The Puzzle of You

by Leah Mercer

  ‘It will be fine. David’s going to help,’ I said, for some reason not wanting to tell her that I’d be going back to work and David would stay home. Unease ballooned into panic, and I gulped in air. It would be fine. The worlds I’d been working so hard to keep apart would not collide. There had been a few near misses, like when I went last week for the anomaly scan to make sure the baby was developing properly. I’d sandwiched it into a busy day between client meetings – the only time David was unable to make it, since he had a meeting in Leeds – but the only time I could. And since I was the one who needed to be there . . . I turned up sweaty and stressed, but lay on the table and breathed deeply as the sonographer pulled up a picture of our daughter on-screen. She bounced around merrily inside me, and even with the clock ticking down to my next meeting – an important pitch I’d spent hours preparing for – I couldn’t help but smile.

  The sonographer did the measurements she needed to and was just saying she was almost finished when the screen went blank. Despite her best efforts (switching the machine off and on), she couldn’t get it working again. She called her colleague while my heart raced. Come on, come on, I urged her. I was going to be late! Vivek would murder me, especially after I’d made such a big fuss about not wanting special considerations.

  I couldn’t wait any longer. I sat up, wiped the gel off my stomach and said I’d reschedule. Dashing out the door of the hospital, I only just made it to the meeting on time. Crisis averted.

  I still haven’t managed to reschedule the ultrasound, and to be honest, work is just too busy. The sonographer had completed ninety-nine per cent of what she needed to, and everything was fine – perfect, as the last scan had showed. David was annoyed I didn’t have any printouts of it – I’d only told him the printer wasn’t working – and he was constantly pushing to book into one of those Harley Street clinics that video the baby inside you. But who has time for that? We’ll see our daughter soon enough.

  ‘Sure, but David can’t breastfeed.’ Lily’s voice jolted me back to the present. ‘And you really should breastfeed for at least a year, to give the baby the maximum benefits. You could pump, I guess, but then what about bonding with your child? Please tell me you’re not going to have the baby and go straight back to work.’ She stared at me, and I hoped I kept my face neutral. ‘God, I really can’t understand why those people even bother to have children. Surely you’d want to stay home with your baby for as long as possible.’

  ‘Er, well, we haven’t sorted it all out yet,’ I said, although we had. No baby died from having formula, and this child would have an amazing relationship with her father, like I’d had with my dad. I tried to stay calm, telling myself that all of this was coming from Lily’s hurt and frustration. I knew she’d be angry that the person she’d least expected had got pregnant when she’d been trying so hard. It was hardly fair.

  Lily grabbed the glass on the table and swigged her water in one go, as if it was the alcohol she’d been craving. When she put it down again, her face looked almost normal.

  ‘When are you due, then?’ she asked.

  ‘Eighteenth of November.’ I was almost afraid to talk. I didn’t want to hurt her more.

  ‘November?’ Her face contorted again. ‘But that’s only a few months away! So you’re already . . .’ Her voice trails off and I can see her mind calculating. ‘About five months along?’

  I bit my lip. ‘Well, yes, I—’

  ‘You didn’t want to tell your oldest friend your big news,’ she said, her mouth twisting. ‘You didn’t think I could be happy for you? Or want to talk about being pregnant, being a mother, all the wonderful times ahead?’ She tightened her lips. ‘Well, I can. Of course I can. I want to hear all about it, and more.’ She sat back and crossed her arms, almost as if she was protecting herself from our coming conversation.

  Dismay flooded in as I met her gaze. How could I tell her it wasn’t that at all? It was me – I didn’t want to talk about baby stuff. I wanted to laugh, to joke, to trade stories about our jobs like we used to. But as the dinner limped on, Lily fired question after question at me, as if she was trying to prove to herself she could handle it. It was like taking that exam I’d been cramming for – or undergoing an interrogation – and my best friend was either going to pass or fail me, with our friendship under fire. And oh, how I wanted to pass. Even if I did understand why she might not be able to support me, I needed Lily now more than ever.

