by Leah Mercer
I doubled over as the hammer hit my heart. If I’d stayed that day until the machine was fixed . . . if I’d rescheduled . . . hell, if I’d just gone along to one of those naff prenatal clinics and got a video, then the doctors might have seen something amiss. They might have been ready to help Anabelle the second she was born. They might have even been able to help her before she was born – you always hear about these operations in the womb.
She might not be lying there, right now, with her life at risk. And even if she makes it through, her future might have been more secure.
I’m not sure what went wrong inside my body. What I’ve read says that, often, heart conditions occur for no reason – apart from genetic factors, which doesn’t relate to us. Neither David nor I has relatives with heart problems; the nurses took our family histories.
I am sure what went wrong with me, though. All I’d cared about was work – work, and me. My life. And the consequences of my actions are brutal.
My daughter might die.
I haven’t told David that I ducked out of the scan. I can’t – I never will. I can’t bear the weight of any added accusations. I’m already bent in half under my own.
And now, it’s the night before the operation. David and I are hunkered down with our baby, huddled around her cot, our little family of three. Because as much as we don’t want to think it, it could be the last time. Oh, the doctors have told us that only one per cent of babies don’t make it through, but that’s not good enough to allay our fears. One per cent is still a chance, a chance I know is real. After all, wasn’t I in the one per cent who get pregnant on the pill? Ironic how that one per cent could now take our daughter away from us.
Our mothers have come and gone, with words so different it’s like they’re from different planets: my mum telling us Anabelle will make it through, that the doctors know what they’re doing and things will be all right – the words I longed to hear, but now mean nothing in the face of all of this; and Miriam, who didn’t say a word to me – she didn’t tell me to relax. All she did was sit down beside me and take my hand. And in that simple gesture, I knew she got it. Knew that this child I’d carried inside me and still had yet to know was under threat, and that until someone could tell me my child was one hundred per cent well, nothing could help.
Nothing could ever help take away this guilt.
Not the countless messages from many friends, who David has kept informed through text (I couldn’t even bear to read the words, let alone write them). Not the message from Lily, offering any help we may need. Not the well-meaning nurse who pats me on the arm each time I see her, telling stories of other babies who’ve pulled through. Not even the bottle of whisky David smuggled in one night, which we poured into plastic glasses in a desperate attempt to blunt our sharp-edged reality.
And definitely not my husband’s embrace as he pulls me against him. I can’t let myself fall into him; can’t let myself lean on his warm body. I don’t deserve his support and his strength, for what I’ve done to our child . . . or what I haven’t done, rather.
There’s a chance that, after tomorrow, I won’t be a mother any longer, and David won’t be a father. Remembering how I felt when I first got pregnant – the horror, the panic – I want to go back and kick myself. Perhaps this is my punishment for not appreciating what I had. Perhaps I’m about to get what I thought I wanted: a life where my sole responsibility is me.
But that’s not what I want now. I can’t imagine life without this little girl. I can’t imagine wanting a life without this little girl.
If Anabelle makes it through this operation, I promise I’ll cherish her like never before. I’ll never take being a mother for granted again.
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘And then the little slug slimed across the leaf, and . . .’
Charlotte smiles as she listens to David’s voice on the monitor telling his daughter a very long, complex bedtime story, following her exacting specifications. Judging from the laughter coming from the bedroom, it seems they’re both enjoying it, although Charlotte’s not sure how conducive to sleep it actually is.
For the past few nights, David’s made an effort to get home early and put Anabelle to bed, and the little girl has finally accepted that bedtime is Daddy’s job. It’s amazing how quickly kids adjust, although, according to Miriam’s expert opinion, Anabelle’s been extra clingy this week. Charlotte just nodded when she said this, thinking how strange it is that she wouldn’t know if the child is extra anything. From the little she’s seen, Anabelle’s antics are standard three year old: demanding, stubborn and ear-gratingly whiny – with the odd dash of cuteness thrown in every once in a while, probably an evolutionary necessity to remind parents just why they had children in the first place.
