The Secrets She Keeps, page 6
AGATHA
* * *
The satellite image is fuzzy and breaking up, but Hayden’s voice comes through clearly. He’s dressed in blue overalls, sitting in a small room with charts and maps on the wall. Is that a beard? Ugh!
“Can you see me?” I ask, hoping he might comment on my new dress, or the effort I’ve made on my makeup.
“Yeah,” he replies, not bothering to look at the screen. “What’s this about you being pregnant?”
“Isn’t it wonderful!”
“How did it happen?”
“You must know that, silly.”
“I mean, when did you find out?”
“I knew I was late, but my periods are generally all over the shop. Then I went and peed on the stick. Want to see it? I kept it.” I wave the stick in front of the screen. “The pink line means I’m pregnant.”
“How pregnant?”
“I’m due in early December.”
“Is it mine?”
“What?”
“The baby—is it mine?”
“Of course it is—I love you.”
“I’ve been at sea for seven months.”
“I’m eight months pregnant. It happened when you were here in London. We were going at it like rabbits.”
“You said you were on the pill.”
“I also asked you to use a condom because I’d missed a few days. You said you didn’t like them.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I tried, but you wouldn’t answer my messages. I sent emails and letters. I posted Facebook messages. You didn’t answer.”
“You said nothing about a baby.”
“I wasn’t going to just blurt it out. It’s a private thing. I have the ultrasound pictures. Do you want to see them?”
Hayden takes a deep breath and sighs, staring at the ceiling as though looking for a celestial sign or hoping for heavenly intervention.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks.
“I’m not expecting you to marry me or anything daft like that.”
“Why tell me at all?”
“I thought you should know. If you don’t want anything to do with me, I’ll accept that, but this is your baby as much as mine.”
He looks at the screen and shakes his head. “I don’t want a baby.”
“Well, it’s a bit late for that now.” I stand up and turn sideways, running my hands over my tummy. “This is really happening.”
He looks away again.
“I know you think I’m springing this on you,” I say, “but I did try to tell you. I wrote almost every day, but you were angry with me and wanted a break.”
“We weren’t on a break! We broke up!”
“I did a foolish thing, going through your emails, but don’t you see— I must have been pregnant when I did that. My hormones were all over the place.”
“And that’s your excuse.”
“It’s the truth.”
Hayden pushes away from the screen. “Christ to hell, I can’t deal with this!”
“We can talk when you get home.”
“No! I want you to stay away from me.”
“What about the baby?”
“You want it—you have it!”
“Please, Hayden, don’t be cruel.”
“I didn’t sign up for this. You should have got rid of it.”
“What?”
“Had an abortion.”
“No!”
“Don’t contact me again. Understand?”
The screen goes blank. I tap the keyboard but can’t bring him back.
Refusing to cry, I tell myself that Hayden can change his mind. Right now, he thinks I’m a “battalion bike” or “base bunny” who hangs around navy barracks hoping to snare a man in uniform. He’s wrong. I love him. I’m going to show him what a great mother I can be. And before long he’ll be down on one knee, begging to marry me, and thirty years from now we’ll laugh about this and be talking about our grandkids.
* * *
Jules knocks. She’s probably been waiting outside, busting to know what Hayden said. I let her in. She looks at me hopefully, ready to commiserate.
“So? What happened? Was he excited?”
“Over the moon.”
“I told you he would be.” She laughs and dances around the room, shaking her curves.
“He asked me to marry him,” I say.
“Get away!”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t he answer your messages?”
“He said he was scared of falling in love with me.”
“That’s so sweet. So what did you tell him?”
“I said I’d have to think about it.”
“You’re a daft cow! Why didn’t you say yes?”
“He made me wait. Now I’ll make him wait.”
Jules wants to hear all the details—what I said, what he said. I have to make up the conversation, but she doesn’t question any of my explanations.
“Where is Hayden now?”
“They’re sailing to Cape Town.”
“Maybe he’ll buy you an engagement ring in South Africa. They have the best diamonds.”
“I don’t want a diamond ring.”
“Yes you do. All girls love diamonds. Is he coming home for the birth?”
“No.”
“But he should be with you.”
“That’s OK. I’m going to have the baby in Leeds.”
“You hate your mother.”
I shrug. “We’ve had our ups and downs, but I need a birth partner and she’s offering.”
“Shame I can’t do it,” says Jules, “but I have one small problem.” She points to her bump.
I give her a hug. “I could always borrow Kevin.”
“He’s useless—believe me. When will you go up north?”
“Closer to the time.”
Jules knows about my family. Not the whole story, but enough for her to understand my love/hate relationship with my mother. She says I should reach out and build bridges, but I think certain bridges are meant to burn and it’s a shame some people can’t be on them when it happens.
MEGHAN
* * *
The house is quiet. The kids are asleep. I have spent the past hour doing the ironing in front of the TV, producing a pile of neatly folded linen and a collection of sweet-smelling shirts hanging from the doorknob. I like the regimen and skill involved with ironing, which makes me feel in some small, domestic way that I am keeping the chaos at bay.
