“You beat me by two days. I’m going into hospital tomorrow.”
Are you nervous?” I ask.
“A little.”
A train rattles past the end of the garden. I cover the handset but it’s too late.
“Are you near a train line?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“It sounds like you’re right outside.”
“No, I’m in Leeds.”
I see her yawn.
“You look tired,” I say.
She laughs. “Are you spying on me?”
“I mean you sound tired.”
“Exhausted.”
“Go to bed and get some rest. Good luck tomorrow.”
MEGHAN
* * *
To my little boy,
I’ve been awake since 4:30 a.m. You’re not due for another few hours, but I thought I’d write you a letter and tell you what life has in store for you.
I have worried about you constantly over the past forty weeks, but I know from the scans that you’re strong and