by Leah Mercer
And when they were both back in London, things just went on from there. They balanced each other out, and even though she was more forceful and outgoing – urging him off the sofa and across the city to explore new sights – she relied on his quiet strength and positivity. She could tell him anything and he’d make her feel better about it. In that way, he reminded Charlotte a bit of her father.
‘I’ll just grab the plates.’ David’s voice cuts into her thoughts now and she nods, pushing aside the strange feeling that, despite their bodies being so close, they feel miles apart. Is he still upset about the accident? He manoeuvres himself out of her embrace and into the kitchen, returning seconds later with some cutlery.
‘You do look more yourself,’ he says, forking out some noodles on to her plate before tucking into the remainder of the dish straight from its box.
Charlotte meets his eyes, her mind whirling as his words ring in her ears. More yourself, whoever that is. Someone who wears jeggings, with a flabby belly and a cushiony bottom? Who’s shunned her beloved, satisfying job to stay at home, and who’s packing up their city flat to move to the wilds of Surbiton?
Someone who apparently cooks, for God’s sake?
‘Look, I know you’re still recovering,’ David says, winding some noodles around his fork. ‘But—’
‘David.’ Charlotte can’t let him go any further. She’s not recovering from the accident, and she needs his help. Please God, may he be able to help. ‘I . . .’ She pauses, hoping he won’t try to convince her to go to A&E. That’s the last thing she needs right now. ‘Well, I’m having some problems remembering things. Since the accident, I mean.’
‘Hmm?’ David swings around to face her. ‘What do you mean?’
Charlotte takes a breath. ‘I mean, when I was in hospital and you mentioned Anabelle . . . I didn’t know who she was. I didn’t remember having her.’
‘What?’ David drops his fork, and his eyes widen. ‘But you remember now, right?’
Charlotte shakes her head. ‘That’s just it. I don’t.’ She pauses, meeting her husband’s incredulous stare. ‘I don’t remember having her, or raising her, or even trying to get pregnant. The last thing I recall is coming back from Italy, right after our anniversary . . . four years ago.’ God, four years. She reaches out to take David’s hand, waiting to feel a squeeze in return, but it stays limp in her grip. Silence stretches between them, and she can almost see her husband’s brain working to take in her words.
‘So you . . .’ He tilts his head, exhaling. ‘You don’t remember anything? Getting pregnant, giving birth, and . . .’ His face twists. ‘None of that?’
‘No. Nothing.’ Charlotte tries for the millionth time to conjure up some memory, but it’s like trying to break through a brick wall.
‘Wow.’ David gawps at her like she’s landed from Mars. ‘But why didn’t you tell me? In hospital, I mean. Why didn’t you say that you couldn’t remember?’
Charlotte glances down at their hands. ‘Well, I . . . you looked so worried, and I didn’t want to upset you.’ She meets his gaze again. ‘I thought it was just the shock of the accident, and that everything would come back after a good night’s sleep. I mean, who can forget their own child?’ She forces a laugh through the fear flaring inside. She can’t have forgotten – it’s impossible. ‘I’m sure I will remember. It has only been a day since the accident.’ God, it feels like an eternity.
‘You’re right, of course. It will come back,’ David says, and Charlotte squeezes his hand again, pleased that he’s finally giving her some reassurance. The way he was staring at her was unnerving. ‘But even so, I think we should take you back to the hospital. Better safe than sorry, right?’
‘No!’ She surprises herself with the vehemence of her reaction. She’s not sure why, but just thinking of the hospital makes her hair stand on end. ‘There’s no need for that. They did all the scans and everything, and they said nothing is wrong. Let’s give it another day or two, okay? If I don’t start remembering, then we can book an appointment with a consultant or something.’ It will come back in another day or two. It has to, because she’s not sure how long she can stay in this strange state before going crazy.
‘All right.’ David nods slowly.
