When we reached the house, I parked in our designated space and went round to the back to grab the bags. I looked at Laura through the car as she stared at our front door. The boot slammed shut and she jumped, then turned to undo her seat belt.
Inside, I dropped the keys in the pot. Laura stood in the hallway and looked around, then put her hands in her pockets and said over her shoulder, ‘I’ll take a shower.’
I switched on the oven. Upstairs, I heard the sound of the bathroom door shutting and the rattling of the pipes. The cat purred around my legs, and I picked her up and rubbed her stomach.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed when Laura came out, her hair wrapped in a towel. She paused when she saw me, then went to the window and closed the blinds. She stood in front of the mirror and towel-dried her hair without speaking, then undid the one wrapped around her body and draped them over the chair.
I took off my clothes. I reached for her hand but she pushed me back and climbed on top. Then she fucked me with her face towards the ceiling. Slivers of light shone through the edges of the blind, and I watched her body as she arched her back and didn’t make a sound.
After it was over, she stood and returned to the bathroom, locking the door behind her. I put my clothes back on and went down to make the dinner.
‘So, are you going to tell me anything about your trip, or have you taken a vow of silence?’ I pushed away my empty plate and took a sip of red wine, ignoring the inner voice that asked when I was going to change the conversation. I’m doing what’s expected of me right now, I replied. Breaking up can wait.
Laura pushed the dregs of a sweet potato around her plate. ‘My trip was … life-changing,’ she said at last. ‘You should have come.’
‘I’d have had to return a month in, obviously.’
‘Oh. Yeah, course.’ She blushed.
‘And we agreed it would be an amazing thing for you to do on your own. I couldn’t have taken that amount of time off work.’
She made a face. ‘God forbid you ever ask your boss for a favour. The hours you spend there.’
I cleared my throat. ‘They did me a favour a year ago when I looked after Sal, remember? If you mean I don’t want to piss off my boss, I guess you’re right.’
She dropped her fork on to her plate and covered her face with her hands.
‘Nick, I’m pregnant.’
Today I went to the graveyard.
I haven’t been since Dad died. Laura said it was a strange way to grieve, how I was going about it, and I’d shrugged and replied inwardly that it was easy for her to say with her ninety-year-old grandparents and her family together each Christmas. People who can’t possibly know are always the ones that think they do.
But today I was driving through the village and the main road had been shut. They were diverting people down another road, the one with the graveyard, and it felt wrong to drive by and not acknowledge it. Like passing people you know on the street and avoiding their eye.
I shut the car door and leant against it a while, smoking and watching a gathering of people around an open grave. Their black clothes looked awkward in the sunshine, and their eyes were fixed on the hole where their loved one lay in a wooden box. They took turns to throw in a single red rose – Dad had forbidden such extravagances – then made their way down the path towards me.
I didn’t look at their faces out of respect, but I heard their tears and saw the screwed-up tissues in their hands. That’s how you do it, I thought. Make it obvious. Wear the pain so they look away.
Dad’s grave still looks new. The turned earth has finally settled, but I’ve yet to sort a gravestone. The one requirement he stipulated was that it be made of granite – long-lasting – and that the inscription be simply his name and the dates on which his life had started and finished. In the end, letters and numbers are all we become.
Bunches of yellow flowers were laid across his grave and the one next to it. Sal’s. I knew these were from Stella, who came by every fortnight. Sal’s headstone was a plain slab of oak that read: Salvatore Mendoza, Beloved son & brother, Died 22 April 2018 aged 35 years. The inscription had come within budget as long as the ‘and’ was an ampersand. Dad had been pleased at that and jingled the loose change in his pocket like he did when Arsenal won.
I looked at Sal’s grave for a while.
One time, drunk on whisky, I told Laura I’d always felt responsible for what happened to Mum. I asked for a lolly, I said. Cause and effect. If I’d stayed quiet, he wouldn’t have dropped a box. That’s ridiculous, she said, frowning. If anything, Sal’s the one. He picked up the gun. I’d just looked at her. I know she meant to be kind.
