“It does tend to age a woman.”
Mrs. Cole won’t let me see what she’s brought me until the cleaning is finished. Pulling off her rubber gloves, she brushes hair from her eyes and takes a seat on the sofa, opening each bag in turn. The first has a dressing gown and nightdress. “Something to wear to the hospital,” she explains. The next bag contains a baby’s blanket, cardigans, socks, and knitted hats. “I wasn’t sure if you were going with blue for a boy so I went for neutral colors. Boys are lovely. So are girls, but it’s always nice to get a boy first up.”
Mrs. Cole finds nice things to say about my flat and asks where the baby will sleep.
“I thought I’d buy a Moses basket.”
“Good idea,” she declares. “I can take you shopping. What about a pram?” she asks.
“I’m borrowing one.”
“I could get you a new one.”
“It’s not right that you pay.”
“Of course it is. We want to help.”
Fully settled in, she continues to talk about the birth, telling me not to worry about the money. I wish she’d leave. I need to think about Hayden and what I’m going to do. I have fourteen days before he arrives home. He’ll want to see me. He’ll want proof that he’s the father.
Sometimes it’s best not to know how babies are made.
MEGHAN
* * *
Grace wants to throw me a baby shower, which I think is tacky third time around. We’re sitting in the kitchen watching Lachlan’s attempts to fly a homemade kite in the garden. He fashioned it out of a pizza box and it has less chance of getting airborne than our lawn flamingo.
“Don’t be such a spoilsport,” says Grace. “Every baby should be celebrated.”
“What if I don’t feel like a party?”
“That would make you a grouch.”
For a brief moment, perhaps craving her sympathy, I contemplate telling her about Simon, but I instantly dismiss the notion.
“No gifts,” I stipulate.
“What about baby clothes?”
“I have boxes of clothes in the attic.”
“Secondhand stuff!” She pouts. “Please don’t make him wear hand-me-downs. That’s what happened to me. I had to wear your old stuff. Secondhand school uniforms, hand-me-down shoes, tennis rackets, ski jackets . . . I remember one Christmas—I was nine—Mum and Dad bought me a pair of boots. They were the first new shoes I’d ever owned.”
I want to laugh and make some wisecrack about first-world problems, but I can see she’s being serious. Grace has always resented being the second child. She doesn’t accept that being the youngest has any benefit. Maybe she has a point. Everybody celebrates a first baby. When Lucy was born there were cards, flowers, and toys from friends, family, and colleagues. Lachlan didn’t get even half that number. And when I look through our photographs, there are far more of Lucy than Lachlan.
“You had Mum and Dad to yourself,” Grace says. “When I came along, I had half their time.”
“You had three people loving you. You had me.”
“You weren’t very nice to me. Remember that time you pushed me off a box in the garden and I broke my arm?”
“Oh my God, that was one time!”
“Very caring.”
“I signed your cast.”
“Big whoop!”
Grace knows I’m teasing her.
“If you’re so keen to have a baby shower, have your own baby,” I say.
“A husband might come in handy.”
“What about Darcy?” Her latest.
“He’s on the way out.”
“You’ve only just introduced him to the family.”
“I think that’s my problem—once my family likes a guy, I go right off him.”
“Darcy is lovely.”
“He reminds me too much of Dad.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Yes!” She pulls a face. “The whole idea of getting married and having children terrifies me. What if becoming a parent doesn’t make me grow up? It could be just a cheap disguise.”
“It’s not cheap.”
“True.”
AGATHA
* * *
My memories are ruthless with the details of my life. I cannot edit or alter or delete moments, or rewrite the endings. I see my babies—the ones I lost or gave away—and I imagine different lives and better times but cannot change what happened.
Now I have another problem. Hayden will be home in ten days. The creature is coiled around my lungs, making it hard to breathe. It is goading me—sometimes in a whisper, sometimes a shriek. I block my ears, telling it to go away.
Foolish! Foolish!
It’s not my fault.
You’ll never be a mother.
I will.
Getting out of bed, I shuffle to the wardrobe and dress in yesterday’s clothes. The first gray hint of dawn brightens the eastern sky, revealing a rainy day after a soggy night. I’m not working today. Normally I’d stay in bed, but the creature won’t let me rest.
Turning on the TV, I watch the news headlines, followed by a perky weathergirl who is paid to find rainbows on miserable mornings like this. At nine o’clock there’s a knock on the door.
“Who is it?” I ask.
“It’s me,” says Jules.
She’s dressed to go out, holding Leo’s hand.
“Have you been crying?” she asks.
“No.”
“Your eyes are red.”
“It must be hay fever.”
“At this time of year?”
She ushers Leo into the flat. He’s dressed in baggy jeans and a sweatshirt featuring Thomas the Tank Engine.
“You said you’d look after him this morning,” says Jules. “I have a doctor’s appointment. Did you forget?”
“No, it’s OK. You go.”
Leo is hiding under her baby bump, holding onto her legs. Jules hands me a bag full of coloring books, crayons, and DVDs.
“Come on, little man,” I say. “Let’s watch some cartoons.”
Jules leaves quickly before Leo can grow anxious. Sitting on the sofa, we watch TV until he grows bored. “Why don’t you draw me a picture?” I say, getting the crayons and paper. Twenty minutes later he’s running around the flat wearing a cardboard box on his head, pretending to be an astronaut. He runs into a wall. Cries. Kisses are dispensed.
“I could just eat you up,” I say.
He looks alarmed. “You can’t eat me!”
“Why not?”
“I’m a boy.”
“But boys are so yummy.” I chase him into the bedroom and catch him on the bed, blowing raspberries into his soft white tummy.
Later I get him a biscuit and he cuddles up to me on the sofa.
“Do you want some more milk?”
He nods.
I stand up and Leo points to the back of my denim skirt. “You spilled.”
I look over my shoulder and see the patch of blood. The sofa has a smaller stain. Something small and fragile breaks inside me—as though I’ve run through a single strand of spider’s web. My whole body cramps. I stare at the blood. My knees are shaking.
Stumbling to the bathroom, I take off my skirt and knickers. Standing over the sink, I scrub at the stained fabric with soap and my bare hands, lathering and rinsing. The water grows pink. My hands are sore.
I’m losing my baby!
You were never pregnant.
Shut up! Shut up!