by Nicole Trope
I told her my mother wasn’t well, and when she confessed her father was a recovering alcoholic, I told her, ‘My mother’s the same, only she’s not recovering.’
But then, suddenly, she was. She was recovering. She was better. She was trying.
We didn’t talk about Vernon at home. It was as though both of us were happy to pretend he never existed. We didn’t talk about Lilly either.
Instead we were polite and careful with each other, as though we were both recovering from an illness.
Only once I said to her, ‘Do you think he’ll come back?’
‘I hope not.’
‘But if he does, you won’t let him in?’
‘I hope not,’ she said and my heart sank. Hope was not enough. I prayed every day that he was gone for good.
Slowly, things changed in the house. She cooked and cleaned, and although she wasn’t strong enough to get a job, she got up every morning to see me off to school. Even though I tried to stay strong, my guard dropped, little by little, each day.
The night before my sixteenth birthday, she suggested a party. Her hands still shook and she was still battling the desire to drink as each moment passed. Vernon had been gone for nearly three months by then. Each day that I returned home and found him gone, I breathed a sigh of profound relief. We were finally the good little family she had promised me we would be after my dad had died.
‘I don’t really have that many friends, Mum,’ I said. ‘Maybe you can make dinner and Judy can come over.’
‘Absolutely and I’ll bake a… a… You’d like a… a… What’s the word again?’ She forgot words sometimes. It was the beginning of the disease that will soon eat away at her but I didn’t know that then. I just hoped she would get better.
‘A cake, Mum, yes, I’d love a cake.’ I wanted to cry for her, for her desperation to please.
The next day when I got home from school with Judy in tow, both of us excited at the thought of a special dinner and a freshly baked cake, the house was silent. We walked in, a haze and a terrible stench in the air. My mother was asleep on the couch. Vernon was asleep on the floor beside her, his shirt rucked up over his giant hairy belly. Smoke poured from the oven where a chocolate cake was black, close to igniting.
I turned to Judy. ‘You should go,’ I said.
‘But I can help,’ replied Judy.
‘You should go.’
Judy left and I pulled the blackened cake from the oven and tossed it away. Smoke filled the air, clogging my lungs. On the kitchen table stood one empty bottle of vodka and one full one, and I understood then that nothing would ever be different. She had let him in. She would always let him in, and I felt hope leak from every pore on my skin. I was not enough of a reason for her to stay away from him or the alcohol. I was not enough.
I knew then I couldn’t stay. With a heavy heart I searched through her bag, scraping together some coins, and then I found Vernon’s wallet on the floor, stuffed full of twenty-dollar notes. I took most of it, threw some threadbare clothes and one of my father’s jumpers in a backpack and walked right out. I never went back until after Jack and I got married.
Now, Vernon is in prison. The only other two people who even know Lilly existed are me and my mother. I wonder for a mad moment if she’s sending me the emails. She used the same words and I’m certain I didn’t imagine the Gmail account popping up when I was fixing the computer.
‘Ridiculous,’ I say now. My mother rarely knows what day it is. She would not be capable of sending me an email, and why now? Why now, when for years we’ve always had a silent agreement to never mention Lilly again? Why now?
I take a deep breath and start my car, pulling out of the car park of the Green Gate Home.
At home I open up the email again, deciding that the best defence is a good offence. I will frighten this person back just as they are trying to frighten me. I find one that I’ve deleted and return it to my inbox.
I know who you are and I’m going to the police if you don’t stop.
I send the email and wait. Eventually I get up and put on a load of washing. When I return to my computer there’s already a reply.
What a good idea, Alice. Go to the police and then you can tell them what you did. What happened to her, Alice? What did you do?
My body starts to shake. Blood pounds in my ears. I want to scream and scream. Instead I delete the email, and then as terror and fury swim through my body, I pick up the laptop and raise it above my head. I smash it onto the floor. The sound of the computer hitting the tiled kitchen floor rings through the house, the screen cracks and the hinges split.
