Everything Happens for a Reason, page 10
No sign of Josephine, she’s always last. Francis tugs. I unhook his lead from my wrist, if he runs into the road, it’s no more than he deserves.
‘You need to get him under control.’ The friend again, behind me. She stamps on the lead as Francis runs past.
‘Can you just hold him for a minute?’ I ask. ‘Or do a swap?’ I try to move my arms but the baby’s about to drop.
‘I can hold him,’ says another mum, sunglasses. I shuffle towards her, baby tight to my chest, but she crouches down, she means Francis. Before I can stop her, she approaches from the front. He gets her knuckle, she slaps at his nose. He barks and Kayla howls.
‘Feisty,’ says Sunglasses.
Miss Jones is back, her arm around Kayla’s shoulders while Kayla’s mum punches a message into her phone. The baby is still, so still, and heavier. He’s in an all-in-one suit, thick layers. Where’s his buggy? He must have come from somewhere. His chest was moving up and down before. His lips are different, blue. It wasn’t my fault. He just stopped. He just stopped breathing. They do that, so tiny. I’m on my knees, the baby’s on his back on the pavement. I rub his chest. ‘Wake up! Wake up!’
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Kayla’s mum, his mum, shouting, pulling me off.
‘He stopped breathing.’
She has him up on her shoulder, his arm moves, or it doesn’t, it’s just her. The suit’s so thick, why isn’t she pulling it off? He’s silent. Miss Jones strokes his cheek, looks at me, she’ll be the one who says it. I only had him a minute, a few minutes.
‘He’s sleeping,’ says Miss Jones.
‘Sleeping, like asleep sleeping?’ I ask.
Kayla’s mum turns his little body to face me. ‘No, like awake sleeping.’ She laughs, they all do. His mouth opens and closes, she slides in a dummy from her pocket.
Josephine’s come from somewhere, she’s wrapped around my waist and holding Francis’s lead.
‘Something happened,’ I say. It’s to the mums. I’ll tell them, about how there was no warning, you were healthy and just stopped kicking. They don’t hear. ‘Something happened,’ I try. Josephine pushes her rucksack, coat and a pile of cardboard into my arms. It lands on my feet.
‘She’s gone without you,’ says Kayla’s mum as I gather toilet roll tubes into the jute bag.
Obviously, I’m glad Kane was fine. I assume it’s Kane, not Cain. OK, I found her on Facebook, she’s called Kaytlin and it is Kane. She hasn’t posted anything about today.
To: LRS_17@outlook.com
Sat 1/4, 23:20
SUBJECT: Fool
The people opposite have new blinds. Took him two hours to put them up.
Caveman diet is now weekdays only.
Francis is on stronger medication. ‘Anxiety drops,’ says my mother. I weighed him. Took five.
To: LRS_17@outlook.com
Sun 2/4, 04:06
SUBJECT: There are no words
It was in three of the cards, two text messages and five Facebook posts. I don’t want you getting the wrong impression that I am massively popular. At my current reckoning there would be twenty-six people at my funeral. People post on your Facebook if they’ve been in the same school as you, at the same party, or in the same lift. There are no words.
It’s not quite true. There are some words. Like the euphemisms in the forums: ‘born asleep’, ‘with angel wings’. And there’s the one I hate. From another time, at least that’s what I thought: ‘stillborn’. Would you believe me if I told you I thought stillbirth didn’t happen anymore? That it was for people from long ago, like Anne Boleyn? It’s not in any of the books.
That’s what I told them. I was on my own. I took a taxi. After the nap. Once E was home. I told him I just wanted to be safe. Would be there and back before the casserole’s done. If I’d let him do the potatoes, I’d have gone sooner. When did I know?
Worst case, I told him, you’re on your way and he can get there for the delivery, bring the bag. Very worst, it’s a C-section, he’ll miss it, still have a lifetime.
In the taxi, you moved again. Or was that the speed bumps? You were telling me you were OK, no rush, breathe. So I smiled at the mum when the little boy pressed all the lift buttons, I could wait, just a precaution.
‘Due date today?’ says the midwife at the desk, she’s young and she’s overcompensating with a matron voice.
