When I reach a second lock I am deep in the forest, which smells of damp and ancient secrets. The ruined farmhouse is almost completely hidden by vines, apart from the brick chimney, which is darkened by moss and lichen. I’m close now.
I reach the clearing. The stone pyramids are visible in a carpet of dead leaves. The floral crowns are brittle and dry. I should have brought new flowers. I loosen my coat and crouch beside each cairn, putting my fingertips on the rocks, letting each baby know that I haven’t forgotten her. Chloe, Lizzie, and Emily.
I mourn all of them equally, the dead and the unborn and the one I gave away. Lizzie was my second baby. I was eighteen when I took her from outside a betting shop in Bradford. The father only went inside for a few minutes to place a bet on a horse running in the three thirty at Doncaster. The horse was called Baby Lizzie, which he thought was a good sign, so he put ten pounds on the nose. I know these details from the news coverage, which condemned him in the days that followed. The columnists asked, what sort of man leaves a baby outside a betting shop? The same sort of parent who leaves a five-year-old home alone, or locked in a hot car, or who feeds their entire wage into slot machines, or lets a baby lie in a filthy nappy while they’re smoking crack or shooting up. People like that don’t deserve to be parents, according to the Daily Mail.
Lizzie was tiny, only a few weeks old, with dark hollows under her eyes like she might have been born prematurely or “not quite cooked,” as my mother used to say. She had a small pinched face and reddish skin and skinny little limbs like a chimpanzee.
I loved Lizzie, but she didn’t take to the baby formula. She wouldn’t suck hard enough. I made bigger holes in the teats, but she swallowed too much and coughed it up again. At least she was quiet. She had the softest cry.
I let her sleep in my bed. I lay with my cheek against her small head, feeling the soft fontanelles where the plates in her skull were still forming. I woke the third night and she was burning up with fever. I sponged her down with a damp towel and gave her paracetamol and prayed to Mary, the mother of Jesus, asking her what to do.
The fever broke during the night. I fell asleep. Exhausted.
When I woke the sun was streaming through the window, painting patterns on the rug. I felt Lizzie next to me. She was pale. Peaceful. Cold. I cried and rocked her in my arms and said I was sorry. It was my fault.
I put Lizzie’s body in a heavy cotton supermarket bag and caught the bus from Bradford to Leeds. I dug her grave with my bare hands because I had forgotten to bring any tools. I collected the stones and made the small cairn. I reach out and touch it now, listening to the stillness of this sacred place, where water falls and grass grows and seasons pass and my children sleep.
“My new baby comes in two more days,” I whisper. “I’m going to try much harder this time.”
MEGHAN
* * *
An email message pings into my inbox. I look at the subject line: A Little Boy.
There are two photographs attached and a multimedia file. One image shows Agatha sitting up in bed holding her baby, looking exhausted but happy. The second shows a midwife cleaning and weighing the newborn, whose eyes are barely open.
I click on the media file and Agatha appears on-screen. She’s sitting up in bed, breast-feeding.
“Hello, everyone, this is Rory. I would love to show you his face, but he’s hungry right now. I’m exhausted, but so, so happy.”
I type a reply:
Congratulations. He’s beautiful. I want all the details. How was the labor? Did Hayden make it home? Call me when you get a chance.
AGATHA
* * *
I contemplate phoning Meg straightaway, but it’s too noisy to hear anything above the diarrheal labors of the coffee machine. Every table in the café is taken with students hunched over laptops or thumbing messages on their phones. I chose this place because of the free Wi-Fi and the anonymity it affords.
So far I’ve sent emails and photographs to old school friends and former colleagues, some that I haven’t seen in years, telling them my wonderful news. Those who live in London are being told that I’ve had the baby up north. Those who live up north are told that I gave birth in London. Few of them know each other or move in the same circles, which is why the deception can work. The only exception is Jules, in case she recognizes the photograph of Violet with the midwife.
Return emails are popping into my inbox. Congratulations. Compliments. There’s one from Abigail at the supermarket and one from Claire, my old boss at the temp agency. I contemplate sending a message to Nicky, but he’ll wonder how I managed to get pregnant after so many failures.
I leave the café and walk through Albion Street Mall. Turning left on the Headrow, I keep moving until I reach Leeds Central Library, a grand old building made of Yorkshire stone with arched windows and a marbled foyer. Stepping inside, I check the messages on my mobile phone. For the past forty-eight hours, I have kept it on silent—not wanting to be distracted. I look at the log of missed calls. Hayden arrived in London yesterday morning. I have pictured him hurrying through the airport, his duffel bag hanging off his shoulder. His parents were there to meet him. He insisted on driving straight to my flat, ringing the doorbell, wondering where I could be.
I listen to his messages. “Where are you?” he asks. “I’m at the flat but nobody is answering. Your friend upstairs says you’ve already gone to Leeds. I can catch a train. Call me.”
The second message is more strident. “Are you all right? We’re getting worried. Mum and Dad are ringing the hospitals in Leeds, but I told them you were having a home birth. Please call me as soon as you get this message.”
The next one is more desperate. “I don’t know what to do, Aggy. Mum is beside herself and wants to call the police. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll catch a train to Leeds so I’m nearby.”
It’s nice to hear his voice, even if he’s frantic and frustrated. I knew a baby would make the difference. He’s in love with me now. He’ll forgive me for this because he wants to be a father.
I send him a text message saying that nobody has to call the police or worry about me.
I’ve had the baby—a little boy called Rory—and I’m coming home soon. I’ll explain everything when I see you. Right now, I need to rest. Please let me sleep.
At midday I catch a National Express coach from Leeds to Victoria Coach Station in London, paying cash for the ticket and smiling at the CCTV camera above the driver’s head.
No longer pregnant, I’m pulling the tartan trolley and carrying a baby seat with a curved plastic handle that folds down flat. Draping a blanket over the baby seat, I rest it on the seat next to me, periodically lifting the cover to whisper soothing words.
“A boy or a girl?” asks the woman sitting opposite me.
“A boy.”
“Can I peek?”
“He’s sleeping.”
“I promise not to wake him.”
“I’d rather not,” I say.