by Zaza, Agatha
Ovidia closed her eyes and leaned back in the seat. How would Edmund tell her to leave? Or would he just expect her to go without having to say so. There was nothing to keep them together now. When the cab stopped outside their house, his house, would she go inside or cross the road and go back to her flat?
When they’d arrived at the hospital, the doctors had explained everything to them — what was going to happen, that they’d turn off the machines, that it might take days for their baby to die, or just a few minutes.
Beside Oliver’s hospital bed, Ovidia had made a few remarks about when he was born, about how dark his hair had been and about the roundness of his cheeks. Edmund had nodded. He’d sighed and glanced out of the window — a window that faced the wall of the adjacent building. Edmund had asked her if she would like them to take turns waiting or if they should wait together until he was gone — they’d had no idea how long he’d live once the life support was turned off.
When the doctor and nurse had begun, Ovidia had closed her eyes. She could sense their shadowy forms moving through her eyelids. She’d reopened her eyes when the sound of the machines had stopped. The sound that she’d become accustomed to, the noises that told her Oliver was still alive. She’d allowed herself to believe that, once he was free of the beeping, tubes, and lights, he’d open his eyes. She’d imagined that one day she’d play with him again, that one day these months in hospital would all be a distant memory.
This, Ovidia had reminded herself, was the last time she’d sit in the intensive care unit. She’d never again have to walk through the corridors bustling with staff whose faces were half-obscured with surgical masks, their shoes soundless as they pushed or skirted around gurneys. Sometimes a child’s cry would make Ovidia’s heart leap and she’d hurry, thinking, ‘Could it be?’ But it never was.
Every day she and Edmund had arrived at Oliver’s bedside, and he’d still be lying inert on a bed that was much too big for him, tubes feeding him and machines breathing for him, dressed in blue and white. She’d never given up reading to him, hoping he was listening. She’d imagined him one day when he was older, telling her why the giraffe had a long neck or asking her why he had such vivid memories of a trickster rabbit.
He’d been nearly bald when they’d brought him in — his baby hair, straight and brown, had been shedding only to have regrown as he slept, this time soft and curly.
When it was over, she’d stroked his hair for the last time and then turned away from him and left the room.
36
Edmund replayed his son’s last moments. Oliver’s chest, for just a few minutes, had risen and fallen with the air going in and out of his lungs without the help of a machine. Hope had jolted through him — perhaps that miracle he’d been praying for had come. But too soon it was over. Edmund recalled the life creeping out of Oliver’s skin, remembering how quickly his baby took on the pallor of the dead.
Edmund was thankful to Jasper for having bought Oliver a few hours of life. Had Jasper and his guests not arrived that morning, there’d have been nothing to stop him and Ovidia from going to the hospital earlier. He knew he could not have made it through the day staring at his son whose death was imminent, scheduled, without begging the staff to end everything immediately.
Ovidia had been beside him, holding his arm at first, letting it fall later. She’d said little as he’d talked to the doctor. His voice had cracked mid-sentence, and, when he faltered, she’d asked, ‘And how long do we have to make preparations?’ She’d stepped in as if to rescue him from the embarrassment of being struck dumb with grief. He’d seen that she hadn’t listened for the doctor’s response — she’d turned away to watch Oliver dying.
They were allowed to hold their son. His body was lifeless, as it had been for the last four months.
In the taxi, Edmund had inhaled through his nose, hoping to calm down, hoping he could at least get home with some dignity. He could feel his eyes clouding over and blinked rapidly, chasing the tears away each time, the blush of sadness rising and subsiding. Every now and then he’d caught Ovidia’s eye. She wasn’t crying, she hadn’t cried at all. Shock, he decided.
When the taxi had stopped at the last lights before their house, Edmund, unable to hold back his tears, had buried his head in his hands and wept. Ovidia had held him, and, when he finally looked up, he found her watching a group of teens as the taxi passed, half of them laughing and leaping about and the others holding up their mobile phones, texting or making video calls. Her face the picture of misery.
