The Secrets She Keeps, page 10
“It’s the shock,” says Mrs. Cole. “You should lie down.”
Mrs. Cole follows me downstairs to my flat, waiting as I unlock the door. The place is a mess. I apologize.
“Nonsense. You’ve been on your own.”
She makes me sit down and put my feet up as she begins cleaning. The dishwasher is unpacked and repacked. Worktops are wiped. Bins are emptied. Out-of-date food is discarded. She asks if I have a bucket and mop.
“Please don’t clean the floor.”
“Just the kitchen.”
I watch her from the sofa.
“You should eat more fresh fruit and vegetables,” she says, commenting on the contents of the fridge. “Are you a good cook?”
“Not really.”
“I can show you how to make some of Hayden’s favorites.”
“Great.”
She tackles the bathroom next, yelling questions, asking about my family—where I’m from and where I went to school. I try to remember what I told her the last time.
“Is your mother excited about being a grandmother?”
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
“I think the label ‘granny’ rather bothers her.”
“It does tend to age a woman.”
Mrs. Cole won’t let me see what she’s brought me until the cleaning is finished. Pulling off her rubber gloves, she brushes hair from her eyes and takes a seat on the sofa, opening each bag in turn. The first has a dressing gown and nightdress. “Something to wear to the hospital,” she explains. The next bag contains a baby’s blanket, cardigans, socks, and knitted hats. “I wasn’t sure if you were going with blue for a boy so I went for neutral colors. Boys are lovely. So are girls, but it’s always nice to get a boy first up.”
Mrs. Cole finds nice things to say about my flat and asks where the baby will sleep.
“I thought I’d buy a Moses basket.”
“Good idea,” she declares. “I can take you shopping. What about a pram?” she asks.
“I’m borrowing one.”
“I could get you a new one.”
“It’s not right that you pay.”
“Of course it is. We want to help.”
Fully settled in, she continues to talk about the birth, telling me not to worry about the money. I wish she’d leave. I need to think about Hayden and what I’m going to do. I have fourteen days before he arrives home. He’ll want to see me. He’ll want proof that he’s the father.
Sometimes it’s best not to know how babies are made.
MEGHAN
* * *
Grace wants to throw me a baby shower, which I think is tacky third time around. We’re sitting in the kitchen watching Lachlan’s attempts to fly a homemade kite in the garden. He fashioned it out of a pizza box and it has less chance of getting airborne than our lawn flamingo.
“Don’t be such a spoilsport,” says Grace. “Every baby should be celebrated.”
“What if I don’t feel like a party?”
“That would make you a grouch.”
For a brief moment, perhaps craving her sympathy, I contemplate telling her about Simon, but I instantly dismiss the notion.
“No gifts,” I stipulate.
“What about baby clothes?”
“I have boxes of clothes in the attic.”
“Secondhand stuff!” She pouts. “Please don’t make him wear hand-me-downs. That’s what happened to me. I had to wear your old stuff. Secondhand school uniforms, hand-me-down shoes, tennis rackets, ski jackets . . . I remember one Christmas—I was nine—Mum and Dad bought me a pair of boots. They were the first new shoes I’d ever owned.”
I want to laugh and make some wisecrack about first-world problems, but I can see she’s being serious. Grace has always resented being the second child. She doesn’t accept that being the youngest has any benefit. Maybe she has a point. Everybody celebrates a first baby. When Lucy was born there were cards, flowers, and toys from friends, family, and colleagues. Lachlan didn’t get even half that number. And when I look through our photographs, there are far more of Lucy than Lachlan.
“You had Mum and Dad to yourself,” Grace says. “When I came along, I had half their time.”
“You had three people loving you. You had me.”
“You weren’t very nice to me. Remember that time you pushed me off a box in the garden and I broke my arm?”
“Oh my God, that was one time!”
“Very caring.”
“I signed your cast.”
“Big whoop!”