  But when we finally hugged goodbye, my growing baby bump felt like a barrier between us. She told me to keep in touch and said we should catch up again soon, but I knew this would be the last time we’d meet – that our friendship had failed. Like I’d feared, she could only see me one way now – mother – and although I knew why that was, it didn’t stop the sadness from swirling inside. We’d been through so much together, and even if we weren’t as close as we used to be, I’d hoped that would see us through.

  And maybe it will. Maybe, given time, she’ll come around. Maybe she’ll get pregnant and have a baby, too, and then we’ll be past all of this. We can be cool mums together, sipping wine in pubs while our children quietly colour in pictures of pirates . . . or whatever they’re into these days.

  But right now, I just need to keep telling myself that I can’t control other people. Lily, David, Vivek . . . I can’t control how they see me now, how they think I should behave and what they believe is best for the baby. I can control myself, though. I can control what I do, who I am, and whether this baby will change me.

  And I’m one hundred per cent sure that it won’t.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Charlotte stretches on the sofa, the oversized metallic clock she and David bought on a trip to Berlin ticking loudly in the silent flat. It’s been three days since the accident, and she’s still not used to being here on a weekday. The flat is her territory only on weekends, when she and David lounge in bed until the need for caffeine gets the better of them. Then they crawl from the covers and head somewhere for brunch: down to Borough or the South Bank, lazing over their coffees and eggs while scanning Time Out to plan that night’s adventure. Weekdays are for getting out of the flat and to work as quickly as possible.

  Or they used to be, anyway. She rolls her neck to ease the tension clutching her shoulders; tension that comes every time she remembers that this nothingness is her life – but it’s not, really, since Miriam’s pitched in to take Anabelle every day, mostly exempting Charlotte from the whirlwind world of motherhood. Charlotte has pleaded with David to come back to their bed, but every time, he mutters something about his snoring then scurries away as if she’s got the plague. It’s not just to help when Anabelle has nightmares or loses her teddy; Charlotte really hates sleeping without him. Curling up beside him each night used to be one of her favourite times of the day, and every time he turns away from her is like a kick to the gut.

  Despite saying they could talk, David barely utters more than a few sentences to her each night, never mind helping her plug the gaps in her memory. Three days later, and Charlotte is still no closer to remembering anything about her own child . . . or to recognising her life now.

  David has helped with Anabelle, though, enduring marathon sessions to get her into bed each night. Although she’s only three, the little girl somehow seems to sense that something isn’t quite right these days, running from the bedroom to crawl on to Charlotte’s lap time and again. Charlotte hugs her, silently begging her to please go to sleep so she can talk to her husband. But even as her own impatience rises, David manages to remain remarkably patient, tucking Anabelle back into her bed: he’s been the hands-on father she’d always envisioned he would be, yet for some reason never was until now.

  Had her focus on Anabelle left no room for him to parent? Had she become one of those mothers who believed only they could soothe their child, no one else? Is that why he’s not more present in their lives; why he seems so removed? God, if only they could talk. If only she could remember.

&nb
sp; She will, she tells herself yet again. She will, and this bizarre out-of-life experience will vanish; she’ll slot back into her wonderful world once again. As Miriam said when Charlotte finally told her about the memory loss, such a ‘devoted mother’ couldn’t forget her own child.

  She shakes her head. For Miriam to utter those words, Charlotte really must be the world’s greatest parent. Her mother-in-law doesn’t give compliments easily – Charlotte can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Miriam’s said something nice to her – and being termed a devoted mother is one of the highest accolades Miriam can hand out.

  Charlotte heads to the bathroom and turns on the water full-force. She lets it stream down her body, trying to find some – any – trace of that devoted mother. But all she can feel is sadness and anger at losing the life she knows, not happiness and joy in the one she has . . . a life in which she almost lost her child, a child she cherishes with everything she has.

  A child she can’t even remember having now.

