Grace After Henry

by Eithne Shortall

  ‘I’m not charging full price.’

  Aoife scoffed. ‘That’s what they all say, Larry David.’

  ‘It’s Larry Paul.’

  ‘Sure it is.’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I said. ‘Thank you very much, Larry.’

  ‘I’m fairly proud of it myself, I have to say.’

  ‘I’d send it back.’

  I got halfway through jotting down Larry’s bank details when I had to put the pen down. ‘Sorry, Larry. I’ve a thumping headache. Give me one minute.’

  ‘Not a bother,’ he called after me as I headed out to the hallway and climbed the stairs to the bathroom in search of painkillers. I could hear Aoife asking for a receipt.

  I emptied the black bag that contained all the miscellaneous, unpacked items I had survived perfectly well without since moving into the house. The whole lot came tumbling to the floor. Nail varnish, blister plasters, foundation that came free with something and was six shades too dark, sanitary pads, hairspray, a plastic beaker, nose pore strips, hand cream and, underneath the box of tampons, paracetamol. I popped two tablets into my mouth and picked up the plastic beaker. I ran the tap and placed the beaker underneath as I surveyed the odds and ends scattered on the bathroom floor. This was the kind of stuff you were meant to just throw out.

  I could hear Aoife complaining about paintbrushes and when I got back downstairs the two of them were making a start on the study. Larry insisted he had nothing better to do that evening and was happy to help with the painting. Aoife did most of the talking. Her mother was wrecking her head, her sister Sharon had started a petition for her to move out – ‘Literally. She’s got a page up on Change.org’ – and she was still seeing Rowan.

  Larry occasionally threw in his two cents and Aoife dutifully took umbrage at whatever he said.

  I made occasional overtures towards conversation –

  ‘Is that not the biggest load of shite you’ve ever heard, Grace?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  – but mostly I concentrated on my brushstrokes, making little deals in my head.

  If I manage to get from the skirting board to the cornice in one smooth swoop, Andy will turn up.

  The number of strokes it takes to complete this area to the left of the door is the amount of days it’ll be before I see him again.

  Two, three, four . . .

  Aoife thought Rowan was sleeping with a woman he used to work with at the bookshop. She’d been talking about it for most of the first coat.

  ‘. . . I can’t be sure if there’s actually something going on or if he just wants me to think there’s something going on. It’s possible he’s just talking about her a lot and is not actually seeing her. I know she likes him, and he knows I know that, so he might just be using her to make me jealous when it could as easily be anyone at all, you know?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘And because we’re not actually going out and I effectively hate his guts and know him to be a waste of my energy, I can’t really care. So then I can’t ask anything and therefore it’s impossible to find out what is actually going on.’

  ‘You should probably just put him out of your head,’ I said.

  ‘I would but he keeps putting up pictures of the shop on Facebook. He doesn’t even work there anymore! Why’s he still hanging around?’

  ‘Unfriend him,’ I offered. The headache had finally subsided but there was something else troubling me.

  ‘And let him know he got to me?’

  ‘Mute him so,’ I said, only half-listening.

  ‘What’s the point of muting him if he doesn’t know I’ve muted him? He needs to know how irritating he is.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like he’s worth it,’ mused Larry, who I’d almost forgotten was in the room.

  Aoife broke off mid-stroke and turned slowly. Sinisterly, even. ‘Did I ask for your opinion?’

  ‘Just thought you might like a male perspective,’ said Larry, who never stopped painting. His relaxed tone made Aoife sound all the more manic.

  ‘Every man thinks every woman could use a male perspective, as if there were none of those about already. You’re grand thanks. We’re allowed to drive and vote and work now, so I think I can figure this one out on my own.’

  ‘Grand so.’

  ‘And you can wipe that smugness from your voice too. We were having a private conversation?’

  Larry shrugged and, about thirty seconds later, started whistling. I had never heard him whistle before – and he’d spent hours in this house doing whistle-inducing activities. Aoife turned and stared; the irritation radiated from her.

