapped from a mile away on the front cover. Next to a story about some B-list celeb’s ‘worrying’ weight loss is an ad featuring a woman in a bikini with clean sliced hip bones and washboard abs pushing a buggy. I consider tearing the picture out, to rip into a million shreds or fold away for thinspiration, I’m not sure which.
To distract myself, I listen as two of the others strike up a conversation. The usual stuff I assume pregnant women talk about.
‘When are you due?’
‘February sixth.’
‘Ah, not long to go.’
‘Hope so. Can’t wait. I’m having the largest glass of wine imaginable. In fact, I’ve told my partner he can bring a cool bag to the birthing centre.’
My ears prick up at that.
The wine lover is somewhere in her mid to late thirties at a guess, with a roundish face that has that outdoors look to it and acres of curls. The other woman almost reels back in shock, her mouth pinched tight, one hand clutched protectively over her, frankly, hippo-like bump.
‘But what about the breastfeeding? Alcohol crosses over into breast milk, you know.’ Her voice changes from judgemental to booming. ‘Mica! Put that down!’ She clicks her tongue. ‘Heaven knows where it’s been.’
I follow her gaze to where a toddler with a snotty nose is chewing on a board book. I have to admit, I’m sort of with judgy woman on this; it doesn’t look hugely clean.
‘Mica!’
Now the toddler is staring into the middle distance, licking the book. A bit of snot is inching down his lip. Judgy woman gives a huge, exaggerated huff and heaves into a standing position.
‘Mica, what did I tell you?’ she says, pulling the book away with a jerk.
Mica’s little bogey face starts to crumple in on itself and a high-pitched whine forms at the back of his throat. Something tells me this is only the warm-up. He sucks in a big breath through his nose and snot blasts out in a scream. I practically have to duck. Eww.
Just then, there’s a beep and judgy woman glances at the screen and picks up her enormous baby bag in one arm and the kicking toddler in the other, sitting them on either side of her bump, and marches down the corridor, ignoring the wails and thrashing. You’ve kind of got to admire it.
I lean back and let out my breath in a tiny sigh.
‘Well. That’s as good a contraceptive as I ever saw. Bit late for us though, I suppose,’ says the curly-haired woman.
I look round, then realise she’s speaking to me. My first thought is pure panic. Do I look pregnant? OMGOMGOMG. I look pregnant. Or fat.
Or both.
She spots my mortified look and says, ‘Oh gosh, sorry. I just assumed, since this is an antenatal clinic …’
I manage to locate my tongue. ‘No, that’s OK. I am, you know …’ I do a gesture around my stomach area, then wonder if I should do the pregnant woman belly-rub thing, for emphasis. I feel like I’m on the stage, wondering what my lines should be.
‘Thank God. That would’ve been a bit mortifying. Quinn – that’s my partner by the way – always says you should never ask a woman when she’s due, unless she’s literally having contractions in front of you. I sometimes think he should have been the woman, not me. He’d be better at this pregnancy lark anyway. It’s awful, isn’t it?’
I make a strangled noise that comes out a bit like ‘mm-huh’.
‘Precisely.’ She smiles a really nice, wide grin. ‘I’m Lois – I know, I know. But what can you do?’
‘Hedda,’ I say, and she sits back, impressed.
‘Like the play?’
I nod. My turn to be impressed now.
‘Saw a production of that a few years back, at the Fringe, I think. It was atrocious.’
I grin this time. ‘I’ve never seen it.’
‘Wise choice. So, let’s do the boring questions, shall we? Looks like we’ll be here some time. When are you due? Boy or girl or surprise? Feeling OK? Relative merits of travel systems versus prams? Makes and models?’
I don’t know how to answer. I’m wrong-footed by how nice she is; she’s not giving me that sideways look I had off the receptionist, it seems like she simply wants to chat.
‘I think I’m due in May sometime,’ I say. ‘And yes, it was a surprise.’ I realise the second I’ve said it that it wasn’t what she was asking, but her face softens in sympathy.
‘A spring baby will be lovely,’ she says, then rifles through her notes and pretends not to notice my sudden tears that well up out of nowhere.
Stupid pregnancy hormones. Again.
A door opens along the corridor and we hear poor Mica wailing as he’s swept through by judgy woman, who gives Lois a nod and me a swift once-over before disappearing through the double doors.
A moment later, the beep goes and Lois stands up.
‘That’s me then. And the bump.’ She gives her stomach a rueful sort of pat, then looks me dead in the eye. ‘Do you think we’re allowed to kill all those people who insist pregnancy is some sort of magical time?’
I get a sudden sense she’s nearly as adrift as me. Then she slips a piece of paper into my hand and gives me that lovely wide smile again.
When she’s gone, I open it to see she’s scrawled her name and mobile number in what looks like eyeliner. I pop it in with my notes at the bottom of my bag.
When it’s finally my turn, I realise I’m both nervous and hungry.
