‘Was it?’
‘You could say that. Anyway, they’re all probably better off without me.’
‘You really think that?’ he says.
‘I don’t know. Sometimes.’
He dips his chin, closes his eyes for longer than a blink should be. When he looks back up, I’m caught by the expression in his brown eyes, warm and glittering with something I don’t understand.
‘And what about the baby?’ he says. ‘Do you think it’s going to be better off without you too?’ He’s giving me this intense stare, not like he’s judging my choices, but like he really needs to know the answer.
I find I have to look away. ‘Bloody hell. That’s … pretty personal. But … yeah, I think that. It needs proper parents, people who are OK, who can look after it.’
‘How do you know you can’t?’
I’ve had enough now. I jump up and start clearing the plates, then bang them about in the sink. Robin stands next to me and dries, but doesn’t ask me any more questions. I tell him about the woman with the eggs and her slightly mercenary daughter, which makes him laugh, and he tells me some stories about when his sister was little and sneaked downstairs one night and got caught eating sugar directly from the bag. Somewhere in it all, the overfull feeling begins to fade and, by the time I say goodnight to Robin, I realise two things: I had fun and I no longer feel like throwing up.
Crap Things about the Unit, Number Nine:
Crochet Madness
The crochet thing was Molly’s idea.
‘We’ve got to do something otherwise it really is going to be the cuckoo’s nest in here,’ she said.
Did I mention I stole the One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest thing from Molly (who got it from someone else, I expect)? She wouldn’t have minded me using it – she was generous like that.
Anyway, Molly decided that, seeing as half the unit was on bed rest and/or being tube-fed or only let out in wheelchairs, perhaps the rest of us ought to do something other than trying to burn off calories and smuggling anorexia memoirs in and out of each other’s rooms when we thought no one was looking. So she taught everyone how to crochet.
We were all rubbish, naturally. But Molly’s stuff was just beautiful. She made this gorgeous pink poncho and when she saw how much I liked it she gave it to me and made another for herself and then anyone else who wanted one and soon most of us were going round in crochet ponchos, like a uniform or something. I still have that poncho in a box somewhere under my bed.
Actually, I liked crochet. I sort of thought I might crochet something for the baby to wear when it goes to its new parents.
Chapter 12
8 WEEKS TO GO
Something weird starts to happen after Omelette Gate. When Robin said he wanted to learn to cook, he meant it. And I’m starting to realise that when Robin has a project, he really goes for it. He begins showing up with all this stuff he’s got from work that he ‘accidentally’ has too much of, asking me to help him with a new recipe. It’s like he’s appointed himself as some sort of Head Chef-Coach. I’m not stupid; I know what he’s doing. What I don’t get is why.
A lot of the time, I want him to go away. There are days I won’t answer my door, but I watch him through the spyhole. He waits for ages in his dorky uniform, always looking hopeful, until I tiptoe back to my meal plan.
Sometimes though, I let him in.
He does most of the cooking to start with, but after one too many ‘helpful’ comments from me, he decides I have to be his sous-chef. He picks up this handheld food-chopping gadget from Aldi which you have to whack really hard and we take it in turns to pulverise an onion. I quite like that session, until the guy next door hammers on the wall and then we chop a bit quieter.
There are one or two disasters – soufflé turned out to be a challenge way, way too far – but most of it is more or less fit for human consumption. Some of it’s even nice.
As the cooking sessions go on, I realise I’m starting to save up little things to tell him, stuff I get off the net or from the random books I grab from the to-be-shelved section in the library. Like the fact that elephants are pregnant for 680 days.
‘And I think I have it rough,’ I say. Then I add, ‘Apparently it’s because they need to be super brainy when they’re born so they can use their trunk properly and stuff.’
Robin smiles, but I interrupt him before he can speak, ‘And did you know polar bears have to put on four hundred pounds when they’re pregnant? Four hundred! Maybe it’s not so bad being a person after all …’ I trail off and he gives me this funny half-pat on the shoulder and an even funnier look.