‘And in the meantime, can you help fill me in? Help me understand . . . this.’ She gestures around the lounge to the toys dotted on the floor. ‘It’s so surreal. I’m a mother. A stay-at-home mum. How on earth did that happen? We always joked about you quitting work. I mean, I’m sure I love it,’ she adds as his lips pinch together. ‘It’s just so unexpected. Maybe you can tell me why we decided to have kids, what the birth was like – not too much detail, though, please.’ She makes a face. ‘How Anabelle was as a baby, what we’re like as parents . . .’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s still so hard to wrap my head around all this. It seems like only days since we were making love in Rome!’ She caresses his fingers, a warm glow inside. ‘Remember that? The time we—’
‘You’re a wonderful mum,’ David says, and Charlotte pulls back at the interruption. So much for wandering down memory lane. ‘I couldn’t have asked for a better mother for our child. You’d do anything for Anabelle. And after she was born, you were just so strong. It was a very hard time, but you were incredible.’ He smiles, but his eyes look sad instead of admiring.
Her brow furrows. So strong? Incredible? She’s not about to reject such high praise, but is it possible he’s being slightly over the top? Childbirth couldn’t have been that traumatic. She did have a C-section, after all – it wasn’t like she’d gone through hours of difficult labour. ‘Why was it so hard?’
‘You really don’t remember?’ His eyes laser into her, like he’s trying to see inside her brain. ‘None of this?’
Charlotte shakes her head, her heart beating faster. Did something go wrong during the operation? One of her work colleagues had once told a terrible tale of a doctor accidentally injuring his wife’s bladder during a C-section, leaving her leaking urine and needing multiple surgeries. Charlotte’s bladder seems fine at the moment, but what if something else inside her isn’t working properly? Surely she would have noticed by now, but . . .
David pulls his hand from hers and stands. ‘When Anabelle was born, the doctors discovered there was something wrong with her heart.’ His voice is robotic, as if he’s recounting something not connected to him.
Charlotte’s hand flies to her mouth. ‘Her heart?’ Oh my God. She’d never thought that something might have been wrong with Anabelle. That must be every mother’s worst nightmare: to have their child born with such a serious defect. And you couldn’t get much more serious than the heart.
The poor baby. Poor parents. She jerks as she realises that she is one of the parents.
David nods. ‘It’s called transposition of the great arteries,’ he says, turning away from her to look out the window. ‘The arteries in the heart are flipped around the wrong way, and the only way to survive is through surgery within the first few days of life.’
‘Shit.’ Charlotte shakes her head, hunting for something to say. She can’t begin to imagine living through that scenario – giving birth then having your child wrenched away from you to the operating room. Had she really been as strong as David says? Right now, she can only envision running away screaming.
‘Did we know about it before she was born?’ She hopes so. The thought that they might have been able to prepare for such a traumatic start makes her feel more positive about what they must have gone through.
But David shakes his head. ‘No, we had no idea,’ he says. ‘Sometimes they can pick it up on scans, and sometimes not.’ His shoulders lift, and he faces her again. ‘But the important thing is that Anabelle’s okay now. She needs to go to the specialist for check-ups every year, but she’s fine.’ He says the words with absolute certainty, and Charlotte sighs in relief.
‘Thank God.’ Just the thought of a child’s bright future limited by illness is desperately sad, not to
mention any physical suffering she might experience. And when that child is your own . . . Charlotte’s gut twists, and for the first time she feels a thread of connection to the person she’s become. She gets to her feet and reaches out for her husband, but he edges away. Her heart drops, and she bites her lip. Clearly they’ve been through hell – she can’t even fathom what they must have felt – but they must have pulled together. There’s no way she could have gone through all that without David’s support and optimism providing a much-needed lift. So what is this distance between them all about?
‘Look, I’m certain everything will come back to you soon,’ David says. There’s a heaviness to his words, almost as if he doesn’t want her to remember. ‘You love your life with Anabelle – you’re constantly saying how lucky you are and how you wouldn’t have it any other way.’
Charlotte winces, then tries to smooth out her expression. It’s just so hard to believe that she felt like that.
