The Secrets She Keeps, page 13
“Is he a fisherman?”
“In the Royal Navy.”
“Ah, a sailor.”
“Why do you say it like that?”
“You know what they say about sailors?”
“What?”
“There was this one sailor who was away six months at sea. When he finally reached port he visited a brothel, put down two hundred quid, and said, ‘Give me your ugliest woman and a grilled cheese sandwich.’ The brothel madam replied, ‘Sir, for that sort of money you could have our prettiest girl and a three-course meal.’ The sailor said, ‘Listen, lady, I’m not horny—I’m homesick.”’
Jack snorts with laughter.
“That’s terrible,” I say.
“The best ones are.” He pecks me on the lips. “I thought I might invite Simon back for dinner. Gina’s away so he’s looking after himself.”
I feel something shift inside me as though a tremor has set off an alarm that jangles in my ears.
“Did he invite himself?” I ask, struggling to hear my words above the internal noise.
“No, but he’s always asking about you.”
“Me?”
“About your pregnancy—maybe he’s angling to be godfather again. Can he do that?”
I don’t answer. Jack is almost at the front door.
“We’re only having leftovers. You should eat at the club,” I say.
“Nonsense. Simon wants to see you. We’ll order takeaway. Whatever happened between you two has to be sorted out.”
I say nothing. The front door closes. My heart beats like a blown tire. I told Simon he wasn’t welcome. Why is he doing this? Opening the fridge, I spy a half-drunk bottle of white wine. I contemplate pouring myself a glass—a huge one. I want to get drunk. I want to leave home. Mostly I want to avoid Simon.
For the next two hours I am on edge. I snap at Lachlan for spilling a drink and make Lucy cry when I’m brushing knots out of her hair. It’s not fair to them. It’s not fair to me.
I hear Jack and Simon arriving home. They talk more loudly when they’re with each other, like people who shout into mobile phones. They’re not drunk, but they’re each carrying an open beer and a six-pack.
I don’t look at Simon. He tries to hug me, but I turn my face away and arch my back.
“What’s the matter?” he asks. “I had a shower.”
“Dinner won’t be long,” I say, changing the subject.
Jack begins telling me about their game, talking about his great comeback from five games down to win the deciding set. I glance at Simon and realize that he let Jack win. Others wouldn’t be able to tell, but I know him too well.
It’s put Jack in a good mood because he doesn’t win often enough—not since “I married and got fat,” he says, patting his stomach—a remark aimed more at me, because Jack is the same weight as when I met him.
Simon finishes his beer and Jack gets him another. They sit on stools at the kitchen counter, watching me dress a salad and set the table.
“You look great,” Simon says.
“Radiant,” I reply, not hiding my sarcasm.
“When are you due?”
“December the seventh,” says Jack.
Maybe I’m paranoid, but I sense Simon doing the calculations in his head, counting backwards, plotting the date of conception.
Jack is still talking. “Simon has been telling me that he wants to be a father. I told him he should get Gina pregnant, but he might want to put a ring on her finger first.”
I don’t reply. Both of them sense the tension, but Jack doesn’t understand why.
“So when did you decide you wanted a third?” asks Simon, directing the question at me.
“It wasn’t exactly planned,” says Jack.
“Weren’t you taking precautions?”
“Do you remember Heston’s fortieth?”
“In Hampshire.”
“We had a bit of morning delight and played Russian roulette.”
Again I sense Simon doing the mental arithmetic. The silence stretches out.
“So how are the kids?” he asks. “I thought I might see them.”
“Lachlan is in bed. Lucy is watching TV in our room,” I reply. I touch Jack’s shoulder. “She wants you to say good night to her.”
“I’ll do it now.”
Jack swallows the last of his beer, putting his tongue inside the bottle as though searching for the last drop.
Alone with Simon, I begin wiping worktops that are already clean. Simon picks at the label of his beer with a thumbnail.
“You can’t keep freezing me out, Megs. I’m Jack’s best friend. I’m your friend.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“We played tennis. I’m having a few beers. I’ve always been welcome in this house. You’re like my second family.”
“We’re not.”
He stands and moves towards me. I step away, keeping the island worktop between us.
“Why are you asking questions about my due date?”
“It’s what people do—they ask about each other. Imagine if I stayed away. Jack would want to know why. What do I tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re punishing me for your mistake.”
“It was our mistake.”
“Sure, I cheated on Gina, but we’re not married. So if we’re going to start assigning blame, I think I know where most of it lies.”
He’s right, of course, which is all the more infuriating.
“So for your sake—and Jack’s—I suggest you calm down and begin treating me nicely.”
I start clearing away the empty bottles. Simon moves closer. “You should worry about staying healthy and looking after that baby.”
“Why do you care?”
He smiles. “You know the answer.”
“This is not your baby.”
“Prove it.”
AGATHA
* * *
My mother has written another letter. This one has a red wine stain where she rested her glass.
