The Baby Trail: How far would you go to have a baby? (The Baby Trail Series (USA) Book 1)

by Sinéad Moriarty

  ‘So I gave up and told her to get professional lessons. I even found her a course to do and she signed up. Then she decided to turn your room into a study and started to clear out your stuff and put it into my wardrobes . . .’

  Whereupon Mum had come across a small box buried under a spare duvet that she just happened to open and, to her horror, inside she found a stash of weed. Needless to say she hit the roof. By the time Babs got home from college that day, Dad had been summoned and she was met with a rare, but formidable, united front. A huge row ensued, which ended up with Babs packing her large pink suitcase and ‘running away’ to my house.

  As she finished telling me the story, the house phone rang. We both looked at it and said, ‘Mum.’

  I picked it up and quickly held it away from my ear, so that my eardrum didn’t perforate with the high-pitched squeal.

  ‘DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT BRAT HAS DONE? BROUGHT DRUGS INTO OUR HOME.

  HARD DRUGS.’

  ‘Mum, calm down, it’s not that bad—’

  ‘WHAT? Not that bad. Don’t give me your new-wave nonsense. I know drugs when I see them. I’ve seen Crimewatch – I’ve even seen that Trainspotters film. Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes. They all start with the pot and the next thing you know they’re on heroin, lying in the gutter with a needle hanging out of their arm. Your sister has gone too far this time. Even your father is shocked.

  Hard drugs . . . in my home. The shame of it. A drug addict for a daughter. If Nuala gets wind of this I’ll never be able to show my face in public again. Drugs are a slippery slope. No wonder she’s thin, jigging away on those ecstatic pills, morning, noon and night. There are young girls dropping dead all over the country from taking those. I know all about those pills, Emma, I wasn’t born yesterday. I know about these things.’

  ‘Mum, I realize you’re upset about the cannabis, but it’s a mild drug. It’ll be legalised soon. It’s not a hard drug and she only uses it occasionally for a bit of fun. She’s not a drug addict.’

  ‘For fun! Fun, is it, to throw away your life on drugs? Fun, is it, to fry your brain and end up dead or like that Ozzy Osbourne? Drugs kill, Emma, it’s a well-known fact. Here’s your father now. The poor man has aged twenty years since he found out that his youngest child is a drug addict.’

  Dad came on the phone, sounding very cheesed off. ‘Can you keep her there for a few days till your mother calms down?’

  ‘Sure, but only a few days, I’ve enough on my plate without Babs lounging around my house sponging off me, thanks very much.’

  ‘Of all the effing times – this has to blow up the weekend of the Ryder Cup and I’ve a big bet on Europe to win it. I’ll wring your sister’s neck. I won’t have a moment’s peace for the next three days. It’ll be a miracle if I get to see one bloody golf hole played. Your mother wants me to go to some shagging parents-against-drugs meeting tomorrow.’

  I stifled a giggle. Dad was clearly in no mood for humour. I did feel sorry for him: he was obsessed with golf. It was his one true love. Every two years, when the Ryder Cup was on, he took over the television for three days. No one was allowed even to look at the remote control. All Netflix, reality-TV shows and sitcoms were out of bounds. It was golf, golf and more golf.

  I told him I’d keep Babs for a few days until Mum calmed down, then send her home to face a few months of daily urine and blood tests. He didn’t even laugh at that. He was a broken man. His Ryder Cup weekend was in tatters.

  When James came home he tripped over the pink suitcase.

  ‘What the hell? Emma, what is this doing here?’ he snapped, assuming I had placed it there to test his aptitude at the hurdles on the way into the kitchen.

  Then he saw Babs and it became clear. ‘Ah, I see we have a visitor. I sincerely hope this is a farewell visit by you, Babs, as you are on your way to the airport to emigrate for . . . a year, judging by the size of that suitcase.’

  ‘Wrong. I got kicked out of home because my mother found some blow in my bedroom so I’m moving in here for a few days while I decide where to go to begin my new life.’

  ‘Why don’t you just go straight to South America and stay with some of your fellow barons in Colombia?’ said James, finding himself very amusing as he grabbed a beer from the fridge.