I stare at the machine, shocked by the violence of my own behaviour.
Going to the freezer, I grab the vodka. My skin sticks to the freezing glass, stinging. I open it and take a long drink, feeling it burn its way into my stomach.
What is happening to me?
‘This is not you, Alice,’ I say aloud. ‘It’s not you and you don’t want to do this.’
Filled with shame, I shove the vodka back into the freezer and go to the pantry, where I find a half-eaten block of chocolate, sickly sweet and filled with caramel.
I shove the pieces into my mouth so fast I almost choke. Chocolate doesn’t wipe out your thoughts, doesn’t let you ignore the world, doesn’t force you into bed. Chocolate is just a rush of sugar. It isn’t enough.
I stare down at the mangled computer, wondering what I will tell Jack as another email notification beeps on my phone.
Didn’t like that idea, did you, Alice? I left you a little present – in your post box. I hope it brings back memories.
I cover my mouth where the chocolate is coming back up. I rush to the kitchen sink and vomit, my whole body trembling, until there’s nothing left.
Whoever this is, it feels like they can see me, like they’re watching me. I think about what I did, about the terrible consequences of that choice, and I feel my body heave again. I retch, spit into the sink and then run hot water, erasing my shame. I rinse my mouth, ridding myself of the taste.
I rush to my front door, open it cautiously and peer into the garden and the street beyond the wall. It is quiet. Nothing stirs and there is no one around. I walk slowly to my post box, hoping there is nothing there, praying I am merely the victim of a sick joke.
There is something soft inside, roughly wrapped in newspaper, clumsily taped as though it was done in a rush. I sniff the paper in case it’s something disgusting, hold it gingerly between my finger and thumb. But I can only smell the chemical scent of newsprint.
I take whatever it is back inside with me, snapping on a pair of gloves. Then I slowly open it.
It is a stuffed green frog. Her stuffed green frog. She used to have it with her all the time. She carried it everywhere. I hated it because it came from a friend of his. In my rush to leave all those years ago, I forgot to take it. It had been hidden between my mattress and headboard for six years by then, and I simply forgot to take it with me. I never forgave myself for that, but I could never go back for it and I could never find it when I went back to see her when I was twenty-six. Now, I stare at it for a long time, and then even though I know I shouldn’t, I hold it to my face as I cry.
Seventeen
Molly
* * *
Molly wakes from the road dream. The aching loneliness she felt when she was standing in the middle of the barren road overwhelms her. She turns over once, twice and then looks at the clock next to the bed. It’s 3 a.m. She wants to be asleep. She wants to forget. She has no desire to think about her parents’ revelation but her mind races along. She thinks about the street where she grew up, about the double-storey cream-coloured house with a bright blue door she has always called home. She thinks about Carol and Frieda from next door, who have lived on the road as long as her parents have, smiling and waving as she and Lexie used to run past on their way down to the park at the end of the road. ‘There go the Sneddon girls,’ Frieda would always say. But she wasn’t
a Sneddon girl, not really.
She turns over again and feels a sudden ache in her pelvis. She lays her hand gently on her stomach. ‘Oh no,’ she whispers. She remembers this feeling, she knows what it means. She thinks about waking Peter but realises his side of the bed is empty. ‘Oh no, oh no, oh no,’ she whispers.
The empty road is her life path in reality. That’s what Emma said the dream means. A quick jolt of pain forces her to take a deep breath. She moves her feet and can almost feel the small black stones on the road. She will be alone again very soon. She knows it.
She slides out of bed and walks slowly to the bathroom, bent over because the ache is stronger when she stands up. ‘Please, please,’ she whispers but she knows it’s no use.
She uses the toilet and then wipes, closing her eyes, trying to find the strength she needs to deal with what’s coming. When she looks down at the toilet paper in her hand, she sees it. A light pink stripe. It’s over. Numbness cloaks her. It’s too much, just too much. She closes her eyes again, trying to imagine a white light surrounding the small being inside her as she has done all the times before, but she can only conjure the colour black. It’s over again. Once again, it’s over.
