Feels Like Maybe

by Claire Allan

  She was Maggie’s surrogate daddy and I felt secure with her. I just wasn’t sure how I would manage without that help – but I knew I would have to as chances were I was going to be alone for a long time.

  I couldn’t rely on Anna my whole life and I had to face it that the majority of my life was waiting for me back in London. So with mixed emotions of fear, excitement, dread and relief I boarded the plane.

  

  Chapter 24

  Aoife

  The High Street seemed really noisy that first morning. Maggie had woken me at six thirty demanding to be fed and once I had satisfied her hunger I decided it was high time to satisfy my own. I showered and dressed, pulling my hair back in a pony-tail and scraping a little make-up onto my face. Once I was ready I dressed Maggie and we set out for our walk up the road to Mrs Morelli’s.

  We had got home quite late the previous night. Although Dan had offered to pick us up from the airport I’d braved a taxi. If I had survived my mother for seventeen days I could certainly survive a half-hour run in a London cab.

  It had been blissful to step through the doors of the shop. Everything was reassuringly the same. The daybed still sat in the corner, a purple shot-silk throw cast over it, scatter cushions making it seem all the more inviting. The same prints and paintings hung on the wall and the same display of trinkets sat on the large wooden dresser. Of course Matilda was there, illuminated by her usual light, smiling down at me.

  “Nice to see you too,” I muttered as we made our way past up to the flat.

  Beth had obviously been round earlier. My fridge was stocked with fresh milk, cheese and ham and there was a freshly bought crusty loaf on the worktop. A king-size bar of Galaxy sat beside it with a scrawled note. “Thought you might need this. Will chat in the morning. Can’t wait to see Maggie. Love you both (Auntie) Beth xx”

  Walking into my living-room, my gorgeous, eclectic, messy living-room I felt myself breathe out for the first time in two weeks. I would deal with Jake come morning, but for now I was going to sleep and enjoy it. I was home.

  The March air whipped about us as we walked up the street for breakfast. I might not have solved all my problems in Derry – hell, I might not even have solved any of them – but I definitely felt a little bit more in control now.

  As I reached Morelli’s, a man, the same man who had seen me snivelling like a wet hankie two weeks before, walked in front of me and opened the door.

  “Here you go,” he said, holding it for me to push the pram through.

  I smiled a thank you before quickly moving to my seat. My face reddened at the memory of that last encounter. I had been all snotters and ugly tears – not to mention I hadn’t showered or washed my hair in a couple of days and my body had been leaking fluid from every orifice.

  He walked to the counter, momentarily glancing back at me and smiling, and I realised he had more than likely remembered our last encounter too. I was about to crawl under the table to hide when I heard Mrs Morelli’s unmistakeable Italian accent boom towards me.

  “Eeva, you are back, and you have the bella bambina with you!” She walked towards us, her hands outstretched to welcome me into a hug. “Stand up so I can get a look at you,” she ordered and I obeyed, because let’s face it, it would take a braver woman than me to argue with Mrs Morelli. “My goodness, Eeva, you look wonderful! But you are fading to nothing. Quick, I’ll get you a Full English now!” She shouted to her husband to put on the house special before turning her attention to Maggie, who was wide-eyed with wonder at this magnificently matronly woman. “She is so big, and you are so small,” she said to me. “You are obviously, you know, breast-feeding, yes?” She squeezed her own buxom bosom at this statement and I heard a snort of laughter from the man at the counter. I gave him my best glare and he at least had the decency to look embarrassed. Much like myself, if I’m honest.

  “Yes, I’m breast-feeding,” I responded, “at least until I go back to work.”

  “Yes, it has been very busy at your shop. Poor Beth has been there day and night. She looks worn out, poor thing.”

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” I chided. “At least she gets a good night’s sleep each night! But I’ll talk to her anyway.”

  “You know I worry about you girls,” Mrs Morelli said, sitting down for the long haul. “So tell me about Ireland. Was your mama okay with the news?”

  “She is coming round,” I sighed. “Taking her time about it, but she will get there in the end. I just couldn’t stay away from here forever. I needed your breakfasts for starters,” I smiled, as the much-maligned Mr Morelli set a plate of bacon, sausages, eggs and toast in front of me.

  “This looks delicious,” I said, tucking in.

  “And I thought the Irish fed you well,” Mrs Morelli said. “Nothing beats a Full English, eh?” She rubbed my cheek as if I were a baby myself, and stood up to get on with her day’s work.

  At the same time the man at the counter lifted his takeaway coffee and pastry and made for the door.

  “She’s right, you know. You do look amazing now.”

  And he left, while I sat there, mouth gaping open, sausage speared on my fork.

  A hoot of laughter sounded, this time from Old Man Morelli. “Eeva, I think he likes you!”

  I shook my head, but I didn’t speak because, for probably the first time in my life, I was speechless.

  *****

  The one thing I could give Jake was that he did always tell me I looked amazing. Even when I had just woken up and my auburn mass was in dire need of the frizz-eaze and my face had creases from the pillow, he would look at me, his eyes filled with desire, and say: “Shit, Aoifs, you are the mutt’s nuts!”