He had opened his mouth and then shut it again. In his mind, where words usually resided, there was nothing but a blackness. He’d wanted to comfort her but couldn’t. She’d held him with cold hands as he leaned against her shoulder and cried.
He’d never in his life felt unhappiness like he felt at this moment. When his grandparents had passed away, he’d been sad, but both had aged gently over the years, the crippling effect of their time on earth had been relatively kind to them, both left with dignity, saying sad farewells while their family waited beside them fetching each other cups of tea and sticky buns from the hospital cafeteria.
Oliver had never even said his first word or taken his first steps. He’d never had the chance to become the darling of his grandparents’ eyes, the centre of their universe.
Anger at the unfairness of the situation had flared up within Edmund and then it ebbed. Anger was pointless at a time like this, as was blame. It felt out of place; both he and Ovidia were suffering.
The taxi driver had said nothing after he’d picked them up outside the hospital. Edmund had spotted him glancing back at them, he guessed, trying to figure out their story.
Now the driver told them the fare gently as he parked outside their house. Ovidia paid as Edmund straightened his clothes, accepted a piece of tissue from her and wiped his eyes and nose.
‘They’re still here,’ Edmund said. He took Ovidia’s hand.
‘They really want us to join in their celebration,’ Ovidia replied drily.
‘Ovidia,’ he chided her, gently drawing out her name as if he might never say it again.
‘I’m joking.’
‘Humour? Now?’
‘Doesn’t make much difference,’ she insisted and chuckled, but he knew the sound of her laughter, and this wasn’t it.
‘Let’s go and hide at my place for a while,’ Ovidia suggested. ‘They’ve no idea how long we took.’
Across the road, the curtains in her flat were closed, the two of them could escape there for a little while and not talk to anyone.
‘Oh no, I don’t have my keys,’ she said.
‘I have them,’ Edmund replied. They were always on his key ring beside his own.
Ovidia turned and Edmund panicked.
‘No, come home with me,’ he said. ‘If you go home, you might stay there.’
Ovidia nodded. They continued standing where they were, just outside the door, neither being first to open it.
Edmund was once again reminded that the door would have to be fixed. It was one more thing he had to do, he thought, in a seemingly endless list of obligations. At first, each time he exited or entered through it he thought, briefly, how it came to be damaged, why the lock refused to stay shut, being prone to slowly swinging open unless they remembered to lock the inner latch, which they often didn’t.
He remembered being overcome with fury a few weeks earlier; Ovidia with Oliver at the hospital, his work that he once loved piling up, the growing apprehension that he was going to have to tell someone of his situation or finally break down. The lock had resisted his fumbling as he’d tried to force his key in with shaking hands, and he’d attacked it — slamming his weight against the door, over and over again until he’d felt it give. Only then did he stop, breathe, and examine the destruction he’d wrought and feel that little bit relieved.
With the house alarm going off, the police had arrived within minutes, but a simple explanation that he’d forgotten his k
eys put them at ease. They’d checked his driver’s licence and swept through the house and then bid him goodnight, suggesting that next time he consult a locksmith.
Ovidia had asked about it when she returned. Edmund said the police had told him someone had tried to force their way into the house, but he’d shrugged it off. ‘The perks of living in a good neighbourhood and having security response.’
Before opening the door now, Edmund began, his voice a croak, ‘I can’t believe he’s gone. At least before, I could hope.’
Ovidia turned away from him towards the street. There was nothing there to see except the same cars that parked there every night, including his.
‘Being with you was amazing, it was perfect. I want to be with you for the rest of my life,’ Edmund said.’ And what’s worse, today I got to see the woman I fell in love with again.’ He ran his finger along the door’s mouldings. ‘I should have left yesterday,’ he continued, ‘before I knew how hard it would be.’
Ovidia stayed quiet.
