The Secrets She Keeps, page 9
Mr. Bowler stood and announced himself unsatisfied.
“I am an esteemed elder of this church and Sister Agatha has grievously wronged me. She is a false accuser who has had sexual relations outside of marriage with a worldly boy. She is unrepentant. I demand an apology and ask for Sister Agatha to be disfellowshipped.”
I heard the intake of breath and felt my mother’s body stiffen at the word. I knew what it meant. I had seen other Jehovah’s Witnesses thrown out for much lesser crimes than being a “false accuser.”
“Will you apologize to Brother Bowler?” asked Brother Wendell.
I shook my head.
“Will you repent?”
“No.”
My mother clutched my arm. “Do as they say, Agatha. Tell him you’re sorry.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I’ll go to the police.”
“Then you will be condemned by God,” rumbled Brother Wendell. “And you will be lost to Satan forever.”
My stepfather put his hand on my shoulder. I could feel his fingers digging into the flesh on either side of my collarbone.
“Tell the man you’re sorry, Agatha.”
The pain shot down my arm and my fingers tingled.
“No.”
The judicial committee glanced at one another and nodded. The hearing was over. A week later I received a letter with my name, date of birth, and congregation number. It didn’t specify the precise offense but the meaning was clear. I had been ostracized from the church. I could no longer participate in Bible studies or group prayer or freely associate with other members. As a minor, I could remain living under the same roof as my parents, who would take care of my physical needs, but nothing more. My mother could not comfort me if I was crying, or offer guidance or emotional support.
My stepfather said to me, “I love you, Agatha, and I’ll be waiting for you on the day you come back. I will welcome you with open arms and I will say, just as the father said of his prodigal son, ‘This daughter of mine was dead, but now has returned to life. She was lost, but now is found.’ But until that day you are alone because you have chosen to turn your back on God.”
MEGHAN
* * *
Jack has taken the day off work because he thinks he’s coming down with something. He’s saying the flu, but I’m calling it a cold until proven otherwise. All morning I’ve been up and down the stairs.
“Megs?” he bawls from his sickbed.
“What is it?”
“Sorry to be a bother.”
“You’re not a bother.”
“Can I have a cup of tea?”
“I’ll put the kettle on.”
I retrace my steps, making him tea and adding a few biscuits, anticipating his next request.
“What are you doing?” he asks when I bring it upstairs.
“Vacuuming.”
“Have you seen the newspaper?”
“It didn’t get delivered.”
“You couldn’t pick one up for me, could you?”
“Sure.”
“And some throat lozenges—the lemon ones with cough suppressant, not the cherry-flavored ones that taste like medicine.”
“It is medicine.”
“You know what I mean. And can I have some soup for lunch?”
“What sort of soup?”
“Pea and ham . . . with croutons.”
Who was your slave yesterday?
The wind has an Arctic bite today, tugging at my coattails and sending fallen leaves skittering across the grass on Barnes Green. I pick up Lachlan from preschool because he does half days on Tuesdays. He runs ahead of me, his mittens dangling from the sleeves of his jacket and his sneakers lighting up at the heels with every stride.
The supermarket doors slide open and Lachlan stops to look at the coloring books at the far end of the aisle. I study the different cough medicines and lozenges. An employee wearing a brown smock appears at the end of the aisle. I talked to her a few weeks ago. She’s pregnant. I look at her name badge.
“Do you know anything about cough suppressants?”
Agatha glances at me nervously and looks away. “Is it for you?”
“No, my husband.”
“Does he have a temperature?”
“To be honest, I don’t think it’s that bad.”
Agatha moves products aside, looking at the back of the shelf.
“He wants the lemon flavor,” I say. “When are you due? You did tell me, but I’ve forgotten.”
“Early December.”
“We’re both having Sagittarians. Should we be worried?”
“I don’t know much about Sagittarians,” says Agatha.
“They’ve very strong-willed, highly sexed, and virile, according to my husband.”
“Let me guess, he’s a Sagittarian?”
“Exactly.”
We both laugh. She has a pretty smile.
“What does your husband do?” Agatha asks.
“He’s a TV journalist.”
“Would I know him?”
“Not unless you follow sports—he works for one of the satellite channels.”
The manager of the supermarket interrupts us. “Is everything all right?” he asks, brushing down his short mustache with two fingers.
“Perfectly fine,” I say.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
“No, I’m being helped already, thank you.”
He hesitates. I match his stare. He looks away and leaves.
“Is that your boss?” I ask.
“Uh-huh. He’s a creep.” Agatha covers her mouth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Every woman has had a boss like that,” I say, looking for a wedding ring.
She notices and covers her hand. “I’m engaged.”
“I didn’t mean to pry.”
“I know. My fiancé is in the navy. He’s on deployment in the Indian Ocean, but he’s going to buy me a ring when he’s in Cape Town. That’s the best place for diamonds.”
“Will he be home for the birth?”
“Not unless the navy give him the time off.”
I glance behind me, searching for Lachlan. He’s no longer looking at the coloring books. He might be reading the comics near the checkout. Excusing myself, I go in search, calling his name. I call again, louder this time. No answer.
