The Secrets She Keeps, page 17
Lizzie was tiny, only a few weeks old, with dark hollows under her eyes like she might have been born prematurely or “not quite cooked,” as my mother used to say. She had a small pinched face and reddish skin and skinny little limbs like a chimpanzee.
I loved Lizzie, but she didn’t take to the baby formula. She wouldn’t suck hard enough. I made bigger holes in the teats, but she swallowed too much and coughed it up again. At least she was quiet. She had the softest cry.
I let her sleep in my bed. I lay with my cheek against her small head, feeling the soft fontanelles where the plates in her skull were still forming. I woke the third night and she was burning up with fever. I sponged her down with a damp towel and gave her paracetamol and prayed to Mary, the mother of Jesus, asking her what to do.
The fever broke during the night. I fell asleep. Exhausted.
When I woke the sun was streaming through the window, painting patterns on the rug. I felt Lizzie next to me. She was pale. Peaceful. Cold. I cried and rocked her in my arms and said I was sorry. It was my fault.
I put Lizzie’s body in a heavy cotton supermarket bag and caught the bus from Bradford to Leeds. I dug her grave with my bare hands because I had forgotten to bring any tools. I collected the stones and made the small cairn. I reach out and touch it now, listening to the stillness of this sacred place, where water falls and grass grows and seasons pass and my children sleep.
“My new baby comes in two more days,” I whisper. “I’m going to try much harder this time.”
MEGHAN
* * *
An email message pings into my inbox. I look at the subject line: A Little Boy.
There are two photographs attached and a multimedia file. One image shows Agatha sitting up in bed holding her baby, looking exhausted but happy. The second shows a midwife cleaning and weighing the newborn, whose eyes are barely open.
I click on the media file and Agatha appears on-screen. She’s sitting up in bed, breast-feeding.
“Hello, everyone, this is Rory. I would love to show you his face, but he’s hungry right now. I’m exhausted, but so, so happy.”
I type a reply:
Congratulations. He’s beautiful. I want all the details. How was the labor? Did Hayden make it home? Call me when you get a chance.
AGATHA
* * *
I contemplate phoning Meg straightaway, but it’s too noisy to hear anything above the diarrheal labors of the coffee machine. Every table in the café is taken with students hunched over laptops or thumbing messages on their phones. I chose this place because of the free Wi-Fi and the anonymity it affords.
So far I’ve sent emails and photographs to old school friends and former colleagues, some that I haven’t seen in years, telling them my wonderful news. Those who live in London are being told that I’ve had the baby up north. Those who live up north are told that I gave birth in London. Few of them know each other or move in the same circles, which is why the deception can work. The only exception is Jules, in case she recognizes the photograph of Violet with the midwife.
Return emails are popping into my inbox. Congratulations. Compliments. There’s one from Abigail at the supermarket and one from Claire, my old boss at the temp agency. I contemplate sending a message to Nicky, but he’ll wonder how I managed to get pregnant after so many failures.
I leave the café and walk through Albion Street Mall. Turning left on the Headrow, I keep moving until I reach Leeds Central Library, a grand old building made of Yorkshire stone with arched windows and a marbled foyer. Stepping inside, I check the messages on my mobile phone. For the past forty-eight hours, I have kept it on silent—not wanting to be distracted. I look at the log of missed calls. Hayden arrived in London yesterday morning. I have pictured him hurrying through the airport, his duffel bag hanging off his shoulder. His parents were there to meet him. He insisted on driving straight to my flat, ringing the doorbell, wondering where I could be.
I listen to his messages. “Where are you?” he asks. “I’m at the flat but nobody is answering. Your friend upstairs says you’ve already gone to Leeds. I can catch a train. Call me.”
The second message is more strident. “Are you all right? We’re getting worried. Mum and Dad are ringing the hospitals in Leeds, but I told them you were having a home birth. Please call me as soon as you get this message.”
The next one is more desperate. “I don’t know what to do, Aggy. Mum is beside herself and wants to call the police. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll catch a train to Leeds so I’m nearby.”
It’s nice to hear his voice, even if he’s frantic and frustrated. I knew a baby would make the difference. He’s in love with me now. He’ll forgive me for this because he wants to be a father.
I send him a text message saying that nobody has to call the police or worry about me.
I’ve had the baby—a little boy called Rory—and I’m coming home soon. I’ll explain everything when I see you. Right now, I need to rest. Please let me sleep.
At midday I catch a National Express coach from Leeds to Victoria Coach Station in London, paying cash for the ticket and smiling at the CCTV camera above the driver’s head.
No longer pregnant, I’m pulling the tartan trolley and carrying a baby seat with a curved plastic handle that folds down flat. Draping a blanket over the baby seat, I rest it on the seat next to me, periodically lifting the cover to whisper soothing words.
“A boy or a girl?” asks the woman sitting opposite me.
“A boy.”
“Can I peek?”
“He’s sleeping.”
“I promise not to wake him.”
“I’d rather not,” I say.
She frowns and shrugs.
