Nick refused to go to bed until I did and now, at 2 a.m., we slide under cold silk sheets but, instead of spooning Nick, linking my legs through his, warming my feet on his skin, as I usually would, I lie staring at the ceiling, waiting for Nick’s light breathing to rasp light snores. He is finally asleep. I ease myself out of bed, conscious of the shift of the mattress, and slip my feet into the fleecy slippers with penguin faces on Clare had bought me for Christmas. Silently, I pad downstairs for a bottle of wine, which I carry, with a glass, into the nursery. The orange glow of the night light I always leave plugged in should make it warm and inviting, but it feels as cold and as empty as I do inside.
Twisting the clunky dial of the mobile, it jerks into life. ‘Twinkle, twinkle little star.’ But outside the window the sky is as black as my heart.
Another baby. How can I have lost another baby? This one didn’t even have a name, but that doesn’t make it any less real. Any less loved. I sink into the rocking chair and flex my toes against the carpet, rocking back and forth, back and forth. How much loss can one person take? Self-pity tightens its fingers around me and threads its way through my thoughts.
I’m not religious but, at times like these, I wonder whether God is real. Whether he is punishing me for the person I was, not seeing the person I am now. I wonder whether I deserve this but not once do I ever think about giving up. I hold the rabbit in my lap. Run my fingers across his ears, listening to the crinkle, and I know.
I don’t quite know how but I know that I’m going to get a baby, even if it kills me.
I must have fallen asleep. The rising sun slicing through the window, casting stripes on the carpet through the bars of the cot, nudges me awake. I’m still rocking back and forth, and my calf muscles are aching but at least physically I am feeling something different from the numbness inside. Outside the storm is dying down, the rain a gentle patter against the window, the wind calmer now. The creak of our fence has subsided to a whisper as it gently sways. Reaching into the pocket of my dressing gown I pull out my phone. No missed calls. No messages. My thumb hovers over the ‘contact’ icon. Before I can dial Lisa, I wonder whether I should go and see her face-to-face. The thought fills me with dread. I have to decide whether my reluctance to go back to that place is greater than my desire to see her.
It isn’t.
Although I had sworn never to go there again, I’m going to Farncaster. As I stand, my legs are jelly and I tell myself it’s just because I’ve been in one position all night, but I know it’s more than that. I’m scared.
Sleet gusts through the crack in the car window, dampening my fringe, but I daren’t shut it: I’m relying on the freezing fume-filled air to keep me awake. I am anxious-hot anyway. Wet conditions are the worst conditions of all for driving. As I sit in traffic, engine thrumming, windscreen wipers swishing, a car crawls past, indicator flashing right, there is a heaviness in my chest as I notice the sunshine yellow ‘Baby on Board’ sign proudly displayed in the rear window.
My mobile buzzes and I glance at the screen, hoping it’s Lisa, but it’s Nick. He must have woken and read my scribbled note on his bedside cabinet telling him I’ll be back in a couple of days. I only hope that’s true.
It seems a long drive, although it’s only an hour. I have stopped once for coffee, sipping the scalding liquid, welcoming the caffeine hit before I carry on. The slip road ahead tells me Farncaster is only ten miles away. I indicate left and as I twist the steering wheel my empty Starbucks cup rolls about in the passenger footwell. Ten years. It’s been nearly ten years since I was last here, and my jaw locks as memories flit through my mind like stills from a film: the darkness, the sense of being trapped, the screaming, the pain. The terror I once felt floods back, pressing down on me, snatching my breath, and once more I have the feeling of being suffocated. The ‘Farncaster’ sign looms towards me, acting as a force field almost; my foot squeezes the brake and I screech to a halt. Somewhere to my right a horn blasts but everything is swimming in and out of focus, except my memories, which are clear and sharp. But it isn’t the person I was then that is feeling so terrified, it’s the person I am now.
‘I know what it’s like to feel loss,’ Nick had said. If I cross into Farncaster, the place where I so very nearly died, the place I promised never to return to, is he going to lose me too? My fingers scratch against my throat as though trying to dislodge the hands that I can still sometimes feel there.
18
Then
Nick kicked the scrunched up Coke can to Richard. It clattered as it skittered across the pavement. Richard deftly toed it back but Nick was hunched forward, hands pressed against a stitch in his side, gasping.
‘They think it’s all over, it is now!’ Richard covered his head with his T-shirt and ran up the road, arms stretched high, chanting ‘champion, champion’, only stopping when he collided with the postbox. Nick couldn’t help laughing as Richard crumpled to the ground.
‘Serves you right.’ Nick stood over his friend, offered his hand and pulled him to his feet. ‘I don’t know how you can run after that huge dinner. Your mum is an amazing cook.’
‘Yours can’t be that bad?’
‘She is,’ Nick said; as he spoke the lie, guilt seemed to increase the pain in his side. But it seemed easier to let Richard believe he never asked him to tea as his mum was a rubbish cook; rather that than telling him they couldn’t afford the extra ingredients for guests. Besides which, there was no way he’d invite his friend into a lounge that reeked of stale lager and rotting dreams. He blanched at the image of Richard perched on the edge of the threadbare armchair, avoiding the spring poking through the seat.
Nick checked his watch, holding his wrist close to his eyes so he could see past the crack in the screen. ‘I’d better go. See you at school tomorrow.’
‘Not if I see you first, loser.’ Richard slapped him on the back and jogged past him. If anyone else had called Nick a loser he’d have been upset, but not Richard. On the first day of school, Sammy Whilton had laughed at Nick’s sandwiches wrapped in a plastic Tesco bag. Everyone else had swanky lunch boxes. Richard had stuck up for him, and at playtime he had sat on a bench in the playground, watching, as Nick raced around with a football, never once losing control. The next day, Richard had brought in a Power Rangers lunch box – ‘it’s old’ he had shrugged – but it looked new. In return Richard asked Nick to teach him to play football; his family weren’t big on sport. Nick had spent many hours in his small backyard, avoiding his dad, learning to dribble, shoot, head the ball. As he passed on what he had learned, he knew he and Richard would be friends for life.
Now, they were twelve and had just started secondary and were still as close as ever.
Nick jabbed his key into the lock and pushed open the front door. On the mat were his mum’s shoes – as frayed and tired looking as she was.
‘Mum?’ She should be at work.
‘In here, love.’ There was a forced brightness in her tone, and the first thought that sprang into Nick’s head was ‘what has Dad done now?’ Stepping into the lounge he saw his parents sitting together, and his hands furled into fists behind his back but then he noticed something he hadn’t seen for years and he wasn’t sure if he felt relieved or repulsed.
His mum and dad were holding hands. And this was more frightening than the usual shouting. Nick began to shake. He knew whatever his mum was about to tell him it would be bad. Very bad.
‘Do you think Mum will be okay?’ Nick and his father stood side by side scraping potatoes with blunt knives. Neither of them could work the peeler; Nick’s knuckles were bleeding from trying. He couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted reassurance from his dad and, for a moment, it had drawn them close together. Fear slithered into the darkest corners of his mind. Cancer. How can such a small word be the disease that was destroying his mum from the inside out?