“Don’t you hide from me, Lachlan. It’s not funny.”
I’m moving quickly, running down the aisle, yelling for him, suddenly aware of a sinkhole that has opened in my stomach.
Agatha helps me search. We spy each other at the different ends of the aisles as we cover the width of the supermarket. Lachlan isn’t here. Running back to the main doors, I ask shoppers if they’ve seen a little boy. The manager suggests I calm down because I’m upsetting the customers. The girl at the checkout looks frightened of me.
“Did you see him leave?”
She shakes her head.
“Oh my God. LACHLAN! LACHLAN!”
On the pavement I look in both directions along the road and into the park. I’m trembling. Dizzy. A man walks past.
“Have you seen a little boy? He’s about yea high, with blond hair. He’s wearing a blue parka. His shoes light up.”
The man shakes his head. Unwittingly, I’ve grabbed hold of his arm, squeezing it tightly. He pulls free and hustles away.
A bus has stopped across the road. The doors open. What if Lachlan gets on board? He loves buses. I yell to the driver, waving my arms, crossing the street without looking. A car brakes and the horn sounds. The bus driver opens his side window.
“My little boy, did he get on?”
He shakes his head.
“Are you sure? Can you check?”
The driver walks down through the bus, peering under the seats. Meanwhile I’m scanning the park, fighting against my panic. There are two people with dogs. A frazzled-looking mother sits on a picnic blanket beside a pram. An old man shuffles along the path. The sophisticated parts of my brain are shutting down. I run, calling Lachlan’s name, my heart convinced that someone has taken him. My beautiful boy. Gone. Lachlan Shaughnessy. Aged four. With a floppy fringe of hair and perfect little white teeth and a fierce look of concentration when he plays games or makes believe he’s a knight, or a soldier, or a cowboy.
I glance across the expanse of grass towards the pond. What if Lachlan went to look at the ducks? He might have fallen in. I’m moving again, yelling his name, terrified that I’ll see his little body floating facedown in the water.
Scrabbling through drifts of dead leaves, I reach the edge. Ducks explode into flight, their wings beating at the air. Lachlan isn’t there. The turgid brown water ripples in the breeze. He could have gone back to the preschool or tried to walk home by himself. He asked for a chocolate at the supermarket but I told him to wait. He could be at the café, looking at the cakes in the window. I run back, but Lachlan isn’t at the café. Could he have gone to Lucy’s school? He’s always saying he wants to start school now rather than wait until next year. I start running again, studying every passing car and van and truck, fighting the rising panic. Names pop into my head. Missing children. Murdered children. What am I going to tell Jack? How will I explain it to Lucy? My vision is fragmented and blurred by tears. I can’t find him. I must.
My name is being called.
“Mrs. Shaughnessy!”
I twice turn full-circle before I see Agatha. She’s holding Lachlan’s hand. I run to them, scooping Lachlan into my arms, squeezing him so tightly that he complains.
“You’re hurting me, Mummy.”
Relief is like a valve being opened or a balloon deflating.
“He was in the storeroom,” explains Agatha. “I don’t know how he got in there.”
“Thank you so much,” I say, wanting to hug her as well.
Lachlan wriggles out of my arms. “Why is you crying, Mummy?”
“Never run away like that again,” I tell him.
“I didn’t run away. The door shut.”
“What door?”
“It must have locked behind him,” says Agatha.
“Well, you shouldn’t have wandered off,” I say to Lachlan. “I was frightened. I thought I’d lost you.”
“I’m not lost. I’m here.”
I’ve left my shopping at the supermarket. Lachlan takes hold of Agatha’s hand as well as mine, swinging between us. Now that the fear has gone I feel exhausted and ready to curl up and sleep.
Agatha helps me pack my groceries and we chat about pregnancy and the responsibility of raising children. At first glance I thought she was younger than me, but now I see we’re about the same age. She is a little on the plump side—a size fourteen to my twelve, with gray-blue eyes and a nervous smile. I like her quaint northern accent and that she doesn’t have any airs and graces—not like some women around here, who can be quite cliquey and standoffish. She makes fun of herself. She laughs. She makes me feel better.
I should invite Agatha along to my mothers’ group. She’d be like a breath of fresh air. But in the same heartbeat I consider how snobbish my friends can be. Most of them went to private schools and on to university and speak in identical tones. They are socially confident, attractive, and capable of passing muster at any country house weekend or garden party. Could Agatha do the same? How would I introduce her?
“We should have coffee one day,” I suggest, meaning it.
“Really?”
“What’s your number?” I take out my mobile. “I’m Meghan, by the way. You can call me Meg.”
“And I’m Agatha.”
“I know.” I point to her badge. “We spoke a few weeks ago—you warned me about the wet floor.”
She looks surprised. “You remember?”
“Of course, why?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
AGATHA
* * *
“Tours are usually arranged by a midwife,” says the maternity nurse, who is dressed in dark blue trousers and a navy blouse with white piping around the collar. Barely five feet tall, she looks Italian, with thick eyebrows that almost join above her nose.