I was due something. Those words are there, loads of them, everyone loves those words. Due, expecting, pregnant – all bursting with promise. Bursting, that’s another one and then they ‘burst’ with pride when their babies smile, walk, go to university, win Oscars.
‘And it’s your first?’ says the midwife. ‘Normal to be nervous on the due date. Best thing is rest.’
‘He’s slowed down.’
‘Probably getting ready.’ She looks up from her paperwork to give me a go-away smile.
‘I mean he’s barely moved.’
Pen down. ‘Since when?’
‘Not long. I can’t tell.’
‘It’s OK.’ She walks around the desk. ‘Let’s have a little listen.’
The radio was on, music, adverts, one for a Valentine’s Day pizza deal. She was listening for you but the radio was on. ‘Shouldn’t you turn that off?’ I said. She went over to the windowsill, the music stopped. More gel, more gliding, pausing, gliding.
‘I’m just going to call in a colleague,’ she said.
This was it, when they’d tell me they had to get you out, emergency caesarean. Needles, cutting, no E. None of that mattered, I was about to hold you.
The midwife came back with a doctor and an ultrasound machine. The doctor’s face stayed fixed on the screen, her arm stretched backwards, moving over your silhouette. She held still in one place. She knew. She knew but she was giving me another minute not knowing.
‘I’m so sorry, your baby’s heart has stopped, Rachel.’
That’s the phrase. I wake up to it, go to sleep to it. ‘Your baby’s heart has stopped, Rachel.’
‘Get him out, start it again. Quick, he has me and I’m breathing, get him out.’
‘It doesn’t work like that,’ the doctor said.
‘It does, he’s been moving all day. He’s big, they said at his scan. Find another doctor.’
‘There’s no heartbeat.’ She points to something on the screen. ‘He’s passed away.’
‘That doesn’t happen. It doesn’t. He’s still in me. He’s big. Get him out, help him.’
They called E, handed the phone to me.
‘OK,’ he said. He said OK. ‘I’m coming.’
The midwife stayed with me. Her name was Shona. She stayed with me all night and I said sorry, over and over. I’m sorry. And then, in a word, that stupid word, you were stillborn. Around about this time, two months to the minute.
And they told me to stop saying sorry, it wasn’t my fault. ‘Don’t do this to yourself,’ said E. ‘It’s not you.’
I screamed at him, at the midwives, the doctors. I never scream. But they say everyone does in labour. ‘Let loose, you might not get another go,’ our antenatal teacher had said. ‘Practise at home. In bed, if you prefer.’ (She meant into a pillow.)
I screamed. ‘I’m sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry!’ and ‘What have I done?’
And they sent in another doctor, one with numbers, on how it happens every day, no one can change it, you’re all so fragile, sometimes nature is cruel, he said. I wanted to believe him.
E told me it happened to a woman at work. The midwife said, ‘We had two last week.’ It stopped the screaming, that and the epidural and the sickness. You can’t throw up and scream at the same time. And maybe it did just happen. ‘Like cot death,’ the midwife said. ‘You wouldn’t blame another woman for a cot death.’
I wish I’d wished harder. Every push, I wished they were wrong. I believed they were, it didn’t happen anymore, you’d gasp for air, they’d press a button, doctors and nurses would rush in, save you.
They wrapped you in a towel, white, maybe blue. E held you first. Handed you to me, the way we’d said in the birth plan. You were heavy. I whispered to you. Did you hear me? ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’
And I was right. It was my fault. And his. A whole life lost for Ben and no one ever asked me, no one told me that was the deal. I did what anyone would do. I reached out for him, like you catch a toppling wine glass. I need you to believe that I’d have let him fall, if I’d known. Or someone else could have caught him. Why did it have to be me? Always the good citizen. Picking up everyone’s litter, fishing teabags out the recycling bin, stopping dog walkers from jumping off Tube platforms. I can hear my mother: ‘Just keep your hands to yourself.’
I should. What does it do for the world? There’s a bloke in Peckham making a beagle happy, and occasionally a sausage dog. Here’s something I wouldn’t tell anyone else: I think about killing him. Any mother would. If it would bring you back, I’d do it. Shove him in front of his train, poison his porridge, pay someone on the dark web. I’d have to buy bitcoin first. But the world doesn’t work like that. I can’t have you back. I have Ben instead.
