Countless

by Karen Gregory

  ‘You a big fan then?’ I say.

  He pokes his head out to where I have hold of a lightsabre that looks like it could be a prop from one of the actual films. Something tells me it cost a mint.

  ‘Yeah. Well, the originals, not the prequels.’ He says ‘prequels’ the same way you might say ‘dog crap’.

  ‘Haven’t they done new ones?’ I’m quite pleased I’ve dredged this up. I vaguely remember hearing some heated debate at college about female leads and someone called Rey, who I realised was a girl after it morphed into a discussion about feminism or something. I didn’t exactly have anything to add. It happens like that sometimes, this gap between what other seventeen-year-olds talk about and the stuff I grew up with in Dewhurst, which was more along the lines of who was suicidal that day, or how it was so unfair because someone else had a lower target weight than me.

  ‘Oh yeah, they have. I’ve heard great things, young padawan,’ he says in this weird voice that I think is supposed to be Yoda or something.

  ‘You haven’t seen them?’ Weird, given the amount of Star Wars crap he has knocking about.

  He pauses, coffee spoon in the air, and says, ‘Not the latest, no. I had, um, some stuff going on.’

  Oh. Stuff. Well, that makes two of us then.

  ‘I haven’t seen it either. Can’t say I’m too fussed,’ I say.

  He turns back to the cups. I stare at that lightsabre. We had A Boy on the unit during my last admission. They were sort of like the lesser spotted woodpecker of unit life and he left soon after I got there, but he did leave behind a Star Wars DVD that Molly made us watch when she arrived. I was still getting to know her then, but she wasn’t bothered by my silence and sulks. That night, she yanked me up and made me do a pretend lightsabre duel with her until she’d got me laughing. I told myself afterwards that it had probably burned off a fair few extra calories, so that made it OK.

  ‘Do you want to come and do your own milk? It’s semi-skimmed,’ Robin says.

  He must have remembered the lines measuring my milk out from before. I’m about to go and do it, when something stops me.

  ‘That’s OK,’ I say. But I can’t resist adding, ‘Just a splash will do. No sugar, thanks.’ I put the lightsabre carefully back on top of the cupboard and wonder who exactly has one lying about. Does he duel with himself when he’s on his own in here? And why is he on his own in here?

  Robin comes in a moment later with tea with just a splash and hands it over. I take a scalding sip, and there’s a funny feeling inside me, like the tiny click of a cog loosening. Coming up fast behind is a familiar crackle, like an electric shock, that comes with handing over control to someone else. I look for somewhere to put the tea, but I don’t want to risk spilling it on the rug.

  ‘I’m sorry again, about the letter. It was good of you to bring it over,’ I say.

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘It’s just … Well, the thing is, it was about an appointment. At the antenatal clinic,’ I say, then throw out my best stare.

  ‘I thought so, the other day when you looked like you were about to faint,’ he says. ‘You had that look about you.’

  ‘What, are you a doctor or something?’ I say, only half teasing, but I’ve obviously asked the wrong question because his face closes down.

  I scan his photos without being too obvious what I’m doing. There’s a couple of girls in one, and another of a little boy with a cheeky smile which I assume is Robin. I can see the edge of his window-box flowers from where I’m sitting.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask about the father?’ I say.

  ‘That’s not really any of my business, is it?’

  ‘S’pose not. There isn’t one, anyway. Not that it matters. I’m putting it up for adoption, so I can get back to my life,’ I say, sticking out my chin and trying to sound more definite than I feel. I have no idea why I’m saying all this to him. To shock him? To put him off me? Because even though we’ve barely exchanged twenty words, there’s something about him I like.

  Felicity thinks I play games to test people. Maybe I do. I like to be sure, that’s all. And most of the time, what I’m sure of is that people will let you down so it’s best to give them a push in that direction sooner rather than later. People are pretty predictable.

  Robin has been staring at me while I’m thinking this. Not in a bad way, but in a curious, slightly detached way, like he’s studying me.