God, she must have had the patience of a saint to deal with that every day . . . or perhaps she had a secret stash of booze locked away somewhere? She certainly wouldn’t blame herself. The few minutes she’d spent with a tired and hungry Anabelle earlier today had tested her in a way that even the most annoying client hadn’t. She’d resorted to deep breathing to keep from losing her cool after Anabelle pleaded over and over for her paintbrushes and watercolours, dissolving into tears and tantrum despite Charlotte offering every other option under the sun. Apparently it was one of their favourite things to do together, but the thought of trying to control a three year old with watery paints terrified Charlotte. If slathering tepid colour on soggy paper was their favourite thing, the two of them really needed to get out more. Now, mother-and-daughter manicures . . . that was something she could get behind. Perhaps she’ll ask David if she and Anabelle have ever done anything like that.
Maybe after her appointment tomorrow with a top neurologist on Harley Street, she’ll actually remember . . . and not a moment too soon. It’s been a week since the accident, and she still feels like a favourite auntie biding her time until she can return to her usual fun, full life. It’s a harsh slap when she remembers there is no escape. This is her life. This is her daughter, even if, between Miriam and David, she still barely spends any time with her. It’s as if everyone’s letting her tread water, waiting for the consultant to throw her a lifeline.
‘But Daddy!’ Anabelle’s voice bursts through the monitor. ‘Slugs don’t have antennae!’
‘Well, they sort of do,’ David says. ‘They’re more like feelers, but still.’
The story continues, and Charlotte grins. Do slugs have antennae? How would Anabelle know that they don’t? God, she sounds like a clever little thing. Charlotte listens as the story meanders onwards, her husband’s warm tone softening more and more as Anabelle – she hopes – grows sleepier. For a split second Charlotte closes her eyes, wishing David was speaking that way to her . . . maybe not in relation to slugs, but just dissecting their days, like they used to. She’d tell him all about her latest workplace victories, he’d crack jokes about his deadbeat colleagues and even do one or two impressions of his boss that always made her laugh, and then they’d open a bottle of wine and settle down on the sofa in each other’s arms. It was the perfect ending to the day in a place where she could relax and just be her. Tears fill her eyes now as she realises the her she’s trying to become doesn’t even seem to bother with her husband any longer – or maybe he doesn’t bother with her. Either way, it gives her a constant pain in her heart.
But while David’s guarded with her, he’s been amazing with Anabelle. He might have been far removed from their daily routines, but he’s quickly sorted out new ones. From serving Anabelle a crazy mixture of Rice Krispies and Bran Flakes with a flourish each morning (‘Your cereal cocktail, madam!’) to diving games in the bathtub to the endless bedtime stories, he’s a natural. It’s obvious he loves spending time with her and Anabelle is crazy about him . . . so it must have been Charlotte who was holding him back?
She bites her lip, an uneasy feeling tugging at her. She is a bit of a control freak – even Vivek would tell her sometimes that she needed to de
legate better. When it comes to a child you’re desperate to protect – something you love with every part of you – then it must be desperately difficult to let others in, even if that ‘other’ is your husband. But not only is David her husband, he’s also Anabelle’s father. Even if she did decide to stay at home, surely she didn’t deny them a relationship. Is that why he’s so frosty with her?
‘She’s asleep,’ David whispers, closing the door softly behind him.
‘I loved your story,’ Charlotte says, grinning at him. ‘Slugs?’
David shrugs. ‘She’s going through a bit of a slug obsession at the moment. She wants to know everything about them. I printed off some stuff at the office to show her, and she was so excited.’
God, he is such a good father. ‘David, look.’ Charlotte takes a breath, wishing he’d sit down instead of hovering over her like this. ‘I’m sorry if I pushed you away from Anabelle. You know what I’m like sometimes, trying to take over everything myself.’ She gives a little laugh, hoping it’ll lighten the intense way David’s staring at her. ‘You two obviously love spending time with each other.’
