A smile breaks over Charlotte’s face.
I worry I’ve been too honest so temper my next comment. ‘But we need to keep our fingers crossed. It’s still all very uncertain.’
Her smile fades only slightly; she breathes out. ‘You’re right. You’re right. Still, all being well, Jack said the baby could be with us in June?’
I nod. ‘That would be great but we will be preparing for the baby to arrive earlier, just in case it becomes risky for either of them. Only time will tell at this stage.’
She nods and gives me a little wave goodbye before she turns back to Cassie and I leave them, the old Cassie in the frame, angelic, smiling down at her new broken self.
I’m home just after 7 p.m. David’s running trainers are not in their usual place by the back door. He didn’t take Bob with him this time. Bob wags his tail, delighted he avoided the run, curled up and warm in his basket.
It’s cold, so I start running a bath; maybe David will hop in with me when he’s back. My body feels slow and doughy; I must be about to get my period. I take my clothes off and put on my bathrobe, look at my phone to try and figure out the dates, whether I’m due this week or next. I count the dates twice. I definitely had my last period when we went to the carol concert in Brighton, which means that, yes, it’s already a week late. Since we agreed to stop trying, I stopped logging the days until my period in my phone. I was surprised it didn’t feel like a wrench; it felt like a relief, no longer monitoring day by day every hormone fluctuation, changes in temperature. But now, now I am late, eight days late.
I know there’s still a test stored under the bathroom sink. I don’t let myself think too much. The water filling our old Victorian bathtub thunders. I rip open the packaging and leave it on the floor for now; I’ll hide it deep in the bin later. I’ve done enough of these things to ignore the instructions. I know this moment, know the sting of fear and sharp contours of anticipation. I have to focus on slowing my breath and stare at the ceiling for a few seconds before a small trickle starts to daintily fill the cistern, I move the wand into the stream and when I’m finished, I pull up my jeans and sit on the edge of the bath, feeling surprisingly calm as I wait for the letters to spell out the future.
Slowly, magically, the letters take shape and I read ‘Pregnant’ over and over again and I start laughing and I must call out because a worried little black face noses the door open and even though he knows he’s not allowed upstairs, he senses immediately my whooping was for something good, not for something bad, so his tail starts wagging and he trots towards me, his head low, knowing he’s crossed the boundary line, but sensing I won’t care. I hold his solid body and put my face in his muscly shoulder and it’s as if I feel my heart take a huge breath in, and for one brief moment I let my hope soar.
After a few seconds, Bob pulls away from me and I look back at the dates on my phone. I’m only about three weeks. This is the most dangerous time for me; I’ve never got beyond nine weeks. I think of Cassie at twelve weeks, and try and imagine my own stomach, swelling, stretching around new life. Bob lies down in the corner, his head turned away as I do another test. I’m pregnant. I have an urge to call my mum; we haven’t spoken for a while. I know she’s busy helping look after Harry and Elsa but I long to hear her sound happy for me, long to make her proud. But I’ve done that before too early; there’s nothing worse than hearing your own mum cracking inside in agony. No. It’s too early.
I turn the bath off, hide the tests in their own plastic bag and drop them into the bin. Bob follows me lazily into the office. I don’t know what to do. I feel fluid, new, shocked by joy. I wish I had someone to hug, wish I could tell someone who wouldn’t be frightened for me. I wish it could be like the first time again, David spinning me around the room, Mum laughing with happiness down the phone. For one mad moment I think about driving back to the hospital, telling Frank and Cassie.
Instead, I sit in the office chair, and Bob collapses on the floor again by my feet. I turn the computer on. I suddenly want to see photos of Cassie, feel like I know her, as if knowing her – this woman whose baby survived against all odds – will help the tiny life in me.
I usually avoid Facebook, too many photos of babies and toddlers, I was going to close my account, but now I’m pleased I haven’t. I find the search box and type ‘Cassie Jensen’ before clicking on the magnifying glass search icon. I feel a bit foolish but remind myself that my sister Claire says everyone looks at everyone on Facebook; it’s legitimate stalking.
I scroll past a few other Cassie Jensens until I stop at a photo I recognise from Charlotte’s display behind Cassie’s bed. Jack is tanned and smiling; Cassie, less familiar to me out of a hospital bed, is wearing a bright-blue sarong. She’s less brown than Jack but she looks just as happy with Jack’s arm around her shoulders, her hand touching his stomach. Her face is ablaze with sun freckles and her fair hair wavy with sea salt. I click on the ‘photos’ icon and lean in towards the screen. The most recent photos were posted by Jack, just a few days after Christmas. Judging from Cassie’s stark page, and lack of any security, Jack is a bigger Facebook user than his wife. Jack’s Christmas album has thirty-four ‘likes’; Sara Baker has commented, ‘The perfect couple!’, and Steve Langley asks, ‘Can I come next year?’ My heart fractures as I read Jack’s reply; he must have been so certain there would be more Christmases to come: ‘Cheers, Sara! Steve, mate, you can come see us any time!’
There’s a photo of Cassie holding a border terrier like a baby in her arms, and a selfie of Jack and Cassie outside in a white-dusted field, with the grumpy-looking dog between them. The caption reads, ‘Let it snow!’