Occasionally, I glance up the stairs and listen for a cry or a summons. Lucy sleeps with the light on. She doesn’t have nightmares or fear the dark, but she likes to know where she is in the world when she wakes at night.
Jack still isn’t home. He normally calls if he’s running late. I’ve tried his mobile and his office said he left hours ago. The new show has been preying on his mind. They have a name: Shoot! but he still hasn’t heard who is going to be the host. Other presenters are being auditioned—not just anyone: Simon Kidd, the man I slept with, the one I’m desperately trying to forget. Jack and Simon have always been competitive, but that hardly matters when they’re on a tennis court or golf course or playing Trivial Pursuit. This is important. If Simon were to get the nod, I don’t know how Jack would react.
I try his mobile again. It goes straight to messages. I leave another one:
“Jack. It’s me. Where are you? I’m worried. Please call.”
I’m in bed when he arrives home. I hear the car keys hitting the side table and his shoes being kicked off. The fridge door opens. He’s getting himself a beer. A part of me wants to turn off the light and pretend to be asleep.
Instead I go downstairs. He is in the garden, sitting on Lucy’s swing, nursing the beer. I take the swing next to him, rocking back and forth in my slippers.
“Did you drive home?”
“No.” He has loosened his tie and half pulled out his shirt. “I didn’t get the job.”
“Did they give it to Simon?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“Becky Kellerman—she works on one of the lifestyle channels.”
“Does she know anything about sports?”
“She looks good on camera.”
“That’s so unfair.”
His forehead creases. “The whole show was my bloody idea. I came up with the concept, the name. I even came up with the promo line: ‘Straight from the lip.’ ”
“At least it wasn’t Simon,” I say.
“Why do you say that?”
“I know how competitive you two are.”
“What makes you think we’re competitive?”
“Nothing. Forget I said anything.”
We sit in silence for a while. I want to ask him what he’s thinking, but I’m afraid of what he might say. There was a time when we talked a lot, sharing our thoughts, but now Jack communicates more by his silences.
“I wish I could do something to help,” I say, reaching out and taking his hand. “And I know it’s no consolation, but I think you’re brilliant and they’re mad not to give you the hosting job.”
Jack turns over my hand and kisses the palm. “Do you ever worry about things?”
“Like what?”
“Money.”
“We’re not poor.”
“We’re going to need a bigger car and another bedroom.”
“This house is big enough.”
“What if three children are too many? What if we have no time for each other?”
This one catches me by surprise and my tongue suddenly feels too thick for my mouth.
“I don’t want to lose you ever,” he whispers.
“So don’t go anywhere,” I reply softly, hoping it sounds convincing.
He gives me a reproachful look. “I envy you.”
“Why?”
“You can make the best of any situation. You don’t get depressed. You don’t have doubts.”
“Everybody has doubts.”
“And you have this weird kind of honesty. You don’t hide things. You show everybody exactly who you are—and they love you back.”
I hear the catch in my voice as I change the subject. “Are you hungry?”
Jack shakes his head.
I stand and pull my dressing gown tighter around me. “I’m going to bed. Are you coming?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t stay up too late.”
Sliding under the duvet, I close my eyes but cannot sleep. Lying awake, I try to understand Jack’s sadness. I know he’s crazy about Lucy and Lachlan and I still think he’s crazy about me, but we approach life differently. Jack anticipates problems in advance and prepares for the worst, marshaling the resources to handle things. I take problems as they come, bending rather than breaking.
If Jack reacts like this to losing a job opportunity, how would he handle knowing that I slept with Simon? He can never know. Never.
AGATHA
* * *
Hayden’s parents live in Colindale, North London, in one of those postwar cottages with a pebble-dashed façade and a small front garden. Two stories. Bay window. Neat flower beds. The climbing roses are blooming late.
Mr. and Mrs. Cole know that I’m coming. I phoned ahead and Mr. Cole offered to pick me up from the station, but I said I could walk. I’m wearing one of my nicest dresses—a cute A-line from Mothercare with cap sleeves and a round neckline. It’s a little short and flouncy for meeting the parents, but I want them to see me as a future daughter-in-law, not someone auditioning for Amish life.
I find the house. Ring the bell. The door opens instantly. Mrs. Cole is beaming at me. She looks like a fifties austerity bride who sews and bakes and organizes street parties on royal occasions. Her husband is in the hallway behind her, his bald dome shining under a miniature chandelier. I didn’t picture Hayden losing his hair, which is a little worrying.
Mr. Cole works for the Royal Mail and has some fancy-sounding title but I think he sorts parcels or stamps letters. Hayden’s mum is a teacher at a deaf school and can do sign language. That’s because Hayden’s younger brother is deaf. He might also be dumb, although I don’t think people use that term anymore. Hayden’s older sister is married and living in Norfolk. I can’t remember if she has kids.