  When Larry left, Aoife went out back to wash the brushes and I stayed in the study, perched on the stepladder. How long had it been since those assorted bathroom items had been scooped up from our old flat and thrown into a black bag? As long as Henry had been gone, when I first moved home. Three months. There were several weeks after Henry’s death that I could barely remember at all, except that I’d spent most of the time in my parents’ house in bed. Exhausted and heartbroken and refusing to face the world. It was grief. I thought of the headaches and nausea, the sudden aversion to coffee and the constant want of bread and cheese. Although granted, that last one had been there before.

  Aoife reappeared in the doorway, dripping clean paintbrushes in hand. ‘Is it the inquest?’ she asked, her face softening now Larry had left. ‘It’s totally understandable if you’re nervous, Grace. You’ve been doing great. I’m very proud of you. And if you want me to come with you to the hearing I will.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said vaguely, trying to do the maths.

  ‘Is it Larry? He is very annoying. I can tell him to stop calling around. I’d actually be more than happy to do that. You just give me the word. Grace?’ Aoife took a step closer. ‘What’s up? Besides the obvious, of course. And not that that’s not enough. I mean, you’re entitled to stare forlornly into the middle distance for the rest of your life as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Aoife,’ I said as another wave of nausea, different from the others, swept through me.

  ‘Yes?’

  I looked up at her and felt the blood drain from my face, a swishing in my stomach that I hoped really was in my stomach. ‘Aoife,’ I said again.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think I might be pregnant.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Ihave a thing about doctors. Doctors, hairdressers and waiters. I don’t know why, but I always wanted them to like me. So ideally, we would have gotten off to a more innocuous start with some nice, blameless ailment that, if undetected, didn’t throw my intelligence so justifiably into question. Thrush, for example, would have been perfect. That’s what I was thinking as I looked around the surgery, trying to avoid eye contact. I’d have killed for thrush.

  ‘Have a think,’ said the doctor again, turning the calendar to face me. ‘It helps some people to have a visual aid.’

  ‘I really have no idea,’ I told her. ‘I’m usually not this stupid, honestly. I got three As in my leaving cert. Including Biology.’

  ‘Take your time, Grace, there’s no rush.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  We had been going around in circles since she confirmed my pregnancy by having me pee into a container a few minutes earlier. She’d delivered the prognosis with a cautiously upbeat formality I presumed all doctors used in these situations, not having a clue if they were confirming someone’s wildest dreams or darkest nightmares.

  I looked around at the certificates on the wall and the family photos on the desk. There were more pictures of her dogs than her children. One, two, three – yep. Four versus three. To be fair, the golden retriever was very cute. When I brought my gaze back she was still smiling expectantly, notepad in front of her.

  I sighed. The height chart by the door was starting to look like one you’d get in a police interrogation room.

  ‘Doctor,’ I started.

  ‘Call me Rachel.’

  ‘Rachel,’ I co
rrected, ‘I’m not being smart but if I had the wherewithal to remember menstrual dates, do you not think I would have been here a lot sooner than this?’

  Dr Rachel smiled harder. I was losing her. If she was a waiter, she’d be in the kitchen right now spitting in my food.

  ‘Like I said, though,’ I added brightly, not willing to admit defeat entirely, ‘I know the date of conception. Is that not better? More exact?’

  ‘And like I said, Grace, that’s not how we calculate it.’

  ‘It’s all I’ve got.’ And I repeated what was fast becoming the most significant date of my life: ‘February nineteenth.’

  The morning Henry left for work and never came back, we had sex. I remembered because weekday-morning sex was not our usual routine. And also because he died later that day. The weekends were always up for grabs, day or night, but on weekdays we were traditionalists: bedtime or not at all. We hadn’t done it in a few days and as I climbed on top of him that morning, toothbrush abandoned to the folds of the duvet, I had a vague doubt about my pill-taking but I didn’t dwell on it. Kids were on the near-future agenda, right after the house. We talked about them on an increasingly regular basis and had semi-consciously gotten more lax about birth control. Less than twelve hours later Henry’s organs had been ripped to shreds and I hadn’t thought about the contraceptive pill since.