I found our mother in the corner of the graveyard, over by the ragstone wall. It had been twenty years since I’d stood in that spot.
Stella still looked after it. The grass was free of weeds and the granite headstone still looked shiny and almost new. Here lies Louise Eve Mendoza, it read. Loving wife and mother. Born 4th January 1957, Died 25th September 1991. Always in our hearts. No expense spared.
The clumps of bright red geraniums Dad had planted still pulse with life.
I was the only person there. I sat cross-legged on the ground so I was level with Mum’s name. This is when people talk, I thought. Stella says she talks to each of them as if they were actually there in front of her, telling them about her week and what I was up to. She says it helps keep the memories alive.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I said to the air. I wanted to swallow the words as soon as I’d said them.
She’s not here, I said to myself. That cold lump of stone is not my mum. This grass is not my mum. Whatever is there under the ground is not my mum.
Can you hear me, Mum? I said with every beat of my heart.
Where are you?
‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ said Laura from behind her hands.
The timer dinged and began its repetitive beep. I walked slowly over and cut the noise, then stood there, looking at the apple pie I’d made for dessert. The top was decorated with lattice strips I’d rolled from fresh pastry.
‘How could this have happened?’ I said finally.
She was silent for a moment. I heard her take a deep breath and the chair creaked as she leant back. ‘I guess there were a couple of days when I was slow taking my pill. Only by a few hours, but perhaps the time zones …’
‘So how far along is all this?’
She paused. ‘A little over three months, maybe.’
‘And you’ve only just found out?’
‘Of course I haven’t just found out.’
‘You knew on your trip? Why didn’t you tell me?’
She sighed. ‘Why do you think? Look at you. I’ve just told you in person and it’s like someone’s died.’ She shifted in her seat. ‘I mean … you’re hardly jumping for joy. God, Nick, I’ve been so nervous.’
I curled my hands and dug the tips of my fingernails into my palms. ‘It’s a shock. That’s all.’
‘To be honest, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do.’
I picked at the seal around the edge of the oven door and fought an urge to rip it off. ‘And have you decided?’
I could sense her looking at me, then, ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘You know my feelings about kids. I’ve always been open with you about that, and I thought we were on the same page.’ I heard her silence. ‘I’m trying to get the idea straight in my head.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Laura said again.
‘It’s your body. I’m not getting involved with that.’
‘You were involved with my body the second you came inside of me. You had your pleasure and then left the business of avoiding conception to me to handle, so please don’t try to find a loophole.’ She folded her arms.
‘I’m saying it’s your decision. It’s your body. Would you rather I ordered you to get rid of it?’ I ran a hand over my head and laughed in disbelief. ‘What do you women want?’
&nbs
p; ‘How many of us are you trying to please?’
‘You know what I mean. I’m trying, Laura. I even made dinner and dessert.’
‘Do you want a medal? Praise for not being a moronic bloke? Self-improvement is purely to make yourself look good, then. It’s still about ego.’
I groaned into my hands. ‘That’s not what I’m saying.’ I sat opposite her. ‘I’ll support you no matter what. If you decide not to keep it, I’ll be there every step of the way. If you do decide to keep it …’ I looked at her. ‘I’ll support you with that too.’
Laura stared at me, her arms still folded. Her eyes were big and sad and searching my face for the answer to an unknown question. Or maybe she’d asked and I hadn’t heard.
‘If I gave you the choice,’ she said, ‘what would you have me do?’
‘That’s an impossible question.’
‘Fucking hell!’ she screamed, and pushed her plate off the table with such force that it hit the wall and broke in two. ‘What does it take to break you? God, Nick. Just tell me how you really feel.’ She started shaking as sobs spilled from her mouth.
I pushed back my chair and went to her, holding her in my arms in a kind of brace. I smoothed her hair and tried to calm her crying. ‘Laura, please. It’s okay. Please stop.’