* * *
One day, he cooks some chicken and rice and serves me out a half-portion which is mainly salad. I eat a few leaves, ignoring the dressing on the table. Robin waves a massive forkful in the air.
‘Go on, try it. I made a marinade.’ He says this like he’s just turned lead into gold.
I put a piece on my fork, have second thoughts and cut it in half, then rest the fork on my plate.
‘What’s in it?’ I say.
‘Tomatoes, some spices.’
‘Really?’ I look at the chicken again and my heart goes quicker. I wish it would beat like a normal person’s. The baby boots me one in the ribs.
‘That’s all, cross my heart,’ he says.
He starts eating again and I slide the chicken off my fork and slip it under a piece of lettuce. Robin doesn’t notice.
I jump up and clear the plates when he’s finished, and my leftovers go straight in the bin under the sink before he can clock how much I’ve had.
Nia gives a tiny, triumphant nod from her corner of the room, but she doesn’t say anything.
‘Do you fancy going somewhere sometime?’ Robin says from right behind me. He’s light on his feet, I’ll give him that.
I push the cupboard door shut on the bin and turn in one movement.
Robin’s eyes flick to the empty plate in my hand.
‘Like where?’ I say.
‘Cinema? Bowling? I don’t know. Thought you might want to get out of the flat,’ he says.
I smile before I can help it, then switch it off fast. I don’t want him getting any ideas. ‘That might be nice,’ I say. ‘Sometime. You should get off – I’ll do the washing-up. And thanks for dinner.’
When Robin goes, I weigh myself and check my meal plan. There’s a nagging feeling inside, like when you’re in school and you know you haven’t done your homework. I try and push it away but it floats in the air, while Nia hovers somewhere behind, like a boxer squaring up to an invisible opponent.
I realise I don’t like tricking Robin. It makes me feel small, somehow.
Never mind that, I say to myself. Things are going OK. Sure, the bump has become unavoidable and I can hardly bear to look at it in the mirror, but I’m doing it, just about, this thing no one thought I could. Only a few more weeks now.
I reach round to pinch my bum and the backs of my thighs, then, to be sure, get out a tape measure. Only my stomach is allowed to get bigger. The numbers wrap around me like steadying hands, telling me it’s OK. And I do like seeing Robin, even Robin bearing food. I like the way his eyes crinkle up when he smiles, for one thing. And he’s funny too.
I’m not happy, exactly, but things seem a little lighter. Though that could be down to spring being on its way and things being, you know, actually lighter.
I exist like this for two weeks. I go to a session with Felicity and manage to talk about my experiment with the Dark Side, aka Cooking With Robin. I even try to make some sort of Princess Leia analogy – I think Robin must be rubbing off on me.
But she frowns and says, ‘Still planning to resume normal service after the birth, I take it?’
‘Well, I’m halfway now. Only eight weeks to go. That’s …’ I stop to do a calculation in my head. ‘One hundred and sixty-eight meals.’
Felicity gives me A Look. ‘Mmm.’
‘What?’ I say.
�
�It sounds to me like you’re playing games, Hedda. Are you still counting everything?’
‘Yeah. So? Why not?’
‘Because you know that you use numbers as a crutch. They’re your safety net. A habit. One you need to break.’
‘Everyone does it. Everyone counts stuff.’
‘We’re not talking about everyone.’
Felicity clearly wants it every way, and call it pregnancy hormones and general knackeredness or me being me, but I sit up straighter and glare.
‘Oh come on. Let’s take you, for example.’ I ignore her warning look, her mouth that’s about to open and issue the word ‘boundaries’, and keep going. ‘You’ve got two teenagers, right? I bet you’re counting down the days until they move out – either cos you want them gone or you can’t bear for them to leave. Or maybe both.’
Felicity flinches, and I think, Bullseye.