After the introductions, I’m shown into the room they call “the parlor,” where I perch on the edge of the sofa, knees together. Everything in the room seems to match, with the same floral pattern on the curtains, the cushions, and the wastepaper basket. Tea and cake are served. I’m starving, but I’m on crumb watch.
“Are you sure you won’t have a piece?” asks Mrs. Cole.
“No, thank you.”
They’ve both noticed that I’m pregnant, but I haven’t referenced the fact. Instead we talk about the weather and the train journey and how much we like lemon cake.
“I don’t know if Hayden has told you much about me,” I say when the conversation begins to falter.
“Very little,” replies Mrs. Cole, glancing at her husband.
“Well, he and I began a relationship when he was on shore leave in January. You might have wondered why he didn’t come home on many of those nights. He was staying at my place.”
They are still perched forward on their armchairs, not reacting.
What do I have to do—draw them a diagram?
I take a tissue from my coat pocket and blow my nose. “This is very difficult,” I say. “Normally I wouldn’t have bothered you, but Hayden has given me little choice. He won’t answer my emails. I talked to him a week ago and he . . . he . . .” I can’t get the words out.
Mrs. Cole puts her hand on my knee. “Are you having Hayden’s baby?”
I nod and cry even harder.
There is a beat of silence. Mr. Cole looks like he would rather be having a prostate exam than sitting in the parlor talking to me. I’m crying softly. I apologize and smear mascara across my cheeks.
Mrs. Cole sits next to me on the sofa and puts her arm around my shoulders.
“What did Hayden say?”
“He said he wants nothing to do with me, or the baby. He said I should have an abortion, but it’s too late and it’s against my religion. I have no one else to turn to. My real mum is dead.”
“Dead?”
“To me,” I blurt, catching my mistake. “She’s dead to me. We rarely speak.”
“You poor thing,” says Mrs. Cole. “More tissues, Gerald.”
He jumps to attention and turns in a complete circle before heading into the kitchen. Once the tissues are found I blow my nose again and wipe my eyes. Mrs. Cole has been asking the obvious questions about when the baby is due and whether I’ve visited a doctor. I show her the ultrasound pictures.
“Oh, look, Gerald. You can see everything. Fingers. Toes.”
“He’s very healthy,” I say.
“Are you having a boy?”
“Yes.”
Within twenty minutes we’re talking like a mother and daughter-in-law, discussing hospitals, morning sickness, and pain relief. Soon she’s bringing out the family photo albums and showing me pictures of Hayden as a baby.
“He was a big lump. Nine pounds,” she says. “I needed stitches.”
I flinch and she pats my knee. “Don’t you worry. You look like you’re built to have babies. I was a mere slip of a thing, wasn’t I, Gerald?”
Mr. Cole doesn’t answer.
She asks where I’m living and how I’m coping. I tell her about Jules and my lovely mothers’ group that meets every Friday morning for coffee opposite Barnes Green. Soon I’m looking at photographs of Hayden as a toddler and starting school and as a spotty teenager. I get the guided tour of his bedroom and a recap on how he won each of his sporting trophies.
It grows dark. Mrs. Cole insists I stay for dinner, sitting me at the head of the table. Clearly this is a big deal, their first grandchild. Hayden’s sister “hasn’t been blessed,” says Mrs. Cole, who gives me extra helpings of everything.
The deaf son, Regan, has been hiding in his bedroom all afternoon. He stares at me through dinner, signing questions to his mother, who signs back. I get the impression they’re discussing me, which is unnerving. I’ve heard that people who lose a particular sense like their sight or hearing sometimes develop heightened abilities in other areas. What if Regan can read my mind?
The plates are cleared away and we return to the parlor, where Mr. Cole lights the gas fire and sits next to me on the sofa. I think he’s warming to me, or it could be the third sherry I saw him pouring when Mrs. Cole wasn’t watching.
“Where are you planning to have the baby?” he asks.
“My mother lives in Leeds.”
“You said she was dead to you.”
“Yes, but I’m going to make things right. Today—coming here—has been a big step for me, and you’ve been so nice and welcoming that I know I can patch things up with my mum.”
“So you’ll go up north?”
“Uh-huh. I did hope that Hayden would be with me . . .”
I leave the statement hanging. Mr. Cole pats me on the knee. “You did the right thing, coming to see us. Don’t you worry about our Hayden. I’ll see he does right by you.”
I wipe away another tear. They come so easily.
“I hate the idea that he thinks I’m having this baby to make him stay, or to make him love me. It’s not like I’m asking him to marry me.”
I take Mr. Cole’s hand and hold it against my belly. “Can you feel that?”
He nods uncertainly. “Does he move a lot?”
“All the time.”
Mrs. Cole joins us with more tea and lemon cake.
“Hayden still has some growing up to do,” she says, cutting me a slice. “But he’s a good boy. I’m sure that, once I’ve had a quiet word with him, he’ll be far more understanding. In the meantime, is there anything you need, Agatha?”
I shake my head tentatively.
“Are you sure?”
“Well, I’ve been quite sick and I’ve missed a lot of shifts at work. My rent is due, and . . .”
“How much do you owe?”