  ‘So, getting back to your life, huh? My grammy is always saying life is this rare, precious gift. That’s why she loves orchids so much – they might be almost impossible to grow sometimes, but it’s our job to try and make them flower anyway. Like life, I guess.’ He pauses, rubs at his head all embarrassed, then looks back at me. ‘What are you planning to do with yours then, after?’

  I think about this, can’t decide if I like it or if it’s just more positive-thinking BS, like in the cuckoo’s nest – I mean the unit. It rings different somehow. I only have one plan for after: Nia. But I can hardly tell him that.

  ‘Oh, you know …’ I say, smiling.

  But he doesn’t return it. He looks serious.

  ‘I’ll make it up when I get there,’ I say. Not sure what possessed me to say that. ‘What about you?’

  A shadow seems to pass over his face. ‘I’m making it up too,’ he says.

  ‘Fair enough.’

  We reach for our drinks at the same time.

  ‘Um … How long have you lived here?’ he asks.

  ‘Few months.’

  ‘You’re pretty young to be living on your own,’ he says.

  ‘Look who’s talking.’

  He nods a bit, as if to say, ‘Point taken’. ‘Do you like it here?’

  I laugh, then stop when I realise he really wants to know. ‘Didn’t exactly have much choice. My mum didn’t want me back home this time, after … Well, you can’t blame her really.’

  ‘Can’t you?’

  I think about this. ‘It’s funny. My mum kicked me out a few months ago – well, said I couldn’t come back home, which is the same thing really. I suppose it wasn’t exactly a surprise. I mean, I’ve been pushing her all these years, and I guess sooner or later she was going to give up. Actually, I don’t know why I said it’s funny. Unless it’s cos the joke’s on me.’

  ‘Why? It’s not like it’s totally your fault you’re in … this situation. Unless it was an Immaculate Conception,’ Robin says, then drops his eyes and rubs the back of his neck.

  I pause for a moment, then say, ‘It’s not … I’m an Anorexic, you see.’

  He seems to think about this for a second, but he doesn’t look shocked, or make one of those horrible half sympathetic, half curious faces. ‘My little sister’s friend had that for a while. She’s all right now though.’

  ‘Good for her,’ I mutter. I lift up my chin. ‘Anyway, I’m not one at this precise moment. I’m having a little holiday on account of this.’ I waft my hand at my stomach.

  ‘Huh,’ he says.

  ‘Huh? What does that mean? Like I said, I’m not keeping it or anything. I’m just … babysitting.’ I start to smile, but Robin frowns. ‘I wouldn’t know what to do with it, would I?’ I add.

  Robin is silent, his eyes seeming to stare right through the wall over my shoulder, like he’s remembering something he’d rather not. Well, we’ve all been there, I guess.

  ‘So what about you? What’s your story?’ I say.

  Forget my usual policy of ask nothing, give away even less – I actually want to know how come he’s living here by himself, whether he’s scared too. Maybe I need to fill the silence the truce seems to have left. But it’s more than that. He seems … kind. And I guess it’s sort of OK to have someone to talk to who has nothing to do with, you know, Nia, units. Or whatever. Probably it’s the stupid baby hormones making me go soft and blurry round the edges.

  I definitely catch it this time; a raw pain that twists at his mouth.

  ‘I suppose …’ He brings his at
tention back from whatever place it’s been and looks at me properly. ‘Well, similar to yours really. Difference of opinion with my parents. Not really reconcilable. I left before they threw me out, but then …’ He puffs up his cheeks like a hamster then lets the air out like he’s getting rid of something. ‘Never mind. I’ll tell you another time.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘Must’ve been some difference for you to wind up here.’

  ‘Yeah. If you want to know the truth, I can’t go back, for reasons I won’t bore you with, but this was the only place I could afford. Just about. They’re not exactly paying well at Aldi.’

  ‘You’re working at Aldi?’ I start to laugh again.

  ‘What’s wrong with that? You get a staff discount,’ he says, and he’s half smiling and half hurt.

  ‘Nothing, nothing,’ I say, but I’m properly smiling now and so is he.