It’s not always easy to tell, after all these years, but the vaguely regular meals seem to be setting my body up to expect more, which is a bit of a worry, if I’m going in for the understatement of the year.
I knock on the door, like Mum taught me, even though the midwife just pressed whatever button they press to summon you in, so I’m guessing she’s expecting me.
Inside is Mary and a woman in her early twenties who I assume is the social worker. She’s wearing social worker uniform, in any case: jeans, tunic top, boots, slightly harried look. My old one left a few weeks ago – not that she did much. She was pretty much just there to make sure I had a roof over my head and benefits set up, seeing as I’m not eighteen yet, and she had a habit of looking at her watch every time I opened my mouth.
Sitting next to new soci
al worker lady is also … Felicity.
I sense an ambush.
‘Oh. Hello,’ I say.
‘Hello, Hedda,’ Felicity says.
We eye each other.
‘Aren’t you supposed to notify me or something before calling a case conference?’ I say to Felicity, then glance sideways at the social worker, who gives me a direct look back.
‘Would you like to sit down?’ she says. ‘I’m Joanna. I did send a letter to notify you that Felicity would be attending.’ She rifles through some pages, no doubt trying to produce a copy. I have no expectation she will, but to my surprise, she finds the piece of paper and hands it over. I scan the words explaining that she’ll be attending my appointment, has liaised with Dewhurst House (aka Junior Loonies) and feels it’ll be beneficial if my key worker also attends and to contact her if I have any concerns etc., etc.…
‘You’ve got the flat number wrong,’ I say.
‘Have I? Oh dear. I am sorry.’ She pushes all the messy papers back into a large leather holder. ‘But we’re all here now, so would you object … ?’ Joanna leaves it hanging, but I’m not looking at her any more.
I’m staring at Felicity, who has already looked me up and down. Her eyebrows twitch up ever so slightly.
‘No. That’s fine.’ I turn on my best smile, which fools probably no one.
Mary clears her throat. ‘So we thought perhaps we’d have a chat first and then we can do your usual appointment afterwards.’
‘Fine by me. There’s not a lot to say, is there? I just need you to tell me the process, what I need to sign.’ I keep my expression business-like, upbeat. No room for doubts here.
‘I’m not sure –’ Mary says.
Just as Felicity says, ‘Yes, let’s go through it.’
There’s a pause, and we all look at Joanna, who, I realise, has been taking everything in with sharp eyes. It’s like a game of tennis, my eyes shooting from one face to another. All these people shuffling bits of paper, here because of me. For a while. Once, it might have made me feel powerful. Now? It just makes me tired.
‘All right,’ Joanna says.
She starts talking and I let the words wash over me. She goes through options like Mum and Dad having the baby – I give a short laugh at this – or foster care for me and the baby together, but I shake my head.
‘I’m not interested in all that stuff. Why prolong anything? I just want it all sorted as fast as possible.’
Joanna finally gets on to adoption. It seems it’s not as straightforward as I thought.
‘Legally speaking, you can’t give up the baby for adoption in the first six weeks,’ she says.
I feel my spine straighten like someone’s yanked me up by my hair. Six weeks! What the hell am I supposed to do with it for six whole weeks? What about college? I mean, it’s not like I was going much – and truthfully, I’ve more or less stopped altogether in the last couple of weeks – but it’d be nice to have the option.
Joanna sees my expression. ‘But the baby can be placed with the prospective adopter or foster parents directly after the birth.’
I sink back down, but only by a centimetre, because it’s starting to dawn on me that I’m actually going to have to go through with the birth. I wonder if they could just put me to sleep for it and wake me up when it’s all over and the baby’s gone.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘That sounds fine.’
‘Hedda, I think you need to do some work on this,’ Felicity says.
I restrain myself from rolling my eyes. I am not going over this adoption thing with Felicity. Far as I’m concerned, it’s a done deal.
‘I’ll come to my next session, I promise,’ I say, and I can hear the sulky note that’s crept into my voice, like I’m twelve or something.
Mary wants to get on with the actual antenatal part of the appointment. As Joanna and Felicity leave, I sense her watching them with a faint air of disapproval. It lingers as she takes my blood pressure and weighs me.
I stand on the scales backwards out of habit.
‘Good,’ she says, and it takes a lot of willpower not to turn round and eyeball the numbers. They’re only numbers, I try to tell myself. And it’s only for a few more weeks.
As if there’s any such thing as ‘only numbers’, Nia would say.
I get a sudden pang, like an echo coming from an empty room, and shake my head, try to focus on what Mary is saying.
‘Could you hop up for me, luvvie?’ she says, and I realise there’s a lot more things she wants to say before I do, but she’s only getting out a contraption she calls a doppler. ‘We’ll have a little listen,’ she says as she presses it to my bump.