  Perhaps some women would have preferred more poetic language, but the mutt’s nuts worked for me. Despite his aspirations to be the next George Michael (“although, obviously not gay” as he would deadpan to hoots of his own laughter time and time again) when it came to lyrics and when it came to straight talking he called a spade a spade – and indeed a dog’s testicle a dog’s testicle.

  It had therefore been a long time, nine months to be precise, since a man had paid me such a compliment.

  Having eaten my breakfast, I walked home. So I looked amazing? I wasn’t sure I bought it. Not now anyway. Carrying Maggie up the stairs, barely even registering the fact that Beth wasn’t at work yet, I placed her in her crib and stood in front of the mirror to size myself up.

  Here I was. Average height. Hair, admittedly quite shiny thanks to washing it the day before. Skin, relatively clear – the post-baby break-out finally clearing.

  I had to say it, my breasts looked magnificent beneath my jumper – all firm, rounded and exceptionally womanly. I am woman, hear me purr . . .

  Stomach – could do with some attention, but thankfully my just-washed (Size 14) jeans still had a bit of stiffness about them which hugged in the worst offending areas.

  Bum, not bad – still, I hoped to get back down to a Size 12 but I’d just given birth. I had to give myself a break.

  All in all, not bad. So why I did what I did next is beyond me entirely. Instead of leaving that general impression of ‘not bad’, I stripped down to my underwear. After all, if I truly looked amazing then surely some man, somewhere, would some day want to see how truly amazing I looked in my pants.

  Face and hair were both the same in my semi-naked state, so I started my analysis with the chest area. My heavy cotton nursing bra strained to hold in my heaving chest, veiny and blotchy with the trauma of breastfeeding.

  In the coolness of the room my nipples should have been standing proudly to attention through my reinforced bra, instead two white discs – breast-pads – covered them, giving me the appearance of a nippleless Barbie Doll. If only I had her waist. Further down, I saw a map of reddish stretch-marks creep up over the top of my belly-warming passion-killer pants. No, I couldn’t face my thongs and bikini panties just yet, so my comfy for pregnancy M&S Size 16 baggy, saggy white full brie
fs completed the look – almost.

  Further down, an unkempt pant moustache of hair crept out the side of my briefs, showing a neglected bikini line.

  And then, just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I started to laugh and it all started to wobble. Yep, this was me.

  I was fecking amazing.

  I heard the bell above the door ring downstairs and expected Beth to come thundering up the stairs, so I threw my clothes back on – went back to looking ‘not that bad’ – and cooed at Maggie. “Auntie Beth is here!”

  Her face lit up, a smile, most probably wind, danced across it. However the stairs remained quiet and I wondered had I imagined the tinkle of the bell.

  I walked to my door. “Hello?” I called, suddenly panicking that perhaps I’d forgotten to lock the door behind me in my haste to get naked in front of the mirror, that the man from Morelli’s was in fact an axe-murderer who had come to finish me off. Matilda was proving to be a very inefficient guardian angel. There was no reply, and I called again. My mind was whirring. I knew I shouldn’t go down the steps. Not unarmed anyway.

  “Hello, anyone there?” I called a third time and a tiny, desperate voice called back.

  “It’s only me!”

  

  Chapter 25

  Beth

  I didn’t have any symptoms that month. No sore boobs. No metallic taste in my mouth. No cramping low down. I had discussed my symptomless state on my website with what Dan referred to as my imaginary friends and we had wondered if my lack of symptoms could in fact be a symptom in itself.

  This was different. This felt different because there was nothing there to allow me to convince myself a fertilised egg was bedding in for the summer. Why I allowed myself to get my hopes up then is beyond me.

  Each morning I would look at my calendar, counting down those 14 days and mentally ticking each of them off. Technically after 11 days I could buy a First Response test and give it a whirl, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to hold on to the dream that this could be it for a couple of extra days. I could be strong when I wanted to be. I could hold off until the day my period was due and if I did that then I wouldn’t be jinxing yet another month.

  It was funny how I had these routines and superstitions. I liked to think I did everything the same each month, but if I’m honest I always varied it a little because perhaps each little variation held the key to our success.

  I’d tried to stay calm, not to read anything into anything but when I posted on the web about my experiences a flurry of support messages flooded through.

  “Good luck, Betsy-Boo. This has to be your month,” one wrote.

  “Keeping everything crossed for a ‘positive’ outcome for you,” wrote another.

  I allowed these posters to raise my hopes – even though I knew from bitter experience it was unlikely that all the good wishes in the world would make a blind bit of difference to me and my dodgy womb.

  Then it was Thursday, and I lay listening to the rain beat off the window pane. Dan was sleeping still, his body wrapped up in the duvet, his face crumpled by the pillow. He looked kind of troubled, so I reached over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. He muttered something almost inaudible androlled over, pulling the duvet over him.

  I padded out of bed and to the window where I looked out to see the grey sky looking down on the cars which drove past on their way to work and school. By now Aoife and Maggie would be home. I looked forward to seeing them. It had surprised me just how much I had missed my best friend. I suppose it hadn’t really been a surprise that I missed her daughter. My heart fluttered a little at the thought of cuddling Maggie close to me and breathing in her gorgeous baby smell, feeling the softness of her skin. It was a bittersweet feeling. When holding her the hole in my heart started to close over just slightly, but I knew the moment I handed her back to her mother – and saw the look that only they as mother and daughter could share – that my heart would hollow out again.