Grace knows I’m teasing her.
“If you’re so keen to have a baby shower, have your own baby,” I say.
“A husband might come in handy.”
“What about Darcy?” Her latest.
“He’s on the way out.”
“You’ve only just introduced him to the family.”
“I think that’s my problem—once my family likes a guy, I go right off him.”
“Darcy is lovely.”
“He reminds me too much of Dad.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Yes!” She pulls a face. “The whole idea of getting married and having children terrifies me. What if becoming a parent doesn’t make me grow up? It could be just a cheap disguise.”
“It’s not cheap.”
“True.”
AGATHA
* * *
My memories are ruthless with the details of my life. I cannot edit or alter or delete moments, or rewrite the endings. I see my babies—the ones I lost or gave away—and I imagine different lives and better times but cannot change what happened.
Now I have another problem. Hayden will be home in ten days. The creature is coiled around my lungs, making it hard to breathe. It is goading me—sometimes in a whisper, sometimes a shriek. I block my ears, telling it to go away.
Foolish! Foolish!
It’s not my fault.
You’ll never be a mother.
I will.
Getting out of bed, I shuffle to the wardrobe and dress in yesterday’s clothes. The first gray hint of dawn brightens the eastern sky, revealing a rainy day after a soggy night. I’m not working today. Normally I’d stay in bed, but the creature won’t let me rest.
Turning on the TV, I watch the news headlines, followed by a perky weathergirl who is paid to find rainbows on miserable mornings like this. At nine o’clock there’s a knock on the door.
“Who is it?” I ask.
“It’s me,” says Jules.
She’s dressed to go out, holding Leo’s hand.
“Have you been crying?” she asks.
“No.”
“Your eyes are red.”
“It must be hay fever.”
“At this time of year?”
She ushers Leo into the flat. He’s dressed in baggy jeans and a sweatshirt featuring Thomas the Tank Engine.
“You said you’d look after him this morning,” says Jules. “I have a doctor’s appointment. Did you forget?”
“No, it’s OK. You go.”
Leo is hiding under her baby bump, holding onto her legs. Jules hands me a bag full of coloring books, crayons, and DVDs.
“Come on, little man,” I say. “Let’s watch some cartoons.”
Jules leaves quickly before Leo can grow anxious. Sitting on the sofa, we watch TV until he grows bored. “Why don’t you draw me a picture?” I say, getting the crayons and paper. Twenty minutes later he’s running around the flat wearing a cardboard box on his head, pretending to be an astronaut. He runs into a wall. Cries. Kisses are dispensed.
“I could just eat you up,” I say.
He looks alarmed. “You can’t eat me!”
“Why not?”
“I’m a boy.”
“But boys are so yummy.” I chase him into the bedroom and catch him on the bed, blowing raspberries into his soft white tummy.
Later I get him a biscuit and he cuddles up to me on the sofa.
“Do you want some more milk?”
He nods.
I stand up and Leo points to the back of my denim skirt. “You spilled.”
I look over my shoulder and see the patch of blood. The sofa has a smaller stain. Something small and fragile breaks inside me—as though I’ve run through a single strand of spider’s web. My whole body cramps. I stare at the blood. My knees are shaking.
Stumbling to the bathroom, I take off my skirt and knickers. Standing over the sink, I scrub at the stained fabric with soap and my bare hands, lathering and rinsing. The water grows pink. My hands are sore.
I’m losing my baby!
You were never pregnant.
Shut up! Shut up!
I told you so.
I weep and pull at my hair, enjoying the pain. I rail at the unfairness, hating myself, wanting to do violence. I want to shove my fist inside myself and stop the flow of blood. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, I hiccup and sob, letting my sodden skirt drip onto my socked feet.
I hear a creak and glance up. Leo is watching me through a narrow gap in the door. I quickly grab a towel and try to cover myself, but he has pushed his way inside.
“What’s that?” he asks, pointing at my stomach.