  We kind of grin at each other for a bit and then I realise it’s probably time to bring this little whatever-it-is to an end. I don’t even know the guy and I’m still not entirely sure why I decided to barge into his flat and then share a load of majorly personal information about myself. I like him though.

  I stand up. ‘Thanks for the tea.’

  ‘Any time. I mean that.’

  ‘Oh, and thanks for the flowers,’ I say at the door.

  Robin inclines his head and smiles.

  Crap Things about the Unit, Number Seven:

  How Terrifying It Was

  I don’t think I want to explain this one.

  Chapter 10

  11 WEEKS TO GO

  I like to find out stuff. It’s a curse of mine. The internet should be banned for people like me.

  The day after my talk with Robin, I’m out doing circuits of the estate, just to clear my head, though I keep tabs on the number of steps. I spent far too long looking at stories about adoption. I read about girls like me, who got pregnant by accident and had their babies adopted. Some of them seem all right, good even, say they made the right choice. But there are others too. Ones who feel like something huge was ripped away from them and now they’re left with nothing but a great, aching hole, made up of guilt and longing and all the things they’ve missed and will never find again. Even the older ones who got back in contact with their kids, once the kids were old enough, are sort of messed up. But maybe I’m just reading the wrong stories.

  I tried switching to stories written by children who were adopted, but that wasn’t much better. They stuck in my mind, like porridge scrapings on the side of a bowl, gluey and rough. I’ve sat in front of a few cold bowls of porridge in my time. On one memorable day, dinner showed up when I was still making my way through the morning’s snack. Fun times.

  Now I’ve read them though, I can’t pull them back out of my head. I really want one of those things that can wipe out memories, like in this film Molly showed me once, Eternal Sunshine something-something – I can’t remember the full title. Clearly I only have a good memory for the crappy stuff.

  I do another circuit of the estate. It’s almost time to start walking up to the clinic for my appointment with Felicity – I’m actually going, so things must be dire – when I see her coming up the road on the opposite side. I call her the Walking Woman.

  I almost cross over, to say hello or something, but chicken out at the last minute. Doesn’t stop me wondering, as always, about who she is.

  This is what I think about her:

  THE WALKING WOMAN

  I see her circling the roads on the estate. Maybe in her seventies, but I don’t know. Dandelion hair. Slacks that hang, well, slackly, on sticks. Or thick tights bunched under a straight skirt. She hunches forward, back humped, walking with her chin leading, like a chicken pecking, stiff-legged. Sometimes she has carrier bags dangling from her minuscule arms. I imagine them containing tinned tomatoes and spam and laxatives.

  She’s there in all weathers, just walking.

  I noticed her not long after I moved to the Yewlings and, since I have, she’s everywhere. Her eyes are focused on something inside, intent, determined. Impossible to break through.

  But I know who she is. She’s Nia. Perhaps she’s been Nia forever. The thought horrifies me, even as I marvel at those legs which are too small to hold her up and admire her determination.

  One day, I think the Walking Woman will die, right there on the side of the road. Her heart will falter and stop. Nothing else will break her.

  I see her, in dreams, always walking.

  Sometimes I think she might be me.

  * * *

  So, yeah. Kind of gloomy thoughts, I suppose. I’m almost at the unit now anyway, so I try and tear my brain away from the Walking Woman and focus on what I’m going to say to Felicity. She’s running late, as usual, but I don’t mind. If I’m lucky it means less time for me.

  I put my head down as I go past the inpatient part of the unit. There are a couple of girls outside smoking, their fingers all bone. I don’t know them, and the thought sends my heart fluttering. I’m moving away from unit life, out here in the cold, looking in.

  I itch for a fag suddenly, but I’m not giving in to that. This baby’s got enough to contend with without being addicted to nicotine from birth into the bargain.

  I let Felicity weigh me. I’ve put on, she tells me, sounding surprised. I fight conflicting urges to smile smugly and say, ‘See?’ and to wrench the chart out of her hand so I can get a look at the number. I’m obviously keeping an eye on things, but the unit scales are the ‘proper’ scales.