Edmund stared at the doorknob. ‘I’m nearly fifty. I’ve tried calculating my chances of being in love again, how long it will take to find someone and start a new family. Then I’ll be an old man by the time that child’s a toddler, maybe senile by the time it gets to university. I’d never get to see my grandchildren. And if I don’t find this woman, I’ll be alone for the rest of my life.’
Edmund turned the door handle and entered, Ovidia behind him. They heard voices from the kitchen below, and Ovidia froze, stopping in her tracks. Edmund turned to her, and she shook her head.
‘I’m going to be sick.’ She clutched her stomach and retched on the floor, Edmund catching her before she could fall.
He pulled her away from the puddle of vomit and steered her to the downstairs bathroom. He held her as she leaned over the toilet and spewed the contents of her stomach until she had nothing left to bring up.
Edmund soaked half a hand towel and wiped her face and patches of sick from her dress.
‘That towel smells like we nicked it from a tomb,’ she said, tears welling up in her eyes but still not crying.
Edmund smiled reluctantly and sat beside her on the floor, and she crumpled against him.
‘I can take care of myself,’ Ovidia said. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
‘Maybe you can,’ he replied. ‘I remember thinking, when I saw you that day at the run, that if anything happened to you, I’d hate myself. That still applies.’
They remained on the floor for a while longer, only their breathing audible.
‘I’m going to get some stuff together and go back to my place,’ she said, and they both got to their feet.
Edmund stifled a protest. That morning he’d wanted this — the end. Now he had it, but he wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen now. His heart began to race, and he battened down his rising panic. He swallowed and opened the door, and they exited the bathroom, parting at the stairs.
Edmund arrived in the kitchen to find four people seated with bated breaths and expectant faces. He nodded in greeting and paused.
‘Ovidia’s gone upstairs,’ he said. ‘She’s going to get some sleep,’ he waited, hoping they’d excuse themselves. ‘I think I’ll join her,’ he said when they didn’t. He didn’t want to explain that Ovidia was packing, that his relationship was over.
Edmund turned to go back up the stairs, but Jasper leapt to his feet, his stool wobbling precariously with the momentum.
‘Edmund, I have to talk to you,’ Jasper said, glancing at Anne as he spoke.
‘I’m exhausted. I’m sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow,’ Edmund replied.
‘Just a few minutes. Please,’ Jasper said.
Edmund nodded, and Jasper followed him through the French doors to the glass extension and the two of them sat down — Edmund in his armchair and Jasper on the three-seater, leaning in towards his brother.
‘I wanted to say I’m sorry about …’ Jasper began haltingly. ‘You could have told me.’
‘I could have told you that I was with the woman who abused you and was happier than I’d ever been in my life?’ Edmund asked. ‘It didn’t seem like a good idea.’
‘Well, yes. Why not?’ Jasper demanded.
‘Really?’
‘We’d have rowed a few times. I’d probably have sworn to never speak to you again, but what would I have done about it? I couldn’t have stopped you,’ Jasper said. ‘In time, everything would have been okay.’
Edmund could see Jasper was trying to comfort him, but his brother’s eyes said how much pain he was in. Had Jasper known he was with Ovidia, it would certainly have pushed Jasper over that precipice that he had so delicately trodden for the first few years after Ovidia left him.
‘Maybe. Or you could have been completely devastated. It was only a year after you broke up. You’re my only brother — I’d have lost you,’ Edmund replied. ‘Jasper, look at yourself. You’ve never recovered from Ovidia. Do you think it would have been easier knowing she was with me? It would have pushed you over the edge.’
‘Most likely,’ Jasper confessed, rubbing his eyes. ‘That aside, you should have told me when your son was born.’
Edmund didn’t reply.
‘Or at least, the two of you didn’t have to sit here listening to us plan weddings and talk about honeymoons,’ Jasper continued in Edmund’s silence. ‘You didn’t have to go through this alone.’
