The Puzzle of You

by Leah Mercer

  Charlotte takes a deep breath as the child’s voice rings in her ears. Mummy. It’s ludicrous. It’s not possible, and yet . . . She goes cold, recalling the mix-up about that crying child: a mix-up where the doctor thought the child belonged to her. Everything about the accident and its aftermath is so hazy, but is it possible those seemingly distant cries were coming from inside her car – that there was a child in the back seat when she crashed?

  Is it possible that that child is hers?

  Panic scrabbles at her gut and she wills herself to focus, to cut through the screaming agony of her brain and try to remember anything about getting pregnant, having a baby and whatever else that entails. She lets out a snort as she realises she doesn’t even know what that entails.

  There must be a logical explanation, she thinks – something she’s missing at the moment. Maybe that conversation with David wasn’t real. It feels real, but maybe hitting her head confused things a bit. Maybe she’s hallucinating. Maybe—

  ‘Right, your scan came back all clear, so I’m going to take you off the board now,’ the nurse says. ‘You’ll be much more comfortable.’

  ‘Great.’ Relief floods through her that there’s no lasting damage. Perhaps the strange scenario that just played out was her brain’s way of unwinding, like the nightmares she has after stressful work days . . . or something. The nurse loosens the straps, and Charlotte gingerly moves her legs and arms. Everything aches, like she’s been encased in cement for days.

  ‘We’ll get someone in to have a look at the wound on your head,’ the nurse says, peering closer. ‘You might need some stitches. Just sit tight for the time being, all right?’

  ‘Okay,’ Charlotte responds automatically. If she escapes with just stitches, she’s more than lucky – maybe she can even be back at work tomorrow. She has an important pitch she really needs to prepare for.

  Now, where on earth has her husband disappeared to? She needs to see him to dispel this crazy notion her mad brain has dreamed up; this idea that she has a daughter. She shakes her head. Anabelle. That’s how she knows this whole thing can’t be real – they’d never give their daughter such a prissy, girly name.

  God, what she wouldn’t give for some water. Charlotte slowly manoeuvres her legs over the side of the bed. The room swings around her and nausea pokes through the blinding pain in her skull, but somehow, she makes it to the sink. With no cups in sight, she bends down, sighing in relief as she gulps cold water from her cupped hands. She splashes some on her face then straightens up, jerking back as she spots a reflection in the mirror.

  The person in the mirror is her . . . but not; it’s like looking into a warped mirror at a funfair. Her edgy black pixie cut is gone and has been replaced by a softer, layered chestnut-brown style that falls around her shoulders. She leans closer, heart pounding now in time to the throbbing of her head. She looks so tired: lines criss-cross the skin around her eyes and mouth – lines that definitely weren’t there before.

  What the hell is going on? There’s no way she could delete more than a few hours from her memory, is there? The scan said she was fine, after all.

  Charlotte closes her eyes and grips the sink as one word bleats in her brain. Mummy. Mummy. Mummy.

  No. She shakes her head. It’s one thing to forget a new hairstyle or bury your head in the sand about the state of your ageing skin. But there’s no way she could forget a child . . . her child. That kind of connection cannot be erased, no matter how hard you smack your skull.

  She slides a hand down to her stomach, jerking her fingers away like they’re scalded. It’s not the flat, smooth belly she’s so proud of, honed over years of running a good 10k each night – even more when she’s training for marathons. It’s soft and cushiony, a band of fat protruding from under her bellybutton. She forces herself to breathe in and out, in and out, as thoughts chug through her sluggish brain. Perhaps she’s just bloated. Perhaps she had a huge lunch – eating too much bread always does that to her. Perhaps . . .

  She takes a deep breath and moves back from the mirror. Her arms shake as she lifts a bright red sweater she doesn’t recognise. She glances down to take in – horror of horror – jeggings, complete with an elasticated waist. Her waist is thicker than it used to be, but there’s no obvious sign . . . She pushes the waistband down and squints at a faint line crossing her abdomen. What is that? It kind of looks like a scar, but she’s never—

  Oh, God. She sinks on to the floor as the knowledge filters in. It is a scar. It’s exactly like a scar from a Caesarean section; one of her friends proudly showed off hers not long ago. Charlotte remembers shuddering at the thought of having a baby ripped from her body.