  ‘Ha-ha,’ said Babs, rolling her eyes. ‘I think I’ll hide out here for a while first, thanks.’

  ‘Well, it’s an ingenious plan. Interpol would never look for you in your sister’s house.’

  ‘Hilarious! Don’t give up the day job, James, Chris Rock isn’t exactly quaking in his boots.’

  ‘Oh, God, please shut up. I’m not listening to this sniping for the next few days,’ I said, jumping in before they got worse. ‘Now, what do you fancy for dinner?’

  ‘I’d like some of that revolting green tea and some tasty steamed vegetables,’ said Babs, pushing her luck.

  The raging hormones kicked in. ‘You ungrateful little wench,’ I said, grabbing her suitcase and hurling it out the front door, in an amazing display of superhuman strength. It must have been another side-effect of the drugs I hadn’t previously noticed. Maybe that was what Bruce Banner took before he turned into the Incredible Hulk – plain old hormone enhancers. ‘Go on, sod off. I’ve enough crap to deal with without you annoying me.’

  Babs looked genuinely shocked and for once was speechless. She looked at James.

  ‘Come on, Emma, she’s sorry. Aren’t you, Babs?’

  ‘Yeah, I am. Sorry, Emma, I was just joking. If you want me to eat the vegetables I will, but can I at least have a beer to wash them down? I really don’t think I can stomach drinking the green muck. Maybe it’s because my nose is so big, but the smell of it makes me want to puke.’

  ‘I’ll cook if you like,’ said James.

  Yikes! If Babs was apologizing and James was offering to cook, I must be really scary. Still, it made a nice change.

  ‘OK, I’d like Szechuan beef.’

  ‘Did I say cook? I meant pay for,’ said James, as he grabbed his car keys.

  ‘You sit down and put your feet up, Emma, we’ll be back in ten minutes,’ said my newly humbled sister. This was great – I should roar at her more often.

  Five days later I drove Babs home to face the music. Dad was furious with her for causing him to miss the entire Ryder Cup. Mum, meanwhile, had binge watched Narcos on Netflix – and had spent hours calling the ‘My child’s a drug addict, what can I do?’ helpline. She had just stopped short of buying a sniffer dog. Babs was frisked at the front door, then hustled into the house for some serious questioning CIA style. For the first time in my life, I actually felt sorry for her.

  28

  A month and a useless big black blob later, I was still not pregnant. Our wedding anniversary was coming up, and as I was trying to decide where to go for a nice romantic mini-break. Suddenly it came to me – I had to stop waiting for miracles to happen and go and find one. There was only one place I knew where miracles happened. I went to the travel agent and booked three days away as a surprise for James.

  Needless to say, I had planned the three-day break around my supposedly fertile time of the month. When James came home I handed him an envelope wrapped in a red bow. ‘Happy anniversary.’

  ‘But it’s not until next week – or did I . . .’ he said, looking panic-stricken at the thought of having forgotten an anniversary with a wife who currently went off the deep end if he brought home the wrong teabags.

  ‘No, you haven’t forgotten – it is next week. I just wanted to surprise you early with this little holiday so you can plan your training round it.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said a relieved-looking James. ‘Where are we off to, then?’

  He opened the envelope and pulled out the itinerary. ‘Two return flights to Paris. Fantastic, I love Paris . . . Oh, hang on, and then onward train to Lourdes. Lourdes?’ asked James, looking at me.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Joke?’

  ‘No.’


  ‘We’re going to Lourdes for our wedding anniversary?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is a wind-up.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Emma.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What the hell is this?’

  ‘We’re going to Lourdes for a few days. It’s no big deal. I thought you’d be pleased. It’s something a bit different and the weather should be nice. I’ve booked a hotel with a swimming-pool. I think it’s time we had some divine intervention.

  I know you’re not Catholic and I’m a lapsed one, but maybe miracles do happen in Lourdes. So I think it’s worth a shot for us to go and pray at the grotto to Our Lady. She can relate to having children. Sure, wasn’t Jesus a miracle – a virgin birth and all that? So, anyway, I just think it might help and Auntie Doreen says that pilgrimages are really inspiring—’

  ‘I’m not going on some wild-goose chase to Lourdes to spend three days with a bunch of religious fanatics. We’ll stay in Paris and have a nice relaxing time drinking wine and chilling out.’