‘And your two weeks in the sun – I bet you know how many weeks you’ve got left until you fly out to – hang on, let me guess – Kos?’
‘Hedda, this is not –’
‘And you definitely count down the minutes until the end of our sessions, don’t you?’
Felicity’s cheeks go ever so slightly pink and I sit back. But it doesn’t make me feel any better. The reverse, actually.
I sigh and speak more softly. ‘Anyway, I thought you’d be happy I’m eating. I mean, I didn’t expect you to get out the balloons and party poppers, but still …’
She sighs too. ‘I am happy you’re eating. But I’m concerned about what will happen after the birth. Has the situation become … firmer?’
This question is because I may have sort of missed an appointment, or two, with Joanna the Social Worker.
I don’t answer, but when I get in from my session with Felicity there’s a message on my phone.
‘Hello, Hedda. It’s Joanna. I’m a little concerned I haven’t heard from you. I’m phoning to let you know I’ve identified a prospective match for the baby. We can proceed, if all goes well, to arrange for the baby to be placed with them immediately after the birth. They’re a lovely couple. Please call me back. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll pop over next week.’
But I don’t want to speak to Joanna about it yet. I need to research … what? I don’t know. It’s just that suddenly I have this urge to get all the facts lined up in rows, to understand the weight of them.
I go online and spend an hour watching, fascinated, the video diary of an Ana woman who also happens to be pregnant. Even though she’s about eight months gone, she’s still really, really thin. In the video posted a few weeks after the baby is born she’s lost all the baby weight and looks like a model. Cheekbones I’d give a lot for.
That night, I lie in bed and listen to my breaths coming short and panicky, the baby wriggling like a fish over and over in my stomach so I can’t sleep. I pinch my thighs, my upper arms. If I stay busy enough, I can keep her quiet in the day, but in my dreams, Nia screams at me: Fat, fat, fat.
I spend the morning getting on and off the scales and the number gives me a cold, sick feeling. I try and try to remember this is for the baby, not me, but Nia is having none of it. I turn the long mirror in my bedroom to face the wall and cover the one in the bathroom with a towel. I shower as fast as I can and try not to look down, but at night I can’t avoid it. I’m getting big.
After the scales incident, I walk the long way to town and go to the charity shop. I close my nose against the musty old-lady smell and grab some leggings and more long baggy T-shirts. I don’t try them on. Mirrors make my heart clench so hard I worry it might stop altogether.
I put the clothes on the counter to pay and wait for the inevitable question.
‘When are you due?’ The woman behind the counter smiles as she hands me my change.
‘May,’ I say. Then I add before she can get in first, ‘Not long to go!’
A woman with a huge bag of toys clicks her tongue as I turn to go. She glares at my bump and pushes past, so the hard plastic edge of one toy scrapes along my side. I shrink back, one hand going instinctively to my stomach, too surprised to call her out. I hear her mumble something about ‘scroungers’ as I walk out of the shop, and have to work hard to hold my head steady.
On the way home, I catch sight of myself in a shop window. I’m expanding, out of control, like all those elastic bands I’ve wrapped myself so tightly in are pinging off in all directions and I’m leaking out, fat and greedy. Even my tummy button has popped out and it feels so weird and soft compared to the rest of me. I can barely touch it.
At my obstetrician appointment I get weighed and I sneak a look at the number, which is edging towards a figure that features in my nightmares.
It’s for the baby. I can still go back in a few weeks’ time.
Nia is unconvinced. I feel her sitting on my shoulder, like a bird of prey, as I step off the scales.
‘You’ve gone a little pale. Feeling OK?’ the obstetrician asks.
I don’t tell her how afraid I am.
The baby though – she’s happy. And she is a she.
I have a growth scan during my appointment. I lie there watching the baby dancing about inside and her heartbeat flashing in the dark.
The sonographer says, ‘I’m almost certain it’s a girl, though these things are never one hundred per cent guaranteed.’
And I think, I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.
A baby girl.
But whose baby girl?