Dear Agatha,
Have you been thinking about coming to Spain for Christmas? We could get a car and drive along the coast, and I could introduce you to all my new friends. They’re not all old like me—and the Spanish men are very handsome. The yacht club has a lifeguard who you’ll be “drowning” to meet.
If you don’t want to see me, I’ll understand. I’ve always depended upon strangers in life, so it shouldn’t be any different now that my time is running out.
My mother loves playing the death card on me but she’s healthy as an ox, and she’s not going to guilt me into being the dutiful daughter. When my stepfather died, she tried to “reconnect”—that’s the word she used, making it sound like one of us had accidently kicked a plug out of the wall.
I continue reading.
I forgot to tell you before now, but Mr. Bowler passed away recently. I know that you had your differences, but I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive him—just as I pray that you’ll forgive me.
She has included a torn newspaper clipping from the Yorkshire Evening Post.
BOWLER Charles Stewart
Passed away peacefully on 18 October in St. Anne’s Hospice, aged 68. Mr. Bowler joyfully served as one of the Jehovah’s Witnesses along with his wife, Elizabeth, and children, Helen, Nancy, Margaret, and Bernice.
He found great joy in glorifying the word of Jehovah, our Creator, by teaching the “Good News” of the now-established heavenly kingdom to “those rightly disposed to everlasting life” (Acts 13:48; Matthew 24:14), and learning about all of God’s wonderful creations.
A service will be held on Monday, 23 October, at 11:40 a.m. at the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses, 103 Silvermere Road, Leeds.
Elizabeth requests that all guests wear bright colors, please. Family flowers only. Donations in lieu to St. Anne’s Hospice.
I picture the funeral—the coffin being lowered while his wife and children weep, wearing bright colors, celebrating a life that brought so much pain to me. I see the elders lining up to sing his praises, talking about Brother Bowler’s kindness and godliness.
My hands are shaking as I open my laptop and search for more evidence, wanting to be sure. I discover Bernie’s Facebook page and remember her giving evidence against me at the judicial committee hearing. She has posted a picture of her father, calling him “my rock and guardian.” Dozens of her friends have commented, sending their condolences. I want to add a comment calling him an evil pervert, but I’m too scared.
You’d think after more than twenty years I’d be free of Mr. Bowler, but I still wake some nights with the smell of fish and chips in my nostrils and a voice telling me to open my eyes. I keep them closed. I don’t want to see his face.
I could never explain to my therapists or social workers how society misuses words like “horror” and “monster.” For me, horror is something that infects me like a disease, and my “monster” can be conjured up by the smell of vinegar on chips.
I don’t want to be a victim, which is why I downplay what happened, telling myself that I slept with my abuser only a handful of times and that Mr. Bowler truly loved me, but I’m arguing against my own memories, detoxing details, trying to convince myself it was less awful or that I’m untouched by what happened when in reality it has poisoned everything.
I was pregnant and fifteen and my church and family had disowned me. As we drove home from Kingdom Hall that evening my mother quietly sobbed and my stepfather gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity. Later, lying in my bed, I listened to them arguing while the creature inside me whispered.
I told you not to tell. I told you not to tell.
The next morning the sun rose unexpectedly because I did not believe that any day could follow the previous one. My stepfather told me I wasn’t going to school. Instead he drove me to a large Victorian house on a quiet street on the outskirts of Newcastle. I looked at the bay windows and soot-stained walls and wondered if it might be an orphanage or a children’s home.
“What is this place?”
“It’s a clinic,” he said.
“I’m not sick.”
A group of protesters were on the opposite side of the road, holding banners and posters. One of the placards read A PERSON IS A PERSON NO MATTER HOW SMALL. They were singing a hymn: “Amazing Grace.”
“I want to keep my baby,” I said.
My stepfather spoke softly, holding my hand. “Maybe if you were older.”
“I’m nearly sixteen.”
“You’re barely fifteen. This way you’ll get to finish school and go to college and have a career. One day you’ll get married and have a family.”
“I didn’t lie to the elders.”
“I know.”
“Mr. Bowler is the father.”
“We let Jehovah decide these things.”
Two security doors had to be unlocked before we reached the reception area. My hands were shaking so much that my stepfather had to fill out the forms. A nurse came to fetch me, a smiley woman with skin so black it almost shone purple under the fluorescent lights. Her braided hair was threaded with brightly colored beads that clacked as she walked.
“I need to speak to Agatha alone,” she said to my stepfather.
He tried to argue. She told him to be quiet and sit down. I don’t think I’d ever heard any woman speak to him like that.
“Remember what we decided,” he said as the nurse led me away. She took me to an examination room with a low bed, a desk, and an ultrasound machine. I wondered if this was where it happened—the termination. Jehovah doesn’t condone abortion. Mr. Bowler taught me that in our scripture classes at Kingdom Hall, which would have seemed ironic if I weren’t so frightened.
“Hello, Agatha, my name is Janice,” said the nurse. “Why are you here today?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“I see. And why have you come here?”
“I’m too young to have a baby.”
“How old are you, Agatha?”
“Fifteen.”