  ‘I can’t drink on these stupid drugs and, as you well know, relaxing is not my forte these days. I have spent the last six months with my legs in stirrups drugged out of my mind to no avail. So, I’m going in search of a miracle. This is the trip I want and this is where I’m going,’ I said, snatching the itinerary out of his hand.

  ‘I see, and if this doesn’t work what’s next? Fatima for Christmas? Medjugorje with your auntie Doreen for New Year’s Eve?’

  ‘There’s no need to make a mockery of it. Just because you Prods don’t believe that Mary was a vital part of the equation doesn’t mean that She wasn’t. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s Mary who performs the miracles. It’s Mary who appears to people and gives them hope. Protestants are just too chauvinistic to appreciate the power of a woman in religion. In my world, Mary rocks,’ I said, in a speech that Sister Patricia would have been proud of.

  ‘Oh, I’m well aware that She rocks. Didn’t Doreen see Her rocking in some field a few years ago just before she turned into a pilgrimage junkie? I have the utmost respect for Mary, but I’m not spending three days in Lourdes waiting for Her to start swaying or dancing or whatever She does when She appears. We’d be much better off in a nice hotel in Paris having lots of sex.’

  ‘James,’ I said, in my scary voice, ‘I’m going to Lourdes with or without you. My mind is made up. As an anniversary present to me I’d like you to come, but I’m going regardless. Miracles do happen and, anyway, maybe if I go to Lourdes I’ll stop feeling so sorry for myself and not even think about getting pregnant and then get pregnant. You know, reverse psychology. I want you to come with me. It’ll be fun.’

  ‘Fun? In Lourdes with sick pilgrims?’

  ‘OK, not fun exactly, but fulfilling and spiritual, and maybe we can help out with the sick while we’re there.’

  ‘Now you’re really selling it to me. Why don’t we leave now? Why waste any more time? Let’s go tomorrow.’

  ‘Fine. Don’t come. I’ll go on my own. Just like I go to almost all my appointments on my own. Just like I take the drugs on my own. Just like I get the bad results on my own—’

  ‘OK! I’ll go,’ said James, sensibly shutting me up before I blamed him for the hole in the ozone layer and the destruction of the Amazon rainforest. ‘But this is a once off, Emma. Never again. Next year I’m booking the trip and we’re going to watch United playing in Old Trafford.’

  ‘Of course. Next year we’ll do whatever you want. Old Trafford sounds nice. Is it in the Cotswolds?’ James sighed and picked up the newspaper.

  A week later we were on the TGV shooting across the French countryside, surrounded by young people with guitars singing folksy songs and talking excitedly about the wonder that was Lourdes. I thought it was nice and joined in with the few songs I recognized – ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’, ‘Annie’s Song’, ‘He Is Lord’ . . .

  I nudged James to sing along, but he refused and spent the entire journey glaring out the window. He was obviously determined not to enjoy himself. Mind you, he had never been a sing-song person.

  When we had family gatherings and Dad launched into his Tom Jones impression and sang ‘Delilah’, hips swinging, and winking at his imaginary Las Vegas audience. We’d all sing along, but James always looked a bit uncomfortable, and when he was forced to sing something himself, he always sang that really annoying rugby song, ‘Swing Low, Swing Chariots’ or whatever it’s called: he knew we all hated it and that we would interrupt him after the first line. I always sang ‘The Sun’ll Come Out Tomorrow’ from Annie. Mum would sing a very emotional rendition of ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow’ in a high, squeaky voice, which always made us howl with laughter, although I’d say the ghost of Judy Garland was writhing in torment at the crucifixion of her song. Sean sang ‘The Piano Man’ and, unlike the rest of us, he could sing. Babs thought singing was for saddos and always went to bed when it began. It was one thing she and James had in common.

  When the train pulled in, I waved goodbye to the international do-gooders as they went off to comfort the sick. They told me that there was always help needed in Lourdes and said I was welcome to join them any time to lend a hand. James stood grumpily to the side, fiddling with his case. I could see he was worried that I was going to volunteer him for duty.