David keeps staring at her and she clears her throat, an idea popping into her mind. Maybe the three of them just need time to gel as a proper family. They must have done some things together – the photos of them dotted around the place prove that – but they don’t seem much like a threesome to Charlotte. Perhaps drawing David in more would help rebuild his connection to her, too.
‘And you know, I was thinking. Why don’t we take a holiday together, all three of us? You know, as a family? Have we ever done that?’ She grabs the mobile. ‘Let’s book it tonight! I’m sure we can get a great last-minute deal to somewhere.’ The more the idea grows in her mind, the more certain she is that this is exactly what they need. Even if her memories do start coming back in the coming days and her mothering sensibilities return, the holiday will already be booked, and she knows for a fact David would never cancel anything if it meant losing money. Growing up with a single mother has made him extra careful about any added expenses.
‘Charlotte.’ David’s voice makes her head snap up; she’s already googling last-minute holidays. ‘There’s something I need to tell you. Before you see the doctor tomorrow, and before you book anything. In case you remember.’
She takes his hand, stunned by the anguish in his eyes. ‘It’s okay, David. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be okay.’ Anabelle is fine, the consultant will be able to help, and just the thought of lounging in the sun is making her feel better already. Why does he look so . . . tormented?
David laughs bitterly, a sound she’s never heard coming from him. ‘Isn’t it usually me who says that to you?’ He shakes his head. ‘The thing is, I’m not sure it will be okay. You were so upset when I told you the first time, over at Lily’s place.’
Charlotte raises an eyebrow. ‘You told me at Lily’s?’ If this really is as big as he’s making out, why wouldn’t he tell her at home when they were alone?
‘Not exactly the ideal scenario, I know.’ David sighs. ‘Lily wanted to show us her new baby, and I agreed to meet you at her place during my lunch hour. When I told you . . . well, you couldn’t even speak to me. You just took Anabelle and left, and then you had the car crash. Sometimes I wonder if what I said caused the accident.’
‘What is it?’ Charlotte’s heart is pounding now. ‘What did you tell me?’ Has he had an affair or something? She catches her breath at the horrible thought. The bond between him and her daughter she can fix, but she’s not sure she could handle such a betrayal. It’s hard to imagine her loyal husband sneaking around, but no harder to believe than what her life has become. It certainly would explain why he’s so cold around her.
‘Okay. Here goes . . . again.’ David takes a breath. ‘If we have more children, there’s a slight risk they’ll have a heart condition, too.’ His face twists, and he runs a hand through his hair. ‘Anabelle’s heart defect has a genetic link, and it runs in my family. Remember when we were waiting for Anabelle’s diagnosis, and the nurse took our family history?’ He clocks Charlotte’s blank expression, and he shakes his head. ‘Of course you don’t. Well, those questions made me wonder if there were any heart problems on my side – on my father’s side, maybe – that I hadn’t known about. Mum told me two of my dad’s family had passed away as infants because of heart problems – one was his brother. I’d had no idea.’
He holds her gaze, facing her stiffly like he’s in the firing line. But instead of the explosive reaction he’s clearly expecting, all Charlotte can feel is relief. Is that all? Anabelle’s condition is genetic? God, she’d wondered if he’d been cheating on her! To hear the cause of Anabelle’s condition, well . . . it’s helpful to know, but it doesn’t really change anything.
But . . . she tilts her head, trying to puzzle it all out. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?’ she asks, trying to keep her voice level. She needs to tread carefully; David looks like he might bolt at any moment. ‘Anabelle’s three, so why would you keep this to yourself for so long?’ They used to tell each other everything, right down to what they’d had for lunch – mundane, but she always loved hearing every little detail about her husband’s day; it made it seem as though they’d been together, even though they’d been apart.