A few weeks ago it all seemed so simple, but I’m not so sure any more.
One day when I get home from a day wandering aimlessly round town, someone’s waiting for me in the hallway. It isn’t Robin. It’s someone I wasn’t sure I’d even see again.
Dad, with Mum more or less hiding behind him.
I stand there looking at them for a ridiculously long time, before opening up the door and saying, ‘Er, hi. Come in?’
Dad comes in first, still in his suit from work. He does something in insurance in the City, has done since I can remember, which involves stupidly long hours, a ninety-minute commute each way, lots of time working weekends and trips abroad. If I counted all the time we’ve spent in one room together since I was born it probably wouldn’t add up to much.
‘Hello, darling,’ he says and kisses me on the cheek. ‘You’re looking really well.’
This is code for ‘You’ve put on weight’.
I suck in my breath like he’s socked me in the gut.
Mum shoots him a venomous look, then turns to me and I realise she’s super tired under all her make-up. Nervous too, if her hands twitching at her oversized necklace are anything to go by. Then I remember what happened the last time I saw her.
‘Tea or coffee?’ I say in a voice that’s pretty flinty.
‘Coffee please,’ Dad says.
Just as Mum says, ‘Pot of tea?’
‘One coffee and one tea coming right up. I don’t have a pot. Or a cafetière.’ I don’t apologise for this.
While the kettle boils, I watch Mum and Dad take in the flat. Only Dad has seen it once before, when I first moved in. I daren’t look at Mum’s face, because I know what she’ll think of the place. Dad’s bushy eyebrows are frowning and he narrows his eyes at the mould speckling the top corners. I think he mutters something like ‘Damn disgrace’ as I stir in his sugar, but Mum shushes him.
‘You could do something to brighten the place up a bit. Some proper curtains,’ she says and motions towards the old sheets I’ve pinned up over the windows.
‘No money,’ I say and push a cup of tea into her hand.
They give each other a look and I try and work out what it means.
Dad clears his throat. ‘We wanted to talk to you, about this baby business. You see, your mother thought …’ he glances at Mum, ‘we thought … well. Mum tells me you’re thinking about adoption. And we’re not sure we agree with that. We’re still your family and –’
‘Are you?’ I say.
�
�Yes, we are, whether you like it or not.’ Dad rarely raises his voice so that shuts me up.
Mum, I notice, isn’t looking at me or him, but at some invisible spot high up on the wall. I get the impression she’s holding her breath. Her hands are stiff by her sides.
Dad plants his feet further apart and leans forward in his I Mean Business position. ‘We think you ought to consider letting your mother … us … raise the baby.’
I can’t speak for a second, and Dad pushes on. ‘It’s our grandchild and it’s not right for it to go to strangers.’
‘She,’ I say.
‘Pardon?’
‘She. The baby’s a she. And I’m curious. Is this something you’ve both decided, or just you, Mum?’
Dad hesitates, then when Mum gives him a look, he says, ‘It’s our decision. Both of us.’
I sit back on the little fold-up chair; there’s not enough room for us all on the sofa. ‘See, I don’t think so.’
‘It’s ridiculous to think of you here alone in this flat with a baby,’ Mum says in a burst. ‘You need to –’ She clamps her lips back together.
‘We want you to come home, darling. You and the baby,’ Dad says.
‘What about Tammy? Aren’t you worried about how this affects her?’ I don’t try particularly hard to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
‘Tamara will understand,’ Dad says.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mum shift.
A sudden pain shoots through me, right in the chest, and I let out a little noise.
‘What is it? Hedda?’ Mum says and she comes over to me. I see the worry in her eyes, and it makes the pain worse.
‘It’s nothing. Some heartburn,’ I say. I stand up. ‘Thank you. For coming, and for what you said. I’ll … think about it.’
They know me well enough not to argue.
But on the way out, Dad pushes a cheque into my hands. ‘Call me any time if you need anything,’ he says.
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