After a while, her tears began to subside and she relaxed against my hold. I rocked her gently and she clung on to my arm encircling her neck. We stood there for a few minutes, stuck in this rhythm, until finally, she stopped. She gripped my arm and said, ‘I decided I want to keep it. The baby. I want the baby.’
Ribbons of smoke began to peel around the corners of the oven and I realised I’d forgotten to take out the pie.
‘There we go,’ I said, kissing the top of her head.
Life has a way of giving you the answer.
Part Five
* * *
I try to be better.
I begin to take the later train to work. I’m still at my desk an hour before the rest of the office, and although the train is more crowded, it means I can wake Laura with a cup of tea. This seems right. She has been having waves of sickness, and I feel useless when she has her head down the toilet. I hold back her hair and rub her back. My feelings of inadequacy will only increase with her changing symptoms, and a cup of tea and a later train seems a small and rather pathetic sacrifice.
‘When’s the scan?’ I ask when she returns from the first doctor’s appointment.
She turns away to the kitchen counter and riffles through paperwork. ‘Hmm? Oh, they’ll send a letter.’
‘Give me as much notice as possible,’ I say, taking an apple from the bowl. ‘So I can clear my schedule.’
‘Will do,’ she says over her shoulder as she walks out.
Laura texts me a few weeks later as I’m heading into a meeting: Shit, I’ve just rung the doc and the scan is today! The letter must have got lost in the post. I’ve got to be at the hospital in an hour. Mum’s coming so don’t worry.x
It would take at least an hour to get back, even if I reached the station as a train was about to leave. That’s a shame, I reply. Was looking forward to being there.
As I put down my phone, I realise it’s true.
When I walk in, Laura is making dinner. Steak with caramelised onions. My favourite.
‘So?’
She doesn’t turn from the hob but gives a half-smile over her shoulder. ‘Hey. How was work?’
‘Fine. Work was fine. How was the scan?’
‘Good. Everything looks healthy.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ I say, looking around the counter. ‘Where are the pictures?’
‘Here. I’ll send them to you.’ She picks up her phone and types in the passcode.
‘You don’t have actual photos?’
She pauses as she types. ‘Oh, I didn’t bother. There’s a charge – can you believe that? The sonographer did let me take some pictures on my phone, though.’
I frown. ‘You didn’t want proper pictures of your baby’s first scan? That doesn’t sound very “you”. I’d have thought you’d stick them to the fridge. Get a special magnet with the date on.’
She puts her phone down and turns back to the hob. ‘I didn’t have any cash on me, okay? Jeez. You’ve got them now.’
I take my phone out and open the four pictures. They are black-and-white close-ups of an alien-like blob. I can make out the shape of a little nose, a pointy chin, and the grainy shadows of long fingers. Its body is like a football.
I pull out a chair and sit at the table. Laura doesn’t turn. ‘So when’s it due?’
She takes the ketchup from the fridge and squirts two circles on the edges of two plates. ‘Early autumn, sometime.’
‘They didn’t give you an exact date?’
‘Mid-September, they said. Probably. Apparently it’s measuring quite small for my dates – to be expected, I guess, as we don’t know the date of conception – so it may well change at the next scan.’
I nod and don’t reply. I look at the pictures some more, and when she brings over the plates, I put the phone in my pocket and look up and smile. ‘Thanks for this. Looks great.’
She smiles, a warmer one. ‘I wanted to make it up to you. For missing the scan.’
A few weeks later, Daz calls.
‘Mate,’ he says. ‘Gem’s seeing someone. Let’s go out and get wasted.’
I know Laura would hate me hungover right now, with her growing stomach and no let-up of sickness, and I know I should explain this to Daz. But of course I don’t.
Somewhere new has opened in town and I convince him to try it out. It’s one of those hip bars catering to the college crowd with cheap drinks and sourdough pizzas.