  And now she has. She’s had a baby ripped from her body. A baby she doesn’t recall – a young child, by the sound of things. She is a mother, after all. And she doesn’t remember any of it. She doesn’t remember wanting any of it.

  Fuck.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Four years earlier

  20 March

  Oh, fuck.

  Oh my fucking fuck. Seriously, there aren’t enough fucks in the world to express how I’m feeling right now.

  I’m pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. I feel like throwing up, and I can’t even blame it on morning sickness – surely it’s too early for that? I watch my pen form the letters as I write them here, unable to believe that this word relates to the state I’m in.

  Preggers.

  Knocked up.

  With child.

  Up the duff.

  No matter how you say it, I still can’t get my head around it.

  How? How did this happen? I mean, I know how. David and I have a thorough understanding of the mechanics of it all . . . a very thorough, few-times-a-week understanding that thankfully hasn’t abated since we married. In fact, on our holiday to Rome a few months ago, we actually set a personal record for the most times in one night: three (almost four, but we both fell asleep in the middle of . . . well, I don’t need to spell it out here).

  So I know how it happened, of course, but I don’t know when. I remember Lily saying there are two or three days each month when you’re the most fertile, but I can’t recall when exactly during the cycle that might be. To be honest, I’ve never really cared enough to learn more. Was it that time David and I were both squiffy on champagne – well, more like sloshed – after Lily’s thirty-fifth birthday party? I still can’t believe how drunk she was, but I suppose if I’d been through the same as her these past two years, I’d get off my face, too.

  The sex that night was incredible. So incredible, maybe, that David’s sperm managed to beat the pill I swallow every night at ten on the dot, saying a little prayer that it’ll work – ninety-nine per cent effective, when taken as it should be, according to the nurse.

  Leave it to me to be the one per cent for whom it fails.

  I still remember the rictus smile on that nurse’s face when she told me the odds, then asked if it would really be a disaster if I fell pregnant. After all, I was over thirty-five now, and married. Wasn’t it just the natural course of events? (Okay, she didn’t say the last two bits, but I could see she was thinking that.)

  The thing is, it is a disaster. Not for David: every year that goes by, he muses more and more about our ‘future child’ – and I’m not even sure he knows he’s doing it. I once caught him looking online at our local primary school, visions of chubby, cherubic children clearly dancing through his head. No, for David having a child isn’t a disaster, not at all. But for me . . .

  I finally got that promotion I’d been working my arse off for – the one my boss Vivek promised me if I managed to exceed this year’s target. And I more than exceeded it; I blew it away. I’m a senior account director in business development now, team lead and the top performer when it comes to securing new clients. I know everything there is to know about pitching companies to run their pharmaceutical trials, and I love that feeling. People come to me for answers, for advice and for strategies. Afte
r years of hard graft and words of wisdom from Vivek, I’m exactly where I want to be (well, vice-president would be nice, but I’ll save that until Vivek retires), and I don’t want anything to throw me off track. For me, pregnancy is a disaster.

  Okay, so maybe ‘disaster’ is too strong a word. If David’s serious about staying at home, maybe it’s more like ‘disruption’ . . . a bit of time off, then I’m back in the office. But the thing is, I don’t want time off, not even for a month or two. How will I manage my work – the long days, the late-night conference calls with our teams in Asia, travelling around the world for pitches – while heavily pregnant, never mind with a screaming baby at home? Because even if David does the lion’s share of work, I’m still the mother . . . a mother I can’t even fathom being; a mother I don’t want to fathom being. I worked hard to make my way up the ladder; to prove myself and my commitment. Am I going to compromise all that by having a child?