To: LRS_17@outlook.com
Sun 2/4, 10:41
SUBJECT: Queries
E’s cooking a roast. I said I’d get up, make a crumble, but he said have a lie-in, catch up. No sleep after that last email. I kept picturing the birth – can we call it that? I don’t like delivery, it conjures images of parcel chutes, vans and the gates of heaven, they’re chained shut, no one can remember the twenty-digit code for the padlock, but you’re small enough to slip through the gap. The timing confuses me, when you went where. I’ve texted Dog Collar Graham.
To: LRS_17@outlook.com
Sun 2/4, 16:16
SUBJECT: Ridiculous
He’s alive. E went for a bike ride so I drove over to Ben’s flat. He wouldn’t open the door, shouted some words I can’t tell you. Similar, I imagine, to the words he said to Mesh.
Maybe it’s pride. He wanted to set up his own website. Do you think he’s worked out who I am, doesn’t know how to thank me, feels ashamed? God knows what Mesh told him about you.
I’m overthinking this. It’s probably a pictures thing. Some people hate having their picture taken, often it’s the best-looking ones, they can’t bear the idea of the camera catching something less than perfect.
He’ll get over it and in the meantime, the break is helpful. There’s so much planning to do for Luke’s Touch. And I’ve promised E I’ll rest more. He says I have all the signs of sleep deprivation. He read out a list from a website.
‘I’m not clumsy,’ I said.
‘What about that vase? But it’s OK, I’m not blaming you.’
‘Good, because that was Francis.’
The Francis thing needed to stop too, he said. I tried telling him my mother was having her floors done.
‘She has a million people she can ask,’ he said. ‘Why us? Now?’ It was a rare and comforting acknowledgement. He claimed Lester was having an allergic reaction to dog hair. They saw the vet yesterday, who charged him seventy quid for the diagnosis, prescribed antihistamines and said Lester would recover as soon as he had his house back.
To: LRS_17@outlook.com
Mon 3/40, 09:17
SUBJECT: Results
Sixty days. Marked with a letter about the post-mortem. A date at last. They say they’re sorry, some results went missing, but now it’s done.
There are results but I don’t have them. Won’t for another eight days. A secretary has seen them. I called her.
‘We can’t talk about it on the phone.’
‘Just tell me if you know. Did it happen for a reason?’
‘Dr Singh will be able to answer all your questions.’
Who does Dr Singh think she is?
To: LRS_17@outlook.com
Mon 3/4, 17:36
SUBJECT: No answer
No one normal sulks for this long.
After his flat, I tried his usual routes. On Biscuit’s road a woman came out in her slippers, said she’d seen me a few times.
‘Are you looking for someone?’ she asks. Her accent’s unexpected, a strong G on the end of ‘looking’, it doesn’t match her polyester blouse and joggers.
‘My friend, we’re meeting out here. You know what it’s like, if I ring the bell, it wakes the baby.’
‘You must have the wrong day. Jessica’s away until Saturday,’ she says.
Jessica, that was it. Jessica, Rob, Oliver and Biscuit.
‘Oh goodness,’ I say. ‘I remember now. Cornwall. Baby’s first holiday.’ That’s how they’d written it on the calendar. ‘Biscuit will love it down there.’
‘They didn’t take him, left him with the dog walker.’ She nods towards Ben’s road.
‘Oh, he’s with Ben, of course. I’ll drop her a text, see if she wants me to check in on him.’
‘You won’t catch him now, tends to be out until around four.’
‘Jess always said everyone knows everything on this road,’ I say. ‘Such a community feel.’
‘It’s my job, Neighbourhood Watch.’
When there’s more time, I’ll tell you about accents, class and trust.
I tried his flat again, she was wrong about four o’clock. I waited half an hour, gave up – just for today. You’re thinking I’ve let you down again, let him go, forgotten about EHFAR. I don’t expect you to understand. Your social skills don’t start developing until next week. Ben will let us back in.