“When are you due?” she asks.
“Early December.”
“You’ve left it very late.”
“I have other options,” I say, brushing my hands over my belly. “My sister had a home birth and swears by them.”
“It can be a very positive experience if you’re healthy with no complications,” she says, leading me along the corridor in her sensible rubber-soled shoes. “Is this your first?”
“Yes.”
I make a note of how she’s secured her ponytail with a simple black hairband and the small watch pinned to her breast pocket. A cheap ballpoint pen is tucked behind her right ear.
“If we can’t accommodate you, I can recommend some community and hospital clinics. Will you be going private?”
“Possibly.”
“Who is your obstetrician?”
“Dr. Phillips.”
She stops at a door and glances through a small glass viewing window. “I might not be able to show you all the birthing suites. Some of them are occupied. You can take a virtual tour on our website.”
The corridors are white and clean and bright. Pastel-colored. Calming. We pass a woman wearing slippers and a hospital gown being supported by her husband.
“We deliver five thousand babies a year at the Churchill. Visiting hours are at set times for friends and family, but partners can come and go,” says the nurse, who shows me a delivery suite with a water-birthing pool.
“This is the postnatal ward. We have a limited number of private rooms, but it’s first in, best dressed.”
The tour finishes at the reception desk, where I’m given a self-referral form. “Your doctor can also submit an application,” she says, “but don’t leave it too long.”
I thank her and take a seat in the patient lounge, looking over the form as I watch the passing parade of expectant mothers and nervous fathers emerging from the lifts. Others are going home—the babies in infant car seats or carriers; the mothers holding bunches of flowers and soft toys.
When I’m ready to leave, I follow the exit signs, making a note of the corridors and stairwells. People nod and smile as they pass because pregnant women are cute and glowing and we waddle like penguins. What isn’t there to like!
* * *
There’s a note under my door when I get home: Come upstairs!
I knock on Jules’s door. She answers, swinging it open with a flourish. I see Hayden’s mother standing behind her in a tweed twinset, beaming like she’s won the lottery.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says, giving me a hug. She smells exactly like her house—fabric softener and lemon cake. I have to stop myself stiffening in her arms.
“How did you know where I live?” I ask nervously.
“Hayden told me. Have you spoken to him?”
“Not since Saturday.”
“He has big news.”
She breaks the clinch. Jules must know already because she’s grinning at me like a court jester. I look from face to face, wondering if I’m supposed to guess.
“Hayden is coming home for the birth,” Mrs. Cole announces.
I stare at her openmouthed.
“He spoke to the family liaison department and explained the situation. The navy don’t normally allow personnel to interrupt a tour of duty, but they gave him permission. Isn’t that wonderful?”
My legs wobble. Jules takes hold of my arm and makes me sit.
“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry,” says Mrs. Cole. “It’s the shock. I should have realized.”
“When?” I ask.
“Pardon?”
“When is he coming home?”
“He docks in Cape Town two weeks from today. Then he’ll catch a flight to Heathrow and should be home just in time.”
My stomach lurches and I taste vomit in my mouth before swallowing hard. Jules suggests a cup of tea and goes to put the kettle on. Her little boy, Leo, is watching TV with the sound turned down, occasionally looking at us as though we’re invading his territory.
“Hayden is over the moon,” says Mrs. Cole, all fluttering hands and smiles. “I know it took him a while to come around but he’s fully on board. He wants to be with you, if that’s OK.”
I feel like Alice in Wonderland sliding down the rabbit hole, trying to stop myself falling into a parallel world.
“He can’t,” I say.
Mrs. Cole stops in midsentence. Jules looks from the teapot. They’re waiting for me to explain.
“I mean, he’s doing important work . . . catching pirates. What if the pirates seize another ship? I saw that movie—you know—the one with Tom Hanks where the captain was taken hostage.”
Mrs. Cole laughs. “They can stop pirates without Hayden.” She points to her shopping bags. “I’ve brought you a few things. We’ll look at them later.” I don’t want there to be a later. “I hope you don’t mind me coming over. I didn’t know Hayden had proposed.”
“Who told you?”
“Your friend Julie—she’s so lovely. It’s nice that you have each other.”
“Each other?”
“Being pregnant together.”
I nod, still trying to come to terms with her news.
Jules carries a tray to the sitting room. She hands me a mug of tea. “Two sugars.” I sip and take a deep breath. I must stop this. I can’t have Hayden coming home for the birth.
“Are you sure it’s OK? I don’t want to put the navy to any trouble.”
“It’s perfectly fine.”
“My mother is going to be with me.”
“I understand,” says Mrs. Cole. “But now you have two birth partners. I don’t expect Hayden will be much use, but I’ve never seen him so excited about anything.”
She doesn’t understand. I can’t explain. I want to be Hayden’s wife and I want him to take care of me. A month from now he can sail into Portsmouth like a Viking warrior home from sacking cities, but not now, not yet.
“Are you all right, Aggy?” asks Jules. “You look very pale.”