  I know lots of women manage. My mum, for example, who worked full-time at a busy public relations agency all through my childhood. Who still works full-time, despite approaching her seventies. But it wasn’t easy, even with Dad’s help – she barely slept, and she was always on the go. I remember creeping out of bed for the loo late at night, and she’d be tapping away on her computer. And to be honest, I don’t want to manage. I want to thrive: to work every hour, as hard as I can, and see how far I can go.

  And I’m just . . . I’m just not ready to have a child. I like my life right now. I love my life right now – how David and I can take off to anywhere at the drop of a hat, from an island in Croatia to an art gallery in Dalston (my ideas) but how we’re equally happy just lounging at home in the sanctuary of our flat (his idea). Our world is perfectly balanced, and a baby will change all of that. Friends keep telling me my clock will start ticking so loudly it drowns out everything else. But so far, the only clock that’s ticking is the countdown to wine at the end of each day.

  And there’s something I’ve never told David, something I’m afraid to say out loud. And that’s that, although I want to believe I’ll want children one day, I’m just not sure I’ll ever be ready. Ready for someone to need me, all of the time – to be there not just physically, but emotionally, too. Ready for a lifelong commitment of worry, of fear. Ready to be divided, always, between myself and another being – another being I’ve created – for whom I am everything, and who means the world to me.

  Ready to be a mum.

  All this sounds terrible, I know. Thank God no one will read what I’m writing. I can see their thoughts now: Cares more about a career and nights out than bringing a child into a loving family? Doesn’t want to give her all to someone else, for a greater cause? God, she’s missing out. Missing out on a lifetime of happiness and love that makes every sacrifice worthwhile.

  But . . . does it? I’ve seen how stressful having a baby can be. I’ve seen how my friends who are new mums slug back booze on rare nights out as if the world’s alcohol supply will dry up the next day. I’ve heard them snipe at their husbands; seen them suddenly be made part-time or even redundant during maternity leave.

  Having a baby isn’t a magic happy-pill. To me, it seems the opposite.

  I wish I could talk to someone about all this and tell them how I feel, but most of my friends have children now, and those who don’t are scattered across the globe in various exotic locations, taking full advantage of their child-free status. And Lily, well . . . we’ve drifted apart. She’s desperate for a baby, and even though I was miles from understanding, I tried my best to be there for her as she struggled to get pregnant. I listened to her talk about ovulation, fertility and all that for hours, and when a baby still didn’t appear after a year or two, I even helped her research IVF clinics. I held her hand during procedures when Joseph couldn’t be there, telling funny stories from uni to distract her (although I don’t think the nurse appreciated hearing about the Chunder Chart and our epic nights out).

  And when that very first round of IVF was successful, I celebrated with her and Joseph, toasting their family’s future with elderflower tonic, soaking up the happiness that was pouring from them. I was going to be the baby’s ‘mad auntie’, like we’d always joked, and I couldn’t wait to get started spoiling their child. I even bought the cutest little rattle and squeaky soft toy, wrapping it up in blue-and-pink stripy paper.

  Then, one week later, Lily lost the baby. She withdrew from the world, not returning my phone calls or even answering the door when I went round. I understood – I’d been the same after my father died when I was in uni – but I was determined to drag her out, the same way she had when grief had engulfed me. She’d sit and study with me for hours back then, then close my books and haul me to the nearest bar, where we’d dance all night. I would have drowned if it wasn’t for her.

  We were over dancing all night now, but I just wanted to get her to talk to me. And eventually she did, but it wasn’t the same. Whereas before I knew every little detail of her reproductive journey (sometimes a bit too much, if I’m honest), now she barely told me anything. It was like she was afraid to hope again; afraid to let me back into her family’s future.

  We still meet up every once in a while, but there’s a distance now that wasn’t there before. It’s as if she’s filtering everything she says . . . holding herself tightly in case she cracks. I miss the Lily who laughed at herself, whose bubbliness and energy made anything fun. I miss the friends we used to be.

