“Queenie Jenkins?” the nurse from before bellowed. I patted Maggie on the knee to signify that I was about to go in, and jumped up; she didn’t stop talking.
The nurse didn’t smile back at me; instead she placed a hand gently on my shoulder and trotted me down the clinical corridor and led me back into the room that smelled like someone had spilled a bucket of bleach.
I glanced nervously at the machine with the intrusive attachment that had bothered me earlier as it hummed lowly in the corner.
“You can put your things back down there,” she said, and pointed to a chair by the door. For the second time, maybe more so this time, I wished it had been Tom there in that chair, but I didn’t have time to lament because the nurse was staring at me, so threw my bag on it.
“Can you remove your tights and your underwear and put your legs back in the stirrups? I’ll go and get the doctor.”
“Again?” I asked, throwing my head back like a surly teenager.
“Mmm. Yes, please.” She left the room. I should have worn sweatpants for this, both because I would live in them if I could, and because tights are a complete faff. Putting them on requires half dance, half contortion, and should only be done once in a day, in a private sphere. I got my phone out to text my best friend, who was probably doing something less horrifying with her afternoon.
Queenie
Darcy. They’re asking to examine me for the second time! I’ll have had this machine in me more times than Tom in the last few weeks
The doctor, a brisk woman with kind eyes that had clearly seen a lot of women’s fear, swept back into the room. She spoke very slowly, explaining that she was going to have one more check of something. I sat up.
“What are you looking for? You said the IUD was there.” She responded by snapping on a pair of latex gloves, so I lay back down.
“Okay,” she said after a pause and a prod. “I’ve asked another doctor for a second opinion. And having had another look, it’s just that—well, is there any chance you were pregnant, Queenie?” I sat up again; my stomach muscles would be shocked into thinking that I was exercising at this rate.
“I’m sorry, what do you mean?”
“Well,” the doctor said, peering at the ultrasound, “it looks like you’ve had a miscarriage.”
I lifted my hand to my mouth, forgetting that I was holding anything. My phone slipped out of my grip and onto the floor. The doctor paid no attention to my reaction and continued looking at the screen.
“Why?” I asked, desperate for her to look at me, to acknowledge that this news might have affected me in some way.
“It can happen with most forms of contraception,” she told me clinically, her eyes that I’d previously thought were kind still fixed on the screen. “Most women just don’t know about it. At least it’s done the job.”
I lay back on the examination table long after she’d left the room.
? ? ?
“Oh, you two will have beautiful children,” Tom’s grandmother said, staring at us from across the table. Joyce had cataracts, but she could still see the future, it seemed.
“Your lovely soft brown skin, Queenie, but lighter. Like a lovely milky coffee. Not too dark! And Tom’s green eyes. Your big hair, Queenie, those dark eyelashes, but Tom’s nice straight nose.” I looked around to see if anyone else at the table was shocked by what she said, but apparently it was acceptable.
“I don’t think that you can pick and choose like a facial composite, Joyce,” I said, fiddling with the pepper grinder.
“True,” Joyce said. “It’s a shame, that.”
Later on when we were in bed, I turned to Tom and put my book down. “What’s wrong with my nose?”
“What do you mean?” Tom asked, concentrating on whatever tech article he was reading on his phone.
“Your grandma. At dinner she said that our future baby should have your nice straight nose.”
“Ignore her. She’s just being old, isn’t she?” Tom said, putting his phone down on the bedside table. “Your nose is nice and squishy. It might be my favorite thing about your face.”
“Oh. Thanks, I guess,” I said, picking my book back up. “Well, let’s hope that our children don’t get any of my squashed features.”
“I said squishy, not squashed. And I’d rather our kids looked more like you than me, your face is more interesting than mine. And I love your nose, almost as much as I love you,” Tom said, booping me on the appendage in question with a finger.
He moved so that I could nuzzle into him. I did, and although I wasn’t a person who ever felt particularly safe, did, but just for a second.
“So you’ve thought about it?” I asked, looking up at him.
“Your nose? Sure, I think you’ve got a lovely nose.” He rested his chin on my forehead.
“No, our children. Future babies.”
“Yeah, I’ve got it planned out. In six years when we’ve got a house and I’ve forced you down the aisle, we’ll have children,” Tom said, smiling. “Three is the right amount.”
“Three?”
“One is selfish, two means they’ll always be competing, but when you have three they can start looking after each other as soon as the eldest is eight.”
“Okay, okay. Three coffee-colored babies. But milky, right? Just like Grandma ordered.”
? ? ?
Queenie
Tom, hello
Queenie
Are you seeing my messages?
Queenie
I’ll call when I’m on my way home
Queenie
Got to go to the chemist and get some pills
Queenie
Let me know if you need me to bring anything home
I sat in the corridor staring at my phone’s smashed screen, waiting for Tom to reply. A few minutes passed, and eventually, no reply later, I walked back toward the waiting room. I could hear Maggie talking as I made my way toward her.
“One day, years ago now, my ex-husband told me he was popping out for petrol, and do you know what? He was gone fifteen hours! When he got back, I said, ‘Terrence, where did you get the petrol, Scotland?’?” She paused for effect. “I told him to get out after that. I had a baby to look after, I had my bills to pay, I couldn’t deal with any man’s nonsense.” Maggie paused to adjust her bosom. “The day after he left I went to the doctor and I said, ‘Listen, tie my tubes in a knot, I’m not having any more!’ I’m telling you. The one I’ve got is fifteen now, all she gives me is trouble. It’s all about makeup and boys and fake eyelashes and making videos for YouTube. This isn’t what my mum came over from Jamaica for, for her granddaughter to be throwing away her education.” Maggie folded and unfolded her arms. “I go to church, and I pray, I pray for myself, I pray for my daughter, for my niece. I just have to hope He’s listening, Marina.”
How were my aunt and this stranger already on first-name terms? I hadn’t been gone that long. I threw myself down next to my aunt. Marina, sitting opposite, was nodding vigorously although Maggie had finished speaking.
“What did they say?” Maggie asked, pulling out the hand gel again.
“Nothing really! Just women’s problems, you know.” I swerved the question.
“What women’s problems?” Maggie is a first-generation Jamaican and therefore a woman entitled to information about others.
“Just women’s problems!” I said, forcing what I hoped was a convincing smile.
* * *
Maggie and I stood at the bus stop outside the hospital. She spoke about something I couldn’t quite pay attention to as I looked up at the three gigantic tower blocks looming opposite, so high up that dark clouds almost hid their tops. I kept my head tilted back, hoping that if I did it long enough the tears that were brimming in my eyes wouldn’t fall out.
“Queenie, what did the doctor say?” My aunt narrowed her eyes at me. “I don’t buy this ‘women’s problems’ rubbish. Do I have to pry it out of you?” Why did I think I’d got her off the topic earlier?
“She wanted to look at my cervix, Maggie,” I said, hoping that would get her off my case. “Something about it being narrow?”