‘And in the meantime,’ David continues, as if he hasn’t noticed her response, ‘I’ll make sure I’m home early to do Anabelle’s bedtime, and I’ll ask Mum to help out during the day. You just rest and try to get better.’
‘Okay.’ Charlotte pulls her knees to her chest. She longs to curl up in her husband’s arms and flick on the telly like they used to, but he’s already grabbing the pile of blankets and pillows from beside the sofa.
‘I’m turning in,’ he says, yawning. ‘We can talk more tomorrow, if you like.’
‘But it’s not even nine o’clock. And you haven’t finished your food!’ She’d really been looking forward to him coming home and helping to ease the anger and disquiet inside her.
‘Sorry, I’m not hungry any more,’ David says, clearing the remains of his supper from the table. ‘I’ll just take this to the kitchen. Good night.’ He doesn’t even wait for her response as he disappears around the corner.
Charlotte watches him go, her heart twisting. It’s not just the shock of the accident or the confusion caused by her memory loss: something is weird between them. She’d always been so certain that nothing would affect their closeness, but there’s a distance now that wasn’t there before. What the hell happened?
She catches her breath as a thought enters her mind. Is it because she’s not working any longer? David always said her ambition was a turn-on; that she had more than enough for both of them. He loved that she was so passionate about her job, sometimes getting her fired up about it then pulling her on to the bed to make love. She used to joke that her passion was good for them, too.
Has the spark gone out now that she stays home, just a mum and not ‘Madam Vice-President’, as David used to call her? Surely it would take more than that to pull apart their relationship, though.
She gets to her feet and heads into the dark bedroom, undresses and pulls on an old T-shirt, remembering Anabelle jumping into bed with her that morning. Then she tugs the duvet over her body. Anabelle’s steady breathing fills her ears and she forces herself to focus on it, desperate to silence the questions in her head.
In and out. In and out. In and out.
Did she ever fear Anabelle would stop breathing; that her heart would stop beating? Did she lie here, night after night, praying for her daughter to be all right? The experiences that had shaped her – Anabelle’s shocking condition, and the terror that must have accompanied it . . . well, how can she even begin to visualise such a desperate situation? If having a baby is the life-changing event everyone says it is, what must it be like to have a child who’s critically ill – to have the dearest thing to you threatened and be unable to protect it? Charlotte can only think of one word: horrific. That must be why she didn’t go back to work as quickly as she might have otherwise. Of course she’d want to make sure the baby was okay.
But Anabelle is fine now. So why is Charlotte still at home, three years later, with David on the edges of their life? For God’s sake, he’s even sleeping on the sofa! And yet, according to him and the picture she’s seen, she’s happy – saying over and over that she wouldn’t change her world for anything. How could she even begin to think that, with a career she’s chucked and a husband who prefers clearing the table to talking to her?
Charlotte freezes as the realisation filters in. She must have changed . . . must have had that personality transplant she’d wondered about earlier. ‘Supermum’, ‘strong’, ‘incredible’ . . . she winces as David’s words ring in her ears. She sounds like a bloody saint, the kind of parent she could never – not in a million years – picture being. Who on earth is that person? And how can she ever get back there if she can’t begin to recall what set her on the Supermum pathway in the first place? Right now it seems as impossible as a mission to Mars.
Panic rises and she takes a deep breath. There might be a strange distance between her and David, but he did say they could talk more tomorrow. He’ll help her memories come back again.
He’ll have to – he’s the only one who was there.
He’s the only one who knows what really happened.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
5 July
I just got back from seeing Lily – and telling her I’m pregnant. I should have told her sooner, I know. For God’s sake, I’m almost five months along now, although if I wear a loose-fitting top I can still get away with hiding my bump (the benefit of big boobs and loose tops . . . they just hang straight down). I would have told her sooner if we’d done one of those big Facebook announcements like David wanted to, complete with pink balloons and blurry ultrasound photos. But I’m not into that stuff, and since I privately vowed not to let my timeline be overtaken by baby photos and videos, I’m starting as I mean to go on. Anyway, why would two hundred acquaintances care about the state of my womb? Anyone I want to know, I’ve told in real life.