  In my early twenties, I was so paranoid about taking that little white tablet at exactly the same time every day that I had an alarm set on my phone. What a difference a decade makes.

  ‘It was in the morning,’ I added. ‘If it helps.’

  ‘It doesn’t.’

  The doctor flicked through her desk calendar. She circled something with a pen then returned to her computer. ‘Thirteen weeks, give or take.’

  ‘There’s definitely no take,’ I said. ‘It couldn’t have happened any more recently than February nineteenth. And I’m almost completely certain it wasn’t any earlier.’

  Dr Rachel was one of those two-finger typers where the slow clackidy-clack made each letter sound accusatory. I bit my lip as she typed out whatever it was she was noting until I couldn’t take the passive accusations anymore.

  ‘It wasn’t a one-night stand, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  She looked up from the computer.

  ‘Dead boyfriend. Partner,’ I clarified. ‘Dead partner.’

  The typing stopped. I started to feel hot. Why had I said that?

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Grace,’ she said. Her voice was soothing and sympathetic, which only embarrassed me further. ‘My deepest condolences.’

  ‘Typical man, ha? Get a woman into trouble, then feck off.’ I laughed but she didn’t, so I stopped. I suppose it wasn’t very funny. ‘I know you must think I’m a complete moron not to have noticed, but Henry had just died and my period has never been regular. I’m pretty sure there was a bit of blood.’ I wasn’t sure actually. I hadn’t a clue about anything. There was a big black hole where my memory of those weeks had been. It only started to come back around the time Andy appeared. ‘I’m really not that stupid,’ I said again. I wished she’d write that down: Not stupid, just in mourning.

  Which made me think that there had to be some gag about the similarities between morning sickness and mourning sickness, but now was probably not the time to develop it.

  ‘I’ve seen it all, Grace. Honestly.’ She smiled kindly. ‘Three months is nothing. There isn’t a week goes by without a woman presenting herself at A&E with what she believes to be a burst kidney or a bad case of food poisoning only to be turned around and redirected to the nearest maternity hospital with an updated diagnosis of contractions.’

  That, actually, did make me feel a bit better.

  ‘After Henry died, my mind was gone. It was like it just checked out. I forgot to eat and shower, I lost all track of time, never mind counting the days of the month.’ My whole body was still burning and, despite my best efforts, I was getting upset. ‘I lost weight, then I gained more back. My body went rogue. There were symptoms, yeah, when I think about it now.’ I’d been going over these since Aoife forced me to take two pregnancy tests two nights before. ‘If you knew what you were looking for then there were symptoms; but if you were looking for something else, well then there were plenty of signs of that too.

  ‘I thought it was grief. Grief made sense. I was tired, a lot. And in the first few weeks, if I could avoid starting the day, I did. Entire days spent lying in bed, thinking about him. I could fall asleep anywhere.’

  Dr Rachel started typing again.

  ‘But I was in mourning,’ I insisted. I had rationalised these things as my body yearning for Henry. I hated the idea that they had all been about something else entirely. It felt like a betrayal, as if I hadn’t suffered his loss at all. ‘Wasn’t that grief?’

  ‘It was probably both,’ she said. ‘Did you experience any nausea?’

  ‘Plenty of it. But I’ve always felt my emotions in my stomach. When other people talk about their hearts flipping or dropping; for me, that’s my tummy. So yeah, I was sick a lot but I just thought . . .’ I exhaled loudly, puffing out my cheeks. I hated crying in front of doctors, and hairdressers and waiters, but this power balance had long tilted.

  ‘I had some headaches, and the smell of certain things, just. Ugh.’ The thought of coffee was enough to turn my insides. ‘But I never thought . . . Look,’ I said, though she wasn’t the one who needed convincing. Dr Rachel didn’t require my excuses. ‘I felt sick every time I thought about Henry, but that was all the time. So I was always nauseous. On the scale of things, it was a welcome distraction. Not vomiting was easier to concentrate on.’ I spread my hands across my stomach. ‘Is it all right?’