I know as soon as we enter that it’s not Daz’s sort of place. Instead of football on an oversized telly, there is the beat and strings of live music, and a stack of retro board games in place of a fruit machine. There are butcher-block tables and galvanised silver chairs, industrial lights with exposed pipework, and the staff wear checked shirts and denim aprons. Their dishevelled hair is styled with just the right amount of I-don’t-give-a-shit grease. This vibe has been doing the rounds in London for a while so I’m used to it, but I can tell by his hesitation that this is all new to Daz.
‘What the hell is that on the floor?’ he says and we look down. ‘Sawdust. It’s fucking sawdust.’
I slap his shoulder and nudge him towards the bar. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Three-fifty a pint. Think on that.’
We take our drinks round a corner to the table furthest from the band. To the side is an open kitchen, where a chef is rolling dough and tending to a brick pizza oven.
‘Bloody hell,’ says Daz, sitting down at an old barrel. ‘Maybe we should have just gone to The Phoenix.’
‘Let’s at least appreciate that it’s unlikely there’ll be any fights here. And we can feel very on-trend.’
‘I don’t give a rat’s arse about being on-trend.’ He sniffs. ‘Do you reckon they sell pork scratchings?’
I look about at the other tables. ‘They’re probably in fashion again. I think there’s been another generation in between us and them, anyway.’
‘Next stop, care home,’ says Daz, and he takes a long sip of beer.
‘You’ve seen Gemma, then?’
He sighs. ‘Don’t really want to talk about it, to be honest.’
We drain our glasses and he leaves to get the next round.
At the nearest table are a group of lads in their early twenties, lean guys who eat right, and bike instead of bus. They are dressed in different shades of blue and grey, and a couple wear Perspex glasses. The topic of discussion is the design of a new building in town and debating whether it is a sentimental pastiche or a juxtaposition of Modernist sensibilities. One is doodling on a napkin. Another says ‘post-modern’. Architecture students.
They make me think of Anna.
Daz returns with four pints. He’s taken a sip from each so he can carry two glasse
s in each hand by their rims. ‘So we don’t have to go back up there again.’
We talk about football for the first pint. Then as we start the next, Daz says, ‘So, Pops. Looking forward to D-Day?’
I give a default shrug. ‘Sure,’ I say, then tap the glass. ‘Actually, you know what? I am.’
‘The mask slips for a moment.’
I shake my head. ‘No, I’ve been wondering if this is what I need. A spanner in the works, so to speak. Baptism of fire.’
‘Are you still going to be talking in riddles when it’s here?’
I smile. The pints are kicking in. ‘I guess I’ll have a new language to learn.’
‘Look at us, sitting here,’ says Daz, shaking his head. ‘Five years ago there’d have been ten of us round this table. Now I’m last man standing.’
‘You hold that flag with pride.’
‘Nah.’ He looks down at his pint. ‘It was Gem that didn’t want them. I suggested it a few times, but she said I was enough of a kid already.’
I don’t know what to say to this. She has a point.
Daz nods at a bearded server wiping down a nearby table. ‘Look at that nonce.’
The bloke wears a white sleeveless vest with a shirt tied around his waist and a tea towel slung over his shoulder. Down one arm is an intricately inked sleeve of mountains and wolves and unidentifiable faces, woven through with leaves and tendrils of long branches. He wipes the table with languid strokes, a man used to being watched.
‘He’s got an Indian chief on his arm,’ says Daz in a low voice. ‘The guy’s as British as they come. What the fuck does he have to do with American Indians?’
‘I guess a tattoo on your knuckles of a trip you cancelled twice is more original.’
‘Well, at least it would have meant something. This is what I don’t get about blokes these days. They’re so desperate to be real, authentic, that it just comes across as fake. There’s too much thought put into it.’ He swigs his drink. ‘Look at them in their lumberjack shirts. Bet the skinny twats have never done a day’s graft in their lives.’
Another Life Page 27