“It’s where babies come from.”
“My mummy doesn’t have one of those.”
“Her baby is coming from somewhere else.”
I glance at the mirror and see a sad, half-naked clown wearing a ridiculous-looking silicone belly that is wrapped around my back. What a wretch I am. What a pathetic, pitiable excuse for a human being. I am a joke. I am an echo. I am a failure.
The creature is right. What is the point of a barren woman?
Leo reaches out and touches the prosthetic. “Do you have a baby in there?”
“That’s right.”
“How did he get in there?”
“God put him there.”
Leo frowns.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“My daddy put a baby in Mummy’s tummy,” says Leo. “Did he put a baby in you too?”
I shake my head, wiping my eyes. “Go back to the TV.”
“I’m thirsty.”
“I won’t be long.”
When he’s gone, I wash my thighs and take a tampon from the bathroom cabinet. I dress in fresh clothes, moving slowly, like an accident victim, testing for bruises or broken bones.
I fetch Leo a drink of milk and join him on the sofa. He puts his hand on my belly, still curious.
The boy knows.
He’s done nothing wrong.
He could tell someone.
Nobody will believe him.
Foolish girl.
Jules arrives home at midday, shaking out her umbrella. “It’s horrible out there,” she says, giving Leo a hug.
“Was everything all right at the doctor’s?”
“Fine.”
She turns to Leo. “What do you say?”
The little boy looks at me shyly. “Thank you for looking after me, Auntie Agatha.”
“Any time,” I reply.
I hear them climbing the stairs, unlocking the door, Leo running across the sitting room. Jules goes to the bathroom. The toilet flushes. The cistern refills. Water sighs and gurgles down pipes in the walls. I envy Jules, feeling her baby grow inside her, listening to the heartbeat, watching the scans.
I am not impetuous or impulsive by nature, nor am I a monster, but there are nights when I have lain awake, staring at the ceiling, contemplating how to drug my best friend and cut the baby from her womb.
I would not do it. I could not do it. But I want to do it.
I feel claustrophobic. I cannot breathe. Shrugging on my coat, I go downstairs, raising my hood against the spitting rain. My uterus cramps. My heart aches. My body is mocking me. The creature cackles.
I told you so. I told you so. I told you so.
I sing to myself, drowning out the voice, and keep walking, past the shops in the King’s Road and Sloane Square, north towards Kensington and Marble Arch. London has an ominous gravity that makes every step seem heavier, like I’m climbing to the gallows.
At an intersection I spy a line of preschoolers in matching raincoats, lined up two by two, holding hands, waiting for the lights to change. Their teacher chaperones stand in front and behind. I think of Elijah, my baby brother—my first loss.
At Kingdom Hall I learned that envy is one of the seven deadly sins, but I am guilty of it on a daily basis. I envy the good-looking, the wealthy, the happy, the successful, the connected, and the married. But more than anything else, I envy the new mothers. I follow them into shops. I watch them in parks. I gaze longingly into their prams.
My biological clock is broken and cannot be fixed. Twelve fertility clinics turned me away over the past four years. I’ve had my turn, they said. One specialist at Hammersmith Hospital told me not to give up hope. I wanted to slap him and yell, Hope? Hope doesn’t make you pregnant. Hope whispers, “One more time,” but still disappoints. “Hope is a good breakfast but a bad supper,” my grandmother used to say.
A psychotherapist said my desire for a baby was some sort of metaphor for something else missing in my life.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“The birth is metaphorical. There is something that wants to be born that is not really a baby.”
“Not a baby.”
“Yes.”
This is bullshit, I thought. A baby isn’t a metaphor. A baby is my reason for being born a woman. Why else was I given a womb and made to bleed every month? Why else do I feel so empty inside? Why else do I mourn the babies I’ve lost and the one I surrendered?