Except my best friend.
I was desperate not to hurt her with my news, but I knew it was impossible. I couldn’t put it off any longer: I had to let her know before my baby actually exits the womb. And so I persisted with my texts and my voicemails, a mixture of relief and apprehension flooding through me when Lily finally called back. As I rushed from work to meet her, I wondered if she would treat me differently, like Vivek, David and even Miriam. Would she still see me as me? Or would I represent solely something she desires but still hasn’t got: motherhood? And if she could only see me that way, were the weakening bonds of our friendship strong enough to sustain this load?
I prayed they were.
We met in Shepherd Market, a little street in Mayfair full of restaurants and cafés. It’s our haunt, a place we used to go every night to discuss our big dreams back when we’d first started out: me in business development at the research company, Lily as a newbie secondary school teacher in Bethnal Green. She’d tell me horror stories of kids twice her size throwing chairs out the window, I’d rail on about sleazy colleagues who leered at my cleavage, and then we’d both drink a bottle or two.
But tonight, only a carafe of tap water graced our table. Oh, how times have changed. Lily shot me a smile when I asked for the jug, and for a second, I thought she might be pregnant, too. Then she reached out and touched my arm.
‘Thank you for ordering water, my friend. After the day I’ve had with Year Eight, I’m dying for some booze, but with these new fertility drugs, it’s a no-go. If you had some wine, I’m not sure I’d be able to stop myself. Although I’d be on the floor after one glass . . . IVF shoots my tolerance to hell. Still, you have to keep hoping, right?’
‘Oh, um, right. Yeah, no problem,’ I stuttered, my heart sinking. I knew this was going to be hard, but . . . I swallowed, thinking I should break the news sooner rather than later. Get it out of the way, and then we could hopefully move on. Fear shot through me at the thought of her reaction. Please may she be okay.
‘Lily, I have something to tell you.’ I forced the words out.
‘Let me guess.’ She smiled. ‘You got another promotion? This time, you’re going to rule the world? The un
iverse, even? Sell meds to aliens?’
‘Ha. I wish.’ She couldn’t have been further off if she’d tried. ‘No, it’s not that.’ I drew in a breath, hoping once more that my news wouldn’t tear her apart. ‘I’m pregnant.’
The words floated in the air, almost visible. Lily sat back, the colour draining from her face as she stared at me. My heart sank as splotches of red appeared on her neck and cheeks, a sure sign she was upset. I wanted to apologise, but saying sorry sounded odd.
‘You’re pregnant,’ she said at last, her voice oddly flat. ‘You are pregnant.’
‘Well, yeah.’ For some reason, I felt defensive all of a sudden. I didn’t want to tell her it wasn’t planned.
‘You, the person who – what was it you said? “Couldn’t care less about pushing a human being out of your body”? “Would rather drink wine every night of the week than breastfeed a baby”? You’re pregnant?’
I cringed as she spewed my words back to me. I couldn’t remember actually saying those things, but I must have at some point. Lily always did have an amazing memory. And although I can’t recall the words, I can remember the sentiments.
But that’s changed now. It has to. Because in about four months, I will be pushing a human out of my body, with all that that entails. And while I may still feel like drinking wine rather than breastfeeding, at least I know now that you can’t do both within a good few hours of each other.
‘I know it’s probably a little surprising . . .’
‘A little?’ Lily shook her head. ‘I’d be less surprised if you told me you were joining a nudist colony! I just thought . . . well, you never told me you were even trying.’
I ducked my head down. ‘It’s been so busy with work and all that . . .’
‘You do know you’re not going to be able to work your usual crazy hours with a baby, right?’ she said. ‘I mean, flying off to God knows where at the drop of a hat and staying at the office until ten every night.’ She looked almost triumphant as she said the words, and unease flared inside me.