‘Hang on,’ I say, panic spiking through me because I’m remembering the scan and the woman trying to show me the Thing inside me, when the room suddenly fills with a sound like galloping horses. ‘What the fu–’ I break off.
‘Your baby’s heartbeat,’ Mary says.
I can feel my own heart begin to race, until the room is filled with the two sounds, one interior, one exterior.
I should be saying ‘stop it’ or ‘turn it off’ or ‘I don’t want to hear it’.
Instead I hear myself say, ‘Is it supposed to be so fast?’ and my voice wobbles.
‘It’s fine. Everything is fine. We’ll send you for a growth scan, and you need to go and see the obstetrician, but it all seems to be coming along nicely.’
‘I … Just … Wow …’ I get out.
That’s a heartbeat. My baby’s heartbeat. I mean, the baby’s heartbeat.
All the way home, that galloping sounds in my head, over and over, steady and strong. Out of habit, I walk the long way round, to add another mile on to my journey. It’s good to be out in the fresh air, away from the damp crawling up the walls of the flat.
I stop outside Mothercare and stare through the window. On impulse, I wander in and flick through a few rows of baby clothes. Everything is soft and cute and tiny. The lights are so bright they sting my eyes. I loiter by the prams, remembering Lois’s quip about travel systems and buggies. I swear, some of them look like they’re intended for wartime, with huge wheels and a million pieces that can click on and go this way and that. I lift the corner of one, experimentally, and can barely get it off the ground.
‘Can I help? Are you looking for anything in particular? That one has an umbrella fold – handy if you have a small boot.’
I seriously have no response to this.
The salesgirl looks barely older than me. Could, in fact, be my age. I might even have gone to secondary school with her, on the few scattered weeks I was there. I haven’t exactly kept in touch with anyone from school, unless we’re counting the awkwardness at the smoking shelter with Sal. They did try. I have a box full of letters written out in gel pens and covered with silly doodles from Sal and Natalie, back when we were a trio in primary school. Natalie hung on longer than Sal in the end, if we’re discounting that cigarette at college the other week. I haven’t seen Sal since. Looks like I’ve given up smoking anyway – every time I’ve tried one, I feel sick as anything. Guess the baby’s good for something – my own little nicotine patch. I imagine Molly laughing, saying, ‘Well, I’m delighted you’re quitting, but you could’ve chosen a less drastic course of action, you know.’ My mouth gives a twitch.
The salesgirl’s smile is looking a bit forced now, but it seems impossible to stop the marching thoughts. Once again, my hand hovers near my bump. Is it getting obvious?
‘Did you want to try it out?’ the girl says. I think she’s speaking slower than she usually might to a customer.
I drop my hand and back away. ‘No … no thanks.’
I leg it, out past the rows of toys and maternity clothes, the couples browsing with new possibilities in their eyes. This isn’t my place. This could never be my place. I shove my head down and hurry for home.
Not long after I get in, there’s a tap at my door. I recognise Robin’s knock and this time I don’t put the chain on before
I open it.
‘Hello!’ I say. Too bright, overcompensating for the crying incident the other day.
He holds out a letter to me. An opened letter. ‘This came for you –’
I snatch it and surprise myself with how loud my voice comes out. ‘Had a good nosy, did you?’ I pull the letter to me and glare at him.
He takes a quiet breath. ‘What I meant to say was, I began opening it before I looked at it properly. I was waiting for … I stopped when I realised it wasn’t for me.’
I look again at the letter and realise it’s only half open. I feel my face get warm. ‘Oh. Oh right, yeah. Well, thanks for that,’ I say, knowing how lame I sound.
‘You’re welcome,’ he says, and his voice isn’t exactly cold, but it nearly is. He goes back into his flat.
I’m about to shut the door, but all of a sudden I feel like I have to talk to someone. Not therapy talk, or family talk, or unit talk with Laurel or whoever, but just with someone my age. Someone normal.
I hesitate for a while outside his door, then tap on it softly. It takes a minute for him to open up, and when he does he stands there, eyebrows raised.
‘Hi-I’m-sorry-can-I-come-in?’ I say in one big rush.
Smooth, I am.
If he’s taken aback he doesn’t show it. He holds my eyes, like he’s reading what’s going on in my head, then stands back and gestures for me to enter.
His flat is like mine and completely different. The layout is the same, but there’s a smell of fresh paint, providing at least temporary cover for the mould and damp. I reckon he’s painted it himself; there’s quite a few splashes of blue on the ceiling where he’s gone over the lines and a couple on a brightly striped rug on the floor. Most of the walls are covered in posters of films and stuff. No telly, but rows of books and DVDs and a laptop in the corner. I can see a stack of saucepans in the kitchen bit, two of them still wrapped in plastic. Actually, all his stuff looks brand new, like he stopped off at Ikea just before he moved in.
‘Want a drink?’ he says.
I have a look at his books and DVDs, my head turned to one side so I can read the titles while he boils the kettle. He has a lot of Star Wars stuff.
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