She finds Peter in the kitchen, standing at the kettle, staring into their darkened living room.
‘What are you doing up?’ she asks him, and he starts, her voice breaking his reverie.
‘I just, I don’t know… Thinking about it all… What are you doing up? You need to rest, darling.’
‘I’m bleeding.’ She feels strangely detached as she says the words. She’s done this before. She knows how it goes.
‘Oh, babe,’ says Peter. He moves towards her but she steps back. She doesn’t want comfort. She doesn’t want platitudes about it not being their time, about how they’ll find a way to be parents, about how everything will be okay. Everything will not be okay. Everything is not okay.
‘I think I’ll just take a sleeping pill and go back to bed,’ she says. ‘No reason to stay away from them now.’
‘No,’ says Peter firmly. ‘We’re going to the hospital.’
‘What for?’ she asks and the numbness disappears, cracking her open. She leans against the kitchen counter, the ache in her pelvis steady, and covers her mouth with her hand. She bites down on her fingers to stop herself from screaming, tears dripping off her chin.
‘Oh, Molly, Molly, my love,’ says Peter and he holds her tight, waiting for her to run out of despair.
‘Come now,’ he says as she shudders and breathes, ‘get dressed and we’ll go and see what’s happening.’
Molly does as she’s told, pulling a tracksuit on and tying her hair back, grateful to be told what to do. She doesn’t want to have to think. She wants to be a child again, safe in her illusions, blissfully unaware of just how awful life can be.
On the way out of the apartment she passes her desk and grabs Foggy, holding him against her as she hasn’t done since she was a child. She imagines she will seem strange to the people in emergency, a grown woman clutching a toy, but she cannot care about that now.
They drive to the hospital in silence. There is nothing to say.
In the warm emergency room, the bright lights immediately give Molly a headache. She sits on a moulded plastic chair, incapable of doing anything but staring at the television up on the wall, playing a rerun of an old sitcom. A woman comes in carrying a child who is sniffing and coughing, whining with tiredness. ‘Never a moment’s rest,’ she says to Molly as she settles herself into a chair opposite her. The little girl stares at Molly through sleepy eyes. ‘Tell them her temperature is over forty,’ the woman says, calling across to a man talking to a nurse at the counter.
What I wouldn’t give, thinks Molly longingly, trying not to stare at the woman and her daughter.
Peter talks to the triage nurse and then comes over to get Molly. He helps her out of the chair as though she’s unable to stand alone, which is exactly how she feels. Her legs would like to collapse under her. She would like to curl up on the floor of the brightly lit waiting room and close her eyes until her life changes. She has a sudden clarity of the mind of a drug addict or alcoholic, understanding the fierce desire to wipe away every single thought in her head, to sink into oblivion.
Molly answers the questions from the young nurse, who looks worn down by the long night, before she even finishes them. ‘Nearly ten weeks along, ache in my pelvis, light pink blood, I haven’t seen a doctor, six miscarriages,’ she reels off robotically. Her hand strokes Foggy’s head compulsively, seeking comfort in the toy.
The nurse nods her head at the word ‘six’. Her professional mask slips for a moment and she looks at Molly, sadness warming her dark eyes. ‘You poor love,’ she says, covering Molly’s cold hand with her warm one, stopping it from moving. ‘You poor love.’ Molly can only nod. The nurse’s kindness nearly destroys her. She bites down on her lip as tears cascade off her face, soaking her jumper.
‘We’ll get you seen as soon as possible,’ she says as she takes Molly’s blood pressure and temperature.
‘I understand you’ve been seeing Dr Bernstein,’ she says gently. ‘He’s in the hospital now. He’s just delivered. Would you like me to see if he can take a look at you?’
‘What for?’ Molly shrugs.
‘Actually, yes, that would be great,’ replies Peter. Molly wants to argue with him but finds she doesn’t have the energy.