People who have children seem to regard infertility as being an outdated condition, like smallpox or the plague. They think it was cured long ago by IVF and surrogacy and that anyone settling for childlessness is weak-willed and ignoble. They’re wrong. Science offers no safety net. Only one in four fertility treatments results in a live birth, and once a woman reaches thirty-five the odds get even worse.
I have blown those odds. I have tricked boyfriends, fucked strangers, stolen sperm, and undergone five rounds of IVF, but still my womb refuses to grow a mini-me. I have advertised for donor eggs, investigated adoption, and given up on international surrogacy because I could never afford the fees being asked by brokers, lawyers, and surrogates.
I have tried to avoid baby showers, children’s birthday parties, playgrounds, and school gates. It’s not that seeing babies and children makes me unhappy. I love watching them. What makes me sad is listening to mothers sitting around, swapping stories, complaining about their sleepless nights, or teething troubles, or the expenses, or the germs, or the tantrums. How dare they complain? They are blessed. Chosen. Lucky.
My desire for a child is like a missing piece that cannot be substituted or replaced. It hurts, this hollow feeling, this empty womb; this baby-sized hole inside me. I feel it when I glimpse a baby, or read a magazine, or watch TV. I want a happy marriage, a house, and a dog, but I will forgo all of these for the chance to have and hold a child, to love, to cherish, to own, to raise, to belong.
It’s midafternoon and the light is already fading. Somehow I have reached the river near Westminster with no recollection of what roads I took or what corners I turned. Big Ben strikes the hour. Sitting on a painted wooden bench with a cast-iron base, I can smell the dampness on me. Light rain is still falling. A church bell rings. A bus passes. A jackhammer shudders. Gulls wheel above my head. London has no time for silence. It does not reflect upon its past.
A barge passes me slowly, edging forward against the tide. A schoolboy stops and asks if I have a light. A soggy cigarette clings to his lips. He leaves. I stand. Numb with cold, I walk forward and peer at the river, frothing and boiling around the pylons. The world is enormous and I am a tiny unmemorable speck within it, easily lost, quickly forgotten.
The creature uncoils inside me.
You could jump.
I’d probably fail.
You could slip beneath the surface and disappear.
My prosthetic would keep me afloat like a lifejacket. I would bob along until someone pulled me out.
You could take it off.
Confusion creeps over me. I brace my hands against the stonework and lean over and out, rising onto my toes. I stare at the swirling water, wondering how cold it would be. At that moment a Labrador puts its paws on the wall next to me, standing on its hind legs to peer at the same water. Wagging its tail and trembling with joy, it turns to me excitedly, as though asking me what I’m looking at.
“Hello,” I say. “Where did you come from?”
“I’m so sorry,” says a voice. An elderly man shuffles into view. He’s carrying a dog leash and puffing. “She got away from me. Get down, Betty, leave the nice lady alone.”
Betty licks at my hand.
“She won’t bite,” he says. “Is everything all right?”
I don’t answer him.
“You’re upset. Can I do anything?”
“No, please just go.”
He clips the leash on Betty’s collar and turns away. He doesn’t go far. I see him speaking on his phone, looking at me. Meanwhile a seagull has settled on the wall. It’s an ugly fat thing with beady eyes and webbed feet and a hooked beak.
I stare at the evil-looking bird, aware that the old man and his dog are still watching me. A police car pulls up behind them. A constable gets out, puts on his hat and approaches me.
“Good afternoon,” he says, cheerfully. I half expect him to add, “Lovely day.”
“That bird is evil,” I say, motioning to the seagull.
“Pardon?”
“It’s staring at me.”
He looks at the seagull, not understanding.
Betty barks. “I was the one who called,” says the man. “I was worried about her.”
The officer steps nearer and puts his gloved hands on mine. “What’s your name?”
“Agatha.”
“Are you cold, Agatha?”
“Yes.”
“How about we get you a cup of tea?”
“That’s all right. I have to go home.”
“Where is home?”
I point west along the river.