  Maybe I should book an appointment with a consultant, she thinks, scrubbing her skin. An expert might be able to help her, since her own brain doesn’t seem to be doing the job. God knows how much longer she can carry on like this; and Anabelle needs her – needs a mother, a mother who knows what the hell she’s doing – someone who wants this life. Yet a small part of Charlotte is resistant, as if the doctor might press a button and delete this version of herself . . . the version she’s only regained by accident – quite literally. That’s selfish, she knows. But despite David’s words and Miriam’s assertion that everything would be different once she had a child, Charlotte’s still struggling to accept she really did love her life as a stay-at-home mum. Could she have changed that much – so much she’s become a different person? And would David even know if she had been unhappy? After all, they didn’t seem to communicate much, beyond what to eat for supper.

  She’s pulling on yet another pair of jeggings (she seems to have every colour under the sun, but they are comfortable), along with a sweater, when the door buzzer rings. She freezes, waiting for whoever it is to go away. But the buzzer keeps ringing and she’s forced to pick up the handset.

  ‘Hello?’ Her voice is hoarse.

  ‘Hi! Got time for a quick visit?’ Her best friend’s voice bites back, and Charlotte’s eyebrows fly up. Lily! Relief sweeps through her. Oh, thank God. Someone who knew her before she magically morphed into this all-giving, all-sacrificing Madonna, and who can shed some light on the past three years . . . hopefully. They haven’t really been close since Lily’s miscarriage, and while Charlotte understands how grief can affect you, she misses her friend. After David, Lily knows her better than anyone else. Well, she used to, anyway.

  Has having Anabelle affected their relationship? Charlotte bites her lip, thinking that it must have been torture for Lily to watch her best friend going through pregnancy. Lily had been to hell and back trying to have a child, while Charlotte couldn’t have cared less. They must still talk, though, or Lily wouldn’t be downstairs now.

  ‘Come on up.’ Charlotte hits the buzzer, running her fingers through her hair. She’s definitely looked better, but it doesn’t matter. Lily has seen her much worse. She smiles, recalling how they met during their first year at uni, up in Leeds. It was the most boring class ever; so boring, in fact, that Charlotte can’t even remember its name. She can recall that it started at the ungodly hour of 8 a.m., and she’d dash from her student halls to the lecture room with messy hair, sporting wrinkly pyjama bottoms . . . not a far cry from today, actually.

  She’d been drifting off to sleep in class one day when Lily had jostled her arm, jerking her back to consciousness.

  ‘You’re snoring!’ Lily had said, then the two of them started to giggle. They giggled so much that, embarrassingly, the lecturer asked them to leave.

  Outside the lecture room, they’d burst out laughing like two naughty schoolchildren.

  ‘Want to go get some breakfast?’ Lily had asked, and that had been it. They’d remained good friends all through university. Lily’s carefree personality lifted Charlotte from her regimented study schedule, forcing her to have fun and develop a spontaneous streak that remains to this day – well, as much as she remembers, anyway. She’d gone through a difficult period when her dad had died, but Lily had always been there to help her through. Despite the upheaval, Charlotte had earned a first-class honours degree, studying through crashing hangover headaches, thanks to Lily’s patented three-egg, double-cream cure. And Lily had managed to pull her own degree out of the bag at the last minute, thanks to some hard-core coaching by Charlotte, too.

  They’d stayed firm friends through their first jobs in London, and through all their horrific dates and car-crash relationships . . . until Lily hooked up with Joseph, and then just a few months later, Charlotte met David. They’d always done everything together, but when Lily proclaimed she was ready for a baby, Charlotte, on the other hand . . .