  ‘Well, you’re over the worst bit. Symptoms should abate now the first trimester is done and the risk of miscarriage is significantly lower, so that’s good. But we’ll get you in for a scan at the hospital and then we’ll know everything for sure. We should also get you started on prenatal supplements as soon as possible.’

  ‘Maybe it won’t be so bad,’ I said. ‘I can already think of some positives to being pregnant. One: you get to eat more calories. I mean, you have to. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Not as many as people think, but yes, there is a slight, gradual increase.’

  ‘So that’s good. Two: you have an excuse to nap all the time. Before I just thought I was depressed – I mean, I think it’s fair to say I was depressed. But I was also pregnant. So now I don’t have to feel bad about sleeping. Staying in bed is not good when you’re depressed, but it is good when you’re pregnant. Right? So that’s a definite plus.’

  ‘Grace—’

  ‘Three! Now this is a niche one and only holds for a small window of time. BUT in a few months, when I actually look pregnant, and people say whatever it is that people say, like “when are you due” or “do you want this seat”, I’ll be able to act all offended and say, “What? What are you talking about? I’m not pregnant.” So that’ll be fun. Yeah.’ I gave another loud exhale and presented Dr Rachel with the brightest smile I could manage.

  ‘If you want a referral for someone to talk to, about this or other things, I can give you that too.’

  ‘You know,’ I said, shaking my head and attempting another conspiratorial laugh though I had no doubt my face was red and blotchy, ‘this is probably the only three months of my adult life where I could have been unknowingly pregnant and the baby might not actually end up with foetal alcohol syndrome. I haven’t exactly been out partying since Henry died. Whereas normally . . .’ I gave her my best girls-just-want-to-have-fun smile. It fell to a death somewhere in the half-metre between us.

  ‘I realise I don’t know you yet, Grace, but I’m sure this is a shock, especially given what happened to your partner. Have you family who can provide support?’

  I thought of my parents who had just gotten their lives back, of Henry’s mother who in the first few weeks after her son’s death had been i
n more denial than me and who had never had great health anyway. And of Andy, who I hadn’t seen in four days.

  ‘Like I say, I have heard it all . . .’

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said quietly.

  She dragged her pad across the desk and started to scribble. ‘These are some vitamins you should start taking as soon as possible . . .’

  ‘What if I don’t keep it?’

  Dr Rachel readjusted her glasses. I admired her unwavering professional demeanour. ‘As you know, abortions are not yet available here,’ she said. ‘If you’re travelling to the UK, they can be carried out up to twenty-four weeks. If you get the procedure under fifteen weeks, it can be less invasive. Which would mean making a decision relatively soon.’ She fixed her spectacles to her nose. ‘All right, Grace?’

  ‘Yep. Got it.’

  How could I have a child? In a few months I’d be struggling to meet my mortgage repayments. I was already struggling to take care of myself. When Henry and I talked about kids, I used to worry they’d get my chin and his forehead and both our eyebrows. You know the way parents always think their children are gorgeous? That wouldn’t be me. I had no difficulty identifying ugly kids. I kept imagining giving birth to a big hairy brick, but Henry told me to stop slagging our unborn child. ‘All that matters is that they’re happy.’ That was what he said. ‘We just have to give them our happiness.’

  But this thing could never be happy. Not when it was formed inside a body consumed by such powerful grief that it had, just one day, early on, taken to pausing abruptly when crossing the road. For the first few weeks of its gestation, it had lived in a place that was more sadness than consciousness, more despair than bone or flesh. That sorrow was overwhelming and it had to transfer. It just had to.

  Dr Rachel took out a Filofax and returned to her computer. ‘Do you know where you’d like to have the baby, if you do?’

  ‘In a . . . hospital?’

  ‘Which hospital, Grace?’

  I named the first maternity one I could think of and she handed me a form, told me to fill it in and send it off. ‘You should get a letter from them in a week or two with appointment dates. You can get booked in for your first scan while you consider your options.’