“How long have you been having sex?”
“Since I was thirteen.”
“Were you raped?”
“No. I mean, it wasn’t rape. We did it, you know. We both decided.”
I glanced anxiously at the door.
“The man in the waiting room—is he your father?”
“My stepfather.”
“Is he the father of your baby?”
“No.”
Janice asked me to hop up on the bed and lie down. “I’m going to do an ultrasound to confirm the pregnancy and see how advanced it is. Then I’ll take a blood test and a medical history.”
She pulled up my blouse and smeared gel on my stomach. “I’m sorry if it’s cold.”
“That’s OK.”
“Would you like to see the fetus?”
“No.” I paused. “Thank you for asking.”
“You look about twelve weeks. Does that sound right?”
I nodded.
She wiped down my stomach with a paper towel and told me to button my blouse.
“Have you told the father?”
“Yes.”
“How old is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he your age?”
I shook my head.
“Is he much older than you?”
I didn’t answer.
“Have you considered talking to the police?”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
Again I said nothing.
Janice didn’t get angry or make me feel ashamed. She gave me a drink of apple juice in a box with a straw and held my hand, speaking in a gentle voice. I almost told her about Mr. Bowler. I almost said, Help me.
“Agatha, I need to be sure that you’re not being pressured or rushed into making this decision. It’s important that you’re sure. You’re safe here. Nobody can hurt you. Was it your decision to come here?”
“My parents want this.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know.”
“Agatha, there are rules about terminations. Unless you give me the right reasons, it cannot happen.”
“What reasons?”
“I can’t put those words in your mouth.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Have you considered giving the baby up for adoption?”
“Is that possible?”
“Yes. My advice is to talk to your parents. They might be disappointed, but I’m sure they love you and will support whatever decision you make.”
We walked in silence back to my stepfather’s car. He held the door open for me. As I passed him, he slapped me in the face. Pain washed up and down in my eyes. He raised his hand but didn’t hit me again.
* * *
I put on forty-eight pounds during the pregnancy and haven’t worn a bikini since. At school I sat by myself like a leper whose condition might be infectious. It didn’t matter that other girls were having sex—I was having a baby.
One lunch hour I arrived at the canteen to find that every girl had shoved a jumper up her blouse and was standing in the queue, backs arched and legs bowed, waddling forward to collect her tray. The boys were laughing and hooting, enjoying the spectacle. Keeping my head down, I ate my food, determined not to cry. Afterwards I walked home through flurries of snow that made me miss Elijah because he loved the snow. He was lucky to be dead, I thought, because he didn’t have to experience such cruelty.
I stopped going to school and stayed home for the last two months, watching TV and eating too much, waiting for my baby to be born. I didn’t go to meetings at Kingdom Hall and I didn’t talk to my stepfather. My mother acted as though everything were normal, ignoring my pregnancy and treating me like a child.
My water broke in the middle of the night and I was taken to a maternity hospital. My voice, strangely detached, roared and groaned and whimpered for twelve hours as my baby fought to come out and my body fought to keep it inside.
She was born at 2:24 p.m. on March 24, weighing five pounds, nine ounces. The midwife put her on my stomach while she cut the cord. Such a tiny baby, with a wrinkled, mucky face and fine wispy hair. Her eyes were closed in concentration, as though she were making a wish.
I studied every feature of her, every wrinkle, curve, hollow, and hue. The rise and fall of her chest. The curling of her fingers. The softness of her skin. Her smell, her touch, her warmth, her beauty. I imprinted her onto my brain, creating a template that is just as vivid today.
The adoptive parents were waiting outside. I had met them once for a few minutes. They were awkward and nervous, but seemed nice enough. A social worker came to my bedside. “I’m here to collect her,” she said, not making eye contact with me.
All through the pregnancy I had refused to envision this moment, forcing it out of my mind, telling myself I was doing the right thing. Now everything changed. I had created a tiny, fragile, perfect human being—someone who belonged to me, my flesh and blood, my baby, who would love me and I would love her back.
“I’m not giving her away,” I whispered.
My mother answered. “You can’t do that, Aggy.”
“Why? She’s mine.”
“You signed a paper.”
“Tear it up.”
The social worker reached for the baby.
I tightened my grip. “I’ve changed my mind. Don’t take her! She’s mine!”
“I don’t want to get physical,” the social worker said, grabbing at my wrists. I kicked at her. She cursed.
Two male orderlies held me down, peeling back my fingers and forcing my arms down, pulling my baby away. My mother hugged me. I fought against her arms. I cried. I begged.
“Please, please, give her back!”
The social worker carried my baby away, while I went on screaming. I screamed to wake the sleeping and rattle the air and lift birds from the trees. I screamed for someone—anyone—to help me, but nobody came, nobody listened. A needle slid into my arm. My brain grew foggy.
I will never forgive my mother for what she did. Mr. Bowler may have robbed me of my childhood, but my mother and stepfather stole my future. Two weeks later, I ran away from home. They brought me back. I ran away again. A series of foster homes followed.