And this wasn’t some trivial detail involving tuna melts or chicken wraps. This was their daughter – the cause of her condition, a condition that could have been fatal. Why the hell would he keep it from her for three years? Fear shoots through her that perhaps there is more of a rift between them than she’d thought.
He sits down on the sofa, his legs bending so stiffly he looks more robot than human. ‘I couldn’t tell you. I could hardly bear to think about it myself. To know that I did this to her, that it’s my fault, I—’
‘David, stop.’ Charlotte squeezes his hand. His fingers are like ice. ‘You’re being silly! It’s not your fault. How can you control genetics? We had no way of knowing, no way of preventing this. No one’s to blame.’ She wills him to believe her, but judging from the set of his face, her words have barely made a dent.
He turns towards her, the muscle in his jaw jumping again. ‘You can’t understand. Of course you can’t – not now that you can’t remember, and not before either. To see your daughter barely able to open her eyes and attached to so many tubes, bandages swamping her . . . and to realise that you did this to her. That she’s in that horrific situation because of you.’ His eyes burn into her. ‘You can’t understand that. You never will. And the way you looked at me when I finally told you . . . it was like I’d destroyed you. Like you hated me. You grabbed Anabelle and left without saying another word, like you couldn’t stand being near me. I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer.’ He shakes his head. ‘And you know what? I can’t really blame you. Not only did I put you through hell and back, I’ve taken something away from you. I’ve taken away a future you want.’
Charlotte shakes her head, trying to understand. ‘A future? What do you mean? The only future I want is with you. And Anabelle,’ she adds, remembering that she has a daughter.
‘You want another baby,’ David says bluntly, and Charlotte freezes.
‘I want another baby?’ Fuck. Her heart sinks as he nods, and she feels even more distant from the person she’d become. Imagine wanting another child after such a traumatic experience with her firstborn! Even if she hadn’t known the risks at the time, she must have worried their next child could face some challenges, too. She must have really loved motherhood – loved her life – to give it another go after all that.
‘Yes, you do. Or you did. You were so excited to talk to me about it . . . practically glowing. I hadn’t seen you look so happy for ages.’ He drops his head and she reaches for his fingers again, trying to signal again that it really is okay. Well, it is now, anyway. She can’t even connect with the desire for one child right now, let alone two.
‘I had to tell you then,’ David continues, h
is voice shaking. ‘I had to tell you that I was to blame for Anabelle – that because of me, Anabelle won’t have a sibling and you won’t have another child. I can’t watch another baby suffer because of something I passed on.’ He lets out a trembling breath. ‘Anabelle’s illness meant you gave up your job. It pushed you into becoming the wonderful mother you are today. I’m so in awe of how you gave yourself to her; how you put yourself aside and built a happy, safe world for her. You sacrificed everything to do that, and of course you want another child – you’re a bloody brilliant mother. But I can’t give you that. I can’t give you more of what you had to become.’
He gets to his feet and looks at her with that resigned, defeated expression. ‘One day you’ll remember all of this. You’ll look at me again like . . .’ He rubs his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Charlotte. Just . . . just know that I’m sorry.’ He walks away from her, moving so stiffly it’s like his muscles have forgotten how to function.
‘David, you have nothing to be sorry—’
The slam of the flat door stops the words in her throat and, once again, she’s alone.
The ticking of the clock fills the room, punctuated every once in a while by Anabelle snuffling in her sleep. Charlotte shifts on the sofa, trying to absorb what just happened. She must have been furious that David only told her then about Anabelle’s condition. He’d harboured this huge thing for years and while she can understand his guilt – even if, in her mind, he shouldn’t feel the least bit at fault – the secret he was keeping didn’t just affect him. It affected her, too. Why the hell hadn’t he just told her?
And he’s right: her whole world is about being a mother. To be told she can’t expand, can’t progress, is like taking up a job position and working like a demon to get promoted, only to be informed after years of hard graft that it’s never going to happen. She can understand why she stormed out.