  The old Lily would help me make sense of all this, but how can I tell her that I’m pregnant and not ready? How can I say that, when she’s just the reverse: ready, but not pregnant? If I could switch places with her, I would in a heartbeat. But it’s too late now. I can’t switch places with her, because I am pregnant. There’s a baby inside me . . . Christ, I still can’t believe it.

  The one person I could talk to is David. It’s amazing how different we are, yet how we understand each other without needing to have complicated conversations. He’d soothe my worries and convince me that having this child will be the best thing ever – for me, for us. But the thing is, I’m not ready to be convinced. I’m not ready to accept that this is real.

  Because once I tell him, we won’t be just a married couple. We’ll be a married couple with a baby on the way.

  I’ll be a mother – well, almost.

  Fuck.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘Sorry about that.’ David edges his slim body back through the half-open door. Charlotte studies her husband’s face, the bags under his eyes and the shaggy hair now making sense. If that’s all he’s changed in these past couple of years, then he’s got off much lighter than her. She thinks of her soft stomach and the network of lines scoring her skin, her heart sinking as she touches the craggy ends of her long hair. God.

  ‘Mum couldn’t find Zebby,’ David says, sitting down on a chair in the corner. ‘And you know what Anabelle’s like without that thing.’

  Charlotte nods slowly, although she hasn’t the slightest clue what he’s talking about. Who’s Zebby? And just what is their daughter like without it?

  Their daughter. Even if her head didn’t feel like she’d downed ten tequilas in quick succession, she’d still be struggling to absorb that she and David have a child. A child they named Anabelle, for some unknown reason. God, what a princessy name. Her mouth twitches as she recalls David joking that if they had a baby girl, they should call her Miriam, after his mother. Suddenly Anabelle doesn’t seem so bad.

  How could she not remember choosing her daughter’s name? How could she forget wanting a baby, then getting pregnant, giving birth and raising the bloody thing for the past few years?

  I haven’t, Charlotte decides now. She couldn’t have. No one forgets becoming a mother . . . being a mother. No one forgets their own child. The scans have shown there’s nothing wrong with her head, so it must just be the shock of the accident. Once she’s back with her daughter, she’s sure the memories will all return. The past few years wi
ll swoop into her, knocking away the confusion, the panic . . . and, if she’s honest, something approaching dread.

  But there’s no reason to feel that way, she tells herself. Even if the idea of her as a mother feels completely foreign, she and David wouldn’t have had children unless they were more than ready – and unless she’d felt it wouldn’t have an impact on her job. God knows she’s worked too hard to let anything knock her off track, and David must be that stay-at-home dad he always joked of becoming. She rakes her eyes over his familiar features, love swelling inside as she pictures him rocking his daughter to sleep, getting up at night to give her a bottle, tenderly changing her nappy . . . He’d be a brilliant father, she knows that for sure, and he’d love every minute of it. Their child couldn’t be in better hands, and she’d be able to work hard – and play hard, too. Kind of like her life now, only with a baby in tow. She could actually enjoy motherhood rather than become a giant stressball trying to fit everything in, like some of the working mums she knows.

  She squints, trying to place where she’d be on the workplace ladder at Cellbril, the pharmaceutical research company where she’s worked in business development for well over a decade. If their child is two or three, Charlotte’s probably well on her way to taking over the VP of business development position from Vivek when he retires . . . if he hasn’t already. Excitement flashes through her. Maybe she’s VP now!

  ‘Everything all right?’ David asks, and she realises she’s still staring at him. Worry pinches his features, making him seem more anxious and aloof than she’s used to.

  Charlotte draws in a breath, picturing David’s concern when she tells him she can’t remember having their baby . . . and that the very thought of it is like something from a bad science fiction film. There’s no reason to upset him by telling the truth – a truth that is only temporary, anyway. He’s already worried enough, and the last thing she needs is for him to ask for more tests, prolonging her stay in this dreary hospital. Right now, she’s desperate to go home – to be with her husband and to absorb this new reality. If anyone can make her feel better about it, he can.