  Felicity finishes writing in the notes and swivels to face me. ‘So … how are you?’

  ‘OK,’ I say, and I know from the way it comes out that this is going to be one of those sessions.

  Felicity senses it too; her face tightens around the lips and she fights her eyebrows back up into neutral position.

  A couple of minutes go by.

  ‘You know what, screw it,’ I say. ‘I’m not OK. I think … I think I’ve messed up. Like, more than normal, I mean.’

  Felicity makes an encouraging noise and tries not to look as surprised as I feel that I’m breaking the Rules and actually talking rather than my usual tricks of staring into the distance as she waits with varying degrees of patience or talking about stupid things, deflecting all her careful questions and insights. And sometimes – OK, maybe more than sometimes – I shout. Hurl whatever I can think of that might insult her. Try to make her hate me.

  I never said anything about being a good person.

  Today, though, I’m giving it straight and for some reason I can’t seem to stop.

  ‘I’ve been reading all these stories about adoption and I guess it’s like … the shock’s worn off, right? And now I’m starting to realise that … that …’ Bloody hell, I’m welling up here.

  This must be the first time Felicity has had to use the ever-present box of tissues with me. She hands them over slowly, like I’m a bird she’s trying not to scare away.

  I blow my nose and continue in a flatter voice, trying to keep it all controlled, but I have this unbearable urge to talk for once, to get the thoughts out of my head. ‘I realised I’ve done something … what’s that word? Irrevocable. Not just for me, but for … you know.’ I nod down at my bump, which is now starting to put some strain on the hoodie. ‘Like, there’s someone else affected by all this now and I feel … I guess I feel guilty.’

  ‘Mmm …’ A Felicity Silence ensues.

  I’m not saying any more.

  Except, somehow, I am.

  ‘I went and saw Mum, told her the news. And she was furious. She called me selfish. And she said something about –’ I break off and try to remember what Mum said.

  Felicity leans forward in her chair.

  ‘That was it – something about it never being just me that this affected. And I know that’s true. I knew it before – I really did. But now I guess I’m feeling it.’

  Felicity opens her mouth and there’s this light in her eyes I haven’t seen
before. It’s a mixture of excitement and hope and, for a second, I feel like bony fingers are digging into my heart, because she thinks we’re having some sort of Breakthrough or at least A Moment.

  I’ve said too much.

  I give a forced laugh. ‘Must be those pregnancy hormones. Or maybe the baby is like in that film – what was its name? – where because the baby can feel stuff, so can I, you know? Like a personal fuzzy-feeling factory. I’m not saying I’m worried. Once it’s out …’ Now I really do need to shut up.

  Felicity stares at me, then sits back suddenly. ‘Normal service will be resumed, I suppose?’ I’ve never heard her sound so icy.

  ‘Something like that.’ It’s supposed to come out defiant, but I’m flushing.

  ‘Mmm.’

  More silence. This time, I’m the one who’s uncomfortable. Felicity watches me watch the clock tick down the last few minutes of our session, getting myself back under control.

  When it’s time to go, I give as bright a smile as I can muster and say, ‘See you next week!’

  I stand up and walk out before she can say anything more, but somehow it doesn’t feel like the victory it usually does.

  And on the way home, Molly is at my shoulder, keeping me company.

  Crap Things about the Unit, Number Eight:

  Your Best Friend Dying in Front of You

  Molly. After the first day in Group when she swore and we laughed, we spent pretty much all the free time we had together, which in hospital is quite a lot. Meals and school and Group take up only so many hours in the day, even for those of us who know how to spin out a bowl of soup.

  Molly was bulimic. The worst kind. I might have learned quite a few food disposal tricks from her, looking back.

  The thing is, though, hospital wasn’t always crappy. It’s never as straightforward as that. Molly was bulimic and messed up, sure, but she also had the most brilliant laugh I’ve ever heard and could do amazing impressions of people. Mainly the staff – the consultants loved that. I’m lying – they didn’t, obviously – but we all did.