  ‘Hi!’ Charlotte swings open the door, and the two of them do a mutual double-take: Lily’s eyes widening at the bruise still evident on Charlotte’s head, and Charlotte staring at the tiny infant nestled against Lily’s chest in a sling. So Lily had a baby! Happiness rushes through her for her friend – happiness, and relief that Lily’s treacherous journey did have a positive outcome, after all. And maybe now they can be friends again – real friends, like they used to be. Charlotte had tried not to dwell on it, but she’s really missed Lily: the belly laughs, the crazy nights out until morning and the long lunches that stretched on for hours. But then, Lily wouldn’t be able to do that now. Not with what looks like a very young baby in tow.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Lily asks, pushing inside and up the stairs. She plonks down on the sofa and removes the baby from the sling, shrugging her shoulders and rolling her neck. ‘First time I’ve used this sling – actually, it’s my first time out of the flat since the baby was born. Joseph had to come this way to pick up something, and I managed to convince him to drop me off here. He’ll be back in a few minutes.’ She plops the baby on her lap, shoves down her sweatshirt, and plucks out a breast. ‘There we are,’ she says, easing it into the baby’s already open mouth. Charlotte tries not to stare, but there’s something about seeing her friend breastfeed that feels so bizarre.

  ‘I thought this would be really strange,’ Lily says, staring down at the baby as if it’s everything in the world. ‘But actually, it feels incredibly natural. It’s amazing to have such a connection with your child.’ She starts. ‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I forgot you weren’t able to breastfeed Anabelle.’ She glances around the room. ‘Where is Anabelle, anyway? Usually she comes for a cuddle as soon as she hears me.’

  ‘She’s with Miriam,’ Charlotte mutters, processing Lily’s words. She didn’t breastfeed Anabelle . . . not surprising, given the medical interventions her daughter had needed. God.

  ‘So? What happened to your head?’

  Charlotte sits down on the sofa beside her friend. ‘Car accident,’ she says, running her eyes over Lily, trying to reconcile the friend she remembers with the woman in front of her now. Tall, slim Lily with the gorgeous, wheat-coloured hair that cost half her teaching salary to maintain actually has roots. Not only that, but her friend seems to have gone up at least three bra sizes. Lily’s always envied Charlotte’s bigger boobs, but . . .

  ‘Oh my God. But when? I just saw you a few days ago! Thank goodness you’re okay.’ She gazes closely at Charlotte. ‘You are okay, right? Sorry we didn’t get to chat much when you came by. I was so tired I could barely utter a sentence and then you left so quickly, even before David! He just told us that you had to go and he needed to get back to work. Where was the fire?’

  ‘Well, actually . . .’ Charlotte pauses, wondering what Lily will say when she tells her she can’t remember Anabelle. Dismay fills her at the thought of her friend’s likely horrified response. Charlotte can’t blame her – it is hard to believe a mother could forget th
eir own child, even if it is only temporary. And for Lily, who struggled for so long to have a baby, it’s probably even more horrific. Charlotte’s world is shrouded in enough confusion and fear right now, and the last thing she needs is added confirmation from Lily.

  Lily’s baby starts flailing, and Lily switches the child expertly to her other breast, smiling gently as she watches it feed. Charlotte still has no idea if it’s a boy or a girl – damn gender-neutral clothing. ‘Sorry, what were you saying?’

  Charlotte shakes her head. ‘Just, you know, it’s wonderful seeing you so happy.’ Tears prick her eyes as she takes in Lily’s shining face, and she swallows back emotion. It really is good to see that her friend finally got what she longed for all these years.

  Lily glances up from her baby and meets Charlotte’s eyes. ‘You know, everyone told us to give up and accept that it wasn’t going to happen. Even Joseph wanted to stop trying. You know what kept me going?’

  Charlotte shakes her head.

  ‘You did,’ Lily says. ‘Watching you with Anabelle, seeing the bond you two had . . . I know you guys had a tough time in the beginning, but it was wonderful watching you become this brave mum who’d do anything for her baby.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’ll be the first to admit I found it really difficult when you told me you were pregnant – I was a little sceptical about how you’d adjust to being a mother. But you surprised me with how strong you were – the way you gave up work, how everything you do is to help Anabelle . . . Char, you’re just incredible.’

  Charlotte forces a smile, her mind churning. She should be starting to get used to hearing what a wonderful mother she is. She’s heard it from David and from Miriam, too. But it feels so odd that her oldest friend – the person who’d downed bottle after bottle of wine with her, who’d known how much she wanted to succeed at work, and who’d heard her say over and over that she didn’t want kids – is not only praising her, but looking up to her as a mother.