‘Can you do us a urine sample while you wait?’ the nurse asks, handing Molly the specimen jar.
In the bathroom Molly fills the jar. She tucks Foggy into her top first, keeping him safe the way she hasn’t been able to keep this baby safe. There is less of the pink blood but she knows that soon it will be a heavy dark brown and then a violent red. Her babies’ lives end in an array of colours.
The nurse directs them to a room with three beds in it. She shows Molly to the bed at the end and pulls a curtain around it, separating her and Peter from the room, cocooning them in their sadness. ‘Dr Bernstein says he’ll be here soon. Just rest for now.’
Peter paces the small space around the bed. Molly stares at the ceiling, catching stray tears with her hands every now and then. The strong hospital smell of antiseptic turns Molly’s stomach. She hates this smell and everything connected to it. On the wall of the white room is a clock that ticks loudly. With the curtain closed they can only hear the sound, and Molly concentrates on the tick, tick, tick as the last seconds of her pregnancy are counted down.
The door to the room is flung open, startling them both. Dr Bernstein’s head appears around the curtain, which he then pulls open, filling up the space with his large, shaggy frame. His white hair stands on end and he looks tired, but he smiles kindly at Molly. ‘Hello there, I didn’t know you were pregnant again. Why haven’t you come in to see me?’
Molly shrugs, crushes Foggy against her breast.
‘She wanted to wait,’ says Peter. ‘Well, you know.’
Dr Bernstein nods. ‘I do…’
Peter carries on, ‘We hoped…’ and then he simply stops speaking. From somewhere inside her own anguish, Molly is aware of her husband and his feelings. He puts a hand on her shoulder and she leans her cheek against it. She has not just lost her baby but his baby as well.
‘Well,’ says Dr Bernstein, ‘let’s take a look. I brought the portable ultrasound so we can get a clear picture and then we’ll know if you need a curette or not.’ He sounds matter-of-fact but Molly knows that he understands how difficult this is for them. When he told her that her sixth baby’s heart had stopped beating, she was alone in his office. She had just gone in for a check-up, believing, as she had for every pregnancy, that this was the one, and after he gave her the news, he stroked her head and then held her as a father would a child while she sobbed and howled.
‘I hope not,’ says Molly because at this point, she feels that being allowed to just go home and curl up in bed is the best she can hope for. She doesn’t want to don the hospital
gown and shiver as they insert the needle to put her to sleep. She doesn’t want to wake up in recovery and be consumed by emptiness. She’s done that too many times before. If the pregnancy comes away by itself it’s easier.
Peter helps her off with her trousers and underwear as Dr Bernstein fiddles with switches on the machine, allowing her a small measure of dignity. When the sheet is draped over her legs, her husband grabs her hand and she curls her fingers into his, holding Foggy between them.
She flinches when the wand is pushed inside her and then she wills herself to relax. It’s less painful if she relaxes. The ache in her pelvis has subsided a little because she is lying down.
She closes her eyes. Under his breath, Dr Bernstein hums a tune. He always does when he’s concentrating and Molly wonders if he’s even aware of it.
‘Well, that’s interesting,’ he finally says.
‘What is?’ asks Peter.
‘Take a look,’ replies Dr Bernstein, and he turns the screen he has been watching so Molly and Peter can see. ‘See there,’ he says, pointing.
Molly and Peter both squint at the screen, where a small, alien-looking form moves back and forth – a little heartbeat drumming fast and strong.
‘It’s alive?’ asks Molly in disbelief.
‘Very much so,’ says Dr Bernstein, ‘very strong heartbeat, looks very good and I would say that you’re closer to eleven weeks now than nearly ten. You’re only a week away from being out of the danger zone but I’m very optimistic about this, very optimistic indeed.’
Molly gazes at the moving image on the screen. She can make out arms and legs and hands as her baby squirms inside her. But what she mostly stares at is the heartbeat, the flickering, rapid heartbeat of a living baby.
Dr Bernstein begins to pull the wand out.