‘Yes. I did,’ Edmund said finally, ‘This is the life I created for myself and these are its consequences. Tomorrow is a new life, filled with new things to go through alone.’
‘So, it’s over between you and Ovidia?’ Jasper asked, sitting up suddenly, his hands falling away from his face.
‘It has to be. How can it survive?’ Edmund said.
‘Relationships do continue after a child’s death.’
‘If it were just that,’ Edmund replied quietly. ‘But there’s so much more. And besides, you know about it now. Then there’s Holly, and John and Anne. Soon it will include Mummy and Dad and Ovidia’s family. Everyone will want to know, everyone will demand an explanation, everyone will want to be involved.’
Jasper snorted in suppressed laughter. ‘I am not them. I’m the little boy you taught to ride a bike and use chopsticks.’
‘And look what you kept from me,’ Edmund said quietly.
‘I was afraid,’ Jasper said, after a moment’s indecision. ‘I was scared, terrified from morning till night every bloody day. I couldn’t see a way out. She was a monster.’
‘I know,’ Edmund said. ‘I asked every expert I could find, I read every article and every thesis I could get a hold of. It took me a long time to understand what I was seeing. Part of the reason it took so long for me to realise was that I’d always thought you’d come to me if you were ever in trouble. And you’ve always done before — remember? School bullies, getting through your first job? You always told me.’
‘And you?’ Jasper said quietly. ‘You never told me anything. I’ve realised that today. All that talking we do, it’s never about you. I don’t think I can even remember your first job.’
Jasper glanced through the glass into the garden. ‘This thing with Oliver fills in so many blanks. It explains so many weird little …’ He paused and leaned forward. ‘That dinner at Mummy and Dad’s, when you left?’
‘Ovidia called saying she had contractions,’ Edmond gripped his arm rest at the memory. ‘False alarm in the end. I practically danced my way out the front door.’ His voice almost failed him.
‘You were that happy and you didn’t say.’
Edmund paused, his hand over his mouth.
‘Or we didn’t notice,’ Jasper said, pensive.
They were both silent. Edmund struggled to keep his composure.
‘Ovidia told me you threatened her. Did you mean it?’ Jasper asked.
‘Practically speaking, no,’ Edmund replied, his own words reminding him of Ovidia’s penchant for ill-timed humour. ‘The thought of s
pending time in prison doesn’t appeal to me. But I was going to stop her. Lucky, she took my word for it.’ He paused and looked at Jasper. ‘But then, when you met Ovidia, it changed you — so who knows?’
‘You’re saying that when with you she changed completely, that she never said or did anything to you that showed you what she was really like?’ Jasper demanded.
Edmund flinched. ‘Do you remember the first few months you were with Ovidia? I do. You told me everything about it. I could see the excitement in you when you talked about her,’ Edmund said. ‘I remember you told me about how funny she was, and intelligent, and she was loving and caring.’ He saw Jasper look away from him. ‘Well, I had that for four years, four amazing years.’
‘You want me to believe that?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Edmund said.
‘And that she became the perfect mother, too?’
Edmund didn’t answer, closing his eyes for a moment.
‘What happened?’ Jasper asked.
Edmund still didn’t answer, and his gaze drifted away from his brother onto a puddle, long-dried and now invisible, where the contents of a baby bottle had once spilt and were almost immediately wiped away.
‘Fine,’ Jasper sighed. ‘I’m going to let you go to bed. I’ve a feeling I’m not going to be this sensible in the next few days. Right now, it’s more important that you get through this. Please understand if I don’t spend as much time with you as I should.’ Jasper stood straightening his trousers. ‘And of course there’s Holly.’
‘And you’re not — afraid of Holly?’ Edmund asked.
‘No. Not of Holly,’ Jasper said, a touch of sadness in his voice. With his hand on a door handle he continued. ‘Okay, I’m going. You might find that you’re short of booze. We helped ourselves while you were out.’ Jasper didn’t offer an embrace or a firm reassuring handshake; he knew his brother too well.