  I sighed and walked to the bathroom to run the shower. Glancing in the mirror I saw a tired face stare back at me. I was pale, my blonde hair hung limply around my face which was still puffy from my night’s sleep. I splashed some water on to my face and stared again at the mirror which was starting to steam up. I could do this, I could get through today.

  I started to strip off, peeling off my pink vest top and my stripey pyjama bottoms. There it was. The blood.

  Another month gone. Another failure. Another fucking disappointment to pile on the disappointment. My lack of symptoms – how could I have been so stupid to think they could have meant anything other than the fact that once again my body had let me down. I felt my stomach start to cramp and my heart start to break.

  I looked again, hoping I was wrong. I hoped there was nothing there. I couldn’t see this again. I didn’t want to do this again. I couldn’t feel like this again.

  Tears started to slide down my face. Hot angry tears as I stood there naked in the steamy bathroom. A sob, which I had buried down for the past few weeks, erupted from my throat and I fell to my knees. This was not fair. Why could this not happen for us? Did I not deserve this? Had I done something wrong? Was I a bad person? The sobs came thick and fast as I sat there, knees curled up to my chest, fist in my mouth to muffle the sound of my crying. I rocked back and forth, like a demented escapee from a madhouse.

  I’m not sure how long I sat there, but when I looked up Dan was standing in the doorway looking at me with a mixture of pity and what I could only read as contempt.

  “Yes,” I snarled. “It’s all over for another month. But hey, nothing is wrong. We are both perfectly fucking capable of having a baby, aren’t we?”

  I didn’t mean to hurt him. I didn’t mean to lash out, but I couldn’t help it. Why should I be the only one to sit on the floor, tears pouring from me along with all traces of my dignity?

  “It’s not my fault,” he said, a note of resignation in his voice.

  “So it’s mine then?” I shouted, standing up, shaking with rage, disappointment and hurt.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you thought it. You fucking thought it, didn’t you?” I gestured widely, knocking the glass of water which had been sitting on the window ledge crashing to the floor. The noise reverberated around the room, but it wasn’t enough to bring me to my senses.

  “I didn’t think it,” he said calmly.

  “Don’t lie to me, Dan. I’ve seen how you look at me. I’ve seen how you look at Aoife, who got pregnant at the drop of her knickers, and I know you blame me.”

  “Get a grip,” he said, still calm – almost resigned to my outburst.

  And before I realised just what I was doing I had gone too far. I slapped Dan, square across the face.

  He stared at me with shock in his eyes and I stood there, amid the broken glass, shaking and crying.

  “This can’t go on, Beth,” he said. “I can’t do this any more.”

  “Oh fuck off then! Do a Jake – except at least he managed to get his girlfriend up the duff!”

  “Enough, Beth,” Dan said, his face reddening not only with the imprint of my hand but now with anger. “Enough. Enough. Enough! What the hell has happened to you? I can’t be with you like this. I can’t do this every month.”

  “I said leave then,” I answered, but my voice wasn’t quite so angry now. My rage was fading and being replaced with pure and deep fear. I’d done it now. I’d pushed him too far.

  He looked at me, and in that moment I realised just how pathetic I must have looked to him.

  “I’m sorry, Dan, I’m so sorry!” I reached out to him, longing for him to hold me in his arms and to comfort me. I longed for him to tuck me into bed and bring my chocolate and Nurofen and rub my stomach until the cramps subsided.

  He didn’t respond. He didn’t pull me to him. He just turned away.

  “Have your shower, Beth. I have to go to work. We’ll talk about this tonight.”

  

  Chapt
er 26

  Aoife

  I don’t to this day understand why I didn’t hear that she was crying. I ran back to the bedroom, lifted Maggie from her crib and went downstairs – a grin across my face, eager to see Beth’s reaction to my pudgy gorgeous growing baby girl.

  She was sitting there, on the daybed, the shutters still down outside and her face soaked with tears. Mascara coursed down her cheeks, her lipstick was smudged and she looked as if she had been on the drink all night.

  In hindsight, my walking into the room, grinning like a buck eejit, shouting “Ta-daa!” was poorly timed.

  I almost dropped Maggie with the shock of seeing Beth like that. Yes, she was a soppy cow who cried at the drop of the hat but these were proper heart-sore tears.

  This was not because she had stubbed her toe or left a collage at home – not this time.

  “Jesus, are you okay?” I said, rushing over to her, trying to hug her and hold on to Maggie at the same time.

  She sniffed, nodding her head.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  She nodded again, between the gasping sobs.

  “Really sure?”

  At that she shook her head and caved in towards me, sobbing onto my shoulder. Maggie, alarmed that for once the wailing wasn’t coming from her, or me for that matter, joined in and I sat there completely bewildered, soothing them both.

  When the avalanche of tears started to dry Beth stood up, walked towards the counter and started pulling tissues and make-up from her bag.