To: LRS_17@outlook.com
Mon 3/4, 21:36
SUBJECT: Better this way
I have Josephine from Wednesday, for the rest of the week. It’s Easter holidays and Lola has to work. She tried reasoning with her supervisor, Vernon. No matter that she did Christmas Eve, Boxing Day and half-term. Whenever Lola talks about Vernon, she says ‘Godless, godless man.’
‘Two days off for me, and he gets five and lives alone,’ she said tonight.
When Josephine had left the kitchen, I asked, ‘What about her dad? Does he ever help in the holidays?’
‘Another godless man.’ She laughs. ‘He wouldn’t even know her. Left when she was tiny.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.
‘Better this way. Tea?’
I feel bad for feeling good. Of course I want her to have a dad, a nice one, even if he would be competition.
The Easter plan is perfect for us. Almost nine weeks. Your chart says it’s a good time to arrange playdates, and there’s the nagging about ‘Mum needs to socialise too’. We’ll go to the Science Museum.
To: LRS_17@outlook.com
Tues 4/4, 17:04
SUBJECT: Of all the places
E is wrong about sleep. I’m like those ultra-marathon runners you read about, my body is feeding off the emptiness. And I had to do it today, I have Josephine from tomorrow.
Ben clearly wanted me to think he’d fled somewhere, his sister’s maybe, but thanks to our sleuthing with the Neighbourhood Watch lady, I knew better. And the lights were on when I drove past last night.
I took the train early this morning, composed Ben’s daily text message en route (sometimes the best days of your life are happening right now) and got into position by the bins down the side of his building. I’d taken precautions in case he looked out of his window. This sounds a bit extreme, but a) it’s actually perfectly normal, and b) I am telling you, so you’ll understand the lengths I’ll go to for you.
I still have the wig my mother wore during chemo. She wanted to throw it away, but I took it, because you never know. (You can apply EHFAR to most things, if you think about it.) With a beanie, it looks like my real hair. Darker suits me.
Lola and her sisters change their hair all the time. Wigs, weaves, extensions. You give up a Saturday, get a new you.
It was our first proper spring day, I wore my largest sunglasses. I played with my bouncy new hair as I waited and, for the benefit of passers-by, I kept my phone to my ear.
At 10.47, Ben came out, eating a banana, Biscuit pulling on the lead. When he turned a corner, I followed. I made my steps small, hung back, picked up his banana skin.
At Biscuit’s house, Ben let himself in and stayed inside longer than he needed to. He was stuffing something into his pocket as he re-emerged with Biscuit and then they turned the wrong way, away from the park. Biscuit put up no resistance.
They stopped at another Victorian terrace and came out with a dark cockapoo I’ve never met.
Ben talked to them, something like, ‘I know it’s more fun with Rachel Wachel. But Benny Wen is too proud to say sorry wo-rry.’ They walked further from the park. Ben kept his head pointed down. The sunniest day of the year and he was staring at tarmac and dogs’ bottoms. We passed under a railway line and the dogs tugged Ben onwards. Then I saw it. He should have called me, I should have made him talk to me. He’s going to try again. He’s been walking the dogs in a cemetery.
To: LRS_17@outlook.com
Wed 5/4, 22:03
SUBJECT: Bat-shaped
Do you know how I imagined life with you? Like this: sprawled out on the bed, head swirling from so many things that you don’t know what to think when. Cheeks prickling from the sun and fresh air. Feet hurting. I’m hungry but still full, sick from sugar and chips. A proper school-holidays day, a trip. When we did them – Broadstairs for sand, Southend for the two-pence machines – your grandma would let me sleep in her bed when we got home. ‘Keep the day going,’ she’d say.
I’ll try and put it in order for you. First thing you should know is we needn’t have worried about Ben. Second thing is that’s all it was, a trip away, the ordinary hasn’t changed: you and me apart. Look at how it started.
I got up early to make cookie dough before collecting Josephine. E was messing about with his fresh mint tea and blocking the sink. (I know I go on about it, but diets are dangerous. George Osborne did the five-two, his chum David Cameron gave up bread, and next thing you know they’re holding the referendum.)
E was reading my recipe. ‘You know I can’t have those during the week.’