  Our hotel was surprisingly nice. Not plush, but nice and clean and airy with a decent-sized pool. It was on the outskirts of the town, and while there were statues and pictures of Mary in abundance, you didn’t feel as though you were in the grotto. We dumped our bags and headed for a swim. It was lovely and warm outside and the pool was heated. James began to cheer up.

  Later that evening, on our way to the grotto, I filled James in on Bernadette and the apparition. The Song of Bernadette had been my headmistress Sister Patricia’s favourite film and we had been subjected to it at least five times a year in religion class. Personally I thought that at twenty-four Jennifer Jones was a little old to be playing the young Bernadette, but Hollywood had thought otherwise. I explained to James that on the eleventh of February 1958, fourteen-year-old Bernadette had been minding her own business, focusing on her breathing – because she suffered from chronic asthma – when Mary appeared to her. It was the first of eighteen apparitions and soon people from all over were coming to the grotto of Massabielle. Bernadette became a nun and devoted her life to God. Well, she had to, really – it wouldn’t have looked too good if she’d gone off to Paris to shake her booty at the Moulin Rouge.

  There was a long line of people waiting to go past the grotto and pray for their special intentions. Everywhere you turned there were sick people, but everyone looked peaceful and serene. It was nice. Even I began to feel calm. We shuffled along and when we got to the grotto I prayed for my miracle. It was very soothing. By the time we had finished, the Torchlight Procession had begun. We sat on a wall and watched it go by. Everyone carried candles and sang in different languages. It was really beautiful.

  When we got into bed later that night, I suddenly felt odd about having sex. It didn’t feel right – even though it was day thirteen of my cycle. I had just been to one of the holiest places in the world and somehow sex seemed wrong, or bold, or something. I felt as if I was committing a crime.

  James said it was just my old Catholic guilt surfacing but it was important to remember that I was married, trying to procreate and had left the Rampant Rabbit at home. I wasn’t even just in it for the fun – I was actually trying to get pregnant. ‘Even the Pope couldn’t fault you, Emma. It’s clean sex with your husband without contraceptives or sex toys.’

  He was right. Besides, it was day thirteen and I needed to focus. I got up and took down the picture of Mary and Saint Bernadette, and turned the statues lining the room to face the wall. Now at least I didn’t feel we were being watched.

  The next morning I dragged James out of bed early to go to the baths. I knew the queues got very long and I wanted to catch some sun in the afternoon,
so we went down early. The queue for the men’s baths was separate from the women’s so we arranged to meet up for coffee afterwards.

  When I got to the top of my queue I was ushered into a crowded room, told to undress and tie a damp, ice-cold sheet round myself. Then I went into a freezing room with a bath in the middle and women on either side. I was unceremoniously dunked in the bathwater. It was sub-zero and my body was in total shock. I was told to go and get dressed, but offered no towel. The really weird thing was, I was dry. Bone dry. It was as if the water had vanished – a miracle in a way.

  Everyone in the changing room was looking at each other in wonder. I got dressed and ran to meet James. If Mary could make special non-wet water, surely She could give me a few good eggs. He was waiting for me, drinking coffee and reading the paper.

  ‘Hi,’ I said breathlessly, slumping down into the seat opposite him. ‘Wasn’t that just the most spiritual experience ever?’

  ‘Yeah, absolutely,’ he said, just a little too enthusiastically.

  ‘I mean the water. Isn’t it incredible?’

  ‘Mmm, yes, I thought so too.’

  ‘Were there men there to dunk you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, there was dunking. Coffee, darling?’

  ‘Yes, cappuccino, please.’

  James ordered me a coffee, then began to tell me about something he had just read in the paper.

  ‘Isn’t it amazing the way the water is so warm?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Amazing. Almost hot if you think about it.’

  ‘You liar! James Hamilton, you’re a big fat liar. You didn’t go to the baths.’

  James knew he was sussed. ‘No, I didn’t, and I have no intention of going. I didn’t want to have an argument with you this morning about it, so I played along. But, Emma, I will never be having a bath here so don’t start. I came to Lourdes to keep you company, not to convert.’ I knew I was wasting my time so I let it go.