At Victoria Coach Station I catch a District line train to Acton Town and book into a cheap hotel with a VACANCIES sign flashing in the window. The receptionist brushes cigarette ash from her lap and stands on tiptoes to peer over the scarred wooden counter.
“Is there someone in there?” she asks, motioning to the covered baby carrier.
“Yes.” I smile. “Do I pay extra for him?”
“Not unless he needs his own bed.”
“No, he’ll be fine.”
She asks to see my driver’s license. I tell her I don’t have one.
“What about a passport?”
“No.”
“I need proof of identity.”
“I’ll pay cash.”
She hesitates and glances again at the baby seat. “Are you trying to hide from someone?”
“My boyfriend.”
“Did he knock you around?”
“Once too often.”
My room is on the second floor. I pass children’s toys and bicycles in the corridor, as well as a sign reading NO COOKING ALLOWED. I can smell it anyway—cardamom, cinnamon, paprika, and cloves.
Unlocking my door, I check out the window and fire escape. An information sheet says the front desk is unmanned from 7 p.m. until 6 a.m. Guests can use their room key to open the outside door. This means I can come and go without drawing attention to myself.
I have been away from London for two nights, long enough to establish an alibi and set up half my story. Hayden and my friends think I’ve had a baby. They’ve seen the photographs and footage. In the past when I’ve taken a baby it has always been a spur-of-the-moment decision, which is why I failed. This time I’ve faked a pregnancy and a birth. I cannot turn up without a baby. Either I succeed or I die of shame.
* * *
At seven o’clock I leave the hotel through the main door and head towards Gunnersbury Park, where I catch a minicab on the North Circular. The driver drops me at the Promenade in Chiswick, on the north side of the Thames. Inhaling the icy air, I cross Barnes Bridge on the pedestrian walkway, beneath a half moon that shimmers on the water. Reaching Cleveland Gardens, I keep to the far side of the street until I see Meg’s car parked in front of the house.
I don’t linger. Following a familiar path, I make my way to the railway tracks, scrambling over the collapsed fence and moving gingerly over the crushed granite and quartz, listening for trains. At the back of Meg and Jack’s house, I find my small clearing and fallen tree. Climbing onto the trunk, I pull branches aside and look across the garden.
The house is dark except for a light above the stove and another upstairs in Lucy’s bedroom. Fear balloons in my chest. What if Meg has gone into labor? What if she’s already given birth? A shadow moves behind the curtains. Someone is putting Lucy to bed, reading her a story or fetching a glass of water. It could be Meg or Jack.
I scramble onto the capped brick wall and swing my legs over, lowering myself down the other side. Letting go, I drop into the garden and immediately crouch, trying not to create a silhouette. Looking towards the kitchen, I see a pot simmering on the cooktop. There are dishes in the sink. Finger paintings on the fridge.
Moving in a crablike run, I stay close to the fence until I reach the corner of the house, where I brace my back against the wall. A dog barks. Another answers. I’m exposed here, overlooked by windows from the neighboring house. If somebody were to look outside now they would see me. I promised myself I wouldn’t take risks like this. I would follow the plan and improvise only if something went wrong.
Looking along the side of the house, I can see the sitting room, which is empty. A sleeping laptop blinks on the coffee table. It belongs to Meg. Would she take it to the hospital?
I hear voices behind me, coming from the house next door. Someone turns on a light, throwing my shadow onto the wall. I duck and scramble to the fence, knocking over something heavy that topples in slow motion. I reach out, trying to catch it. Missing. The birdbath shatters against the stone edge of the flowerbed, detonating with a sharp crack that reverberates like a gunshot.
A door slides open. The neighbors have stepped into the garden to investigate.
“It could have been a railway torpedo,” says a man. “They must be working on the line.”
“At this time of night?” a woman replies.
Crouched below the wall, I press my back against the damp bricks, trying to hide in the shadows. A window opens above my head. Meg’s head appears.
“What was it, Bryan?” she calls.
“No idea,” he replies.
Meg leans out farther, looking straight at me. “I see the problem. The birdbath has fallen over.”
Bryan peers over the adjoining wall. His fingers touch my hair. “Must have been a stray cat . . . a big one. Do you need a hand cleaning it up?” He swings his legs over the wall. I duck. His shoes narrowly miss my head.
“Jack will do it tomorrow,” says Meg.
“It’s no bother.”
“Really, Bryan, don’t worry. Thanks anyway.”
Bryan pauses for a moment. His trousered legs are dangling on either side of my head. One heel of his shoe touches my ear.
His weight shifts. His legs swing away. He drops back into his own garden.
“When are you off to the hospital?” the woman asks.
“Early tomorrow,” replies Meg.
“Good luck.”
They go back inside. Meg closes the window and draws the curtains. My heart seems to have stopped. It starts again with a rush of air into my lungs and I retch dryly, cursing my stupidity.
Recovering my breath, I retreat across the garden and squeeze my shoulders through the small door of the playhouse, where I sit on a child-sized stool with my knees against my chest. I take out my mobile and call Meg’s number. She appears in the kitchen, looking for her phone. Answering.
“Hello?”
“You sound puffed?”
“Agatha?”
“Yes.”
“I was upstairs putting the kids to bed.”
“I hope you didn’t run.”
“I’m fine. Where are you? Why are you whispering?”
“The baby is asleep.”
I’m watching Meg through the sliding glass doors. She’s leaning against the island bench, arching her back, feeling the weight of her pregnancy.
“Congratulations,” she says.
“Thank you.”
“How is the new arrival?”
“Beautiful.”
“Is he feeding well?”
“Uh-huh.”
Her back is facing me as she flicks on the kettle and opens a new box of tea bags. Meg wants to know the nitty-gritty details of my labor and the home birth. I tell her what Jules told me about Violet’s arrival and make up the rest.
“I love the name Rory,” she says. “Did Hayden make it back in time?”
“No, he arrived at Heathrow this morning.”
“Shame. Is he coming to Leeds?”
“No. Mum has no room for him here and I’ll be back in London in a day or two.”
Steam curls from the spout of the kettle. She fills a mug with boiling water, jiggles a tea bag, and adds milk. She carries her mug to the glass doors and looks into the garden. For a split second I think she’s seen me, but she’s studying her own reflection.
“You beat me by two days. I’m going into hospital tomorrow.”
Are you nervous?” I ask.
“A little.”
A train rattles past the end of the garden. I cover the handset but it’s too late.
“Are you near a train line?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“It sounds like you’re right outside.”
“No, I’m in Leeds.”
I see her yawn.
“You look tired,” I say.
She laughs. “Are you spying on me?”
“I mean you sound tired.”
“Exhausted.”
“Go to bed and get some rest. Good luck tomorrow.”
MEGHAN
* * *
To my little boy,
I’ve been awake since 4:30 a.m. You’re not due for another few hours, but I thought I’d write you a letter and tell you what life has in store for you.
I have worried about you constantly over the past forty weeks, but I know from the scans that you’re strong and healthy. A lot has happened in that time and we’ve had our ups and downs, but I want you to know that you’re joining a wonderful family.
Your father is a man I love, admire, adore, and need. He is my rock and he will be yours too. You have a wonderful sister who is going to save the world one day and a brother who hates seeing pain or suffering. You have only one set of grandparents, but they’re very active and will love you more than you will believe a person can be loved. Topping it all off, you have a very cool aunt called Grace who will try to lead you astray but that’s OK because life should be an adventure.
Now I should tell you something about me—the woman who has carried you around these past nine months. Firstly, I am not crafty, so if you’re looking for a mum who can decorate cakes, make Halloween costumes, or cut sandwiches into exciting shapes, you’re out of luck.
I can’t sing or dance, and I’m terrible at sports. No hand-eye. That’s your father’s domain. I’m also not very cool. I’m more the opposite of cool. I learned to play the oboe and was the goalie on my lacrosse team.
I know a lot of mums write lists of things they want for their children, or how they hope things will be, but I’m not one for lists. As you’ll discover soon enough, I rely a lot on guesswork, but thankfully my guesses are pretty good.
I give you these promises:
I’m going to say some things I don’t mean, raise my voice when I shouldn’t, and say no when I should say yes, but I vow that when I make a mistake I will apologize.
I promise I will be there when you want and need me and sometimes when you don’t, but that’s my job. More importantly, I promise I will love you unconditionally, forever and ever, even if you vote Tory or support Man United or forget to ring me on my birthday.
Take care, my baby boy. I’ll see you soon, OK?
Love,
Mum
P.S. If you scoot over a smidge and stop kicking me in the kidneys, I’ll buy you a puppy.
By six o’clock I’m in the shower, washing my pregnant belly for the last time. Lucy, still in her pajamas, sits on the bed as I dress, asking me questions about the baby and whether it’s going to hurt.
My parents arrive at seven o’clock and Jack and I say our good-byes, which involve kisses, hugs, more kisses, and more hugs, until I remind everyone that I’m having a baby, not emigrating to Australia.
Jack drives me to the hospital. I keep going over things in my head, thinking I should have made a list. Two kids? Check. House? Check. Meals? Check.
“We should have updated our wills,” I say, suddenly remembering.
“Now you’re being morbid,” he replies.
“If something happens—”
“Don’t worry—I’ll remarry.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
He’s laughing at me.
I can’t describe how I’m feeling. It’s almost like a fake sense of calm. At the hospital I fill out the various forms and get changed into surgical stockings and a gown with an opening at the back—surely the most unflattering garment ever designed.
As I’m wheeled along the corridor, Jack takes hold of my hand. He’s dressed in blue scrubs and wearing a surgical mask and matching cap. I can only see his eyes.
“We’re having another baby,” he says, squeezing my fingers.
“Uh-huh.”
Dr. Phillips is walking ahead of us, whistling happily. He’s a chirpy morning person, which is better, I suppose, than an OB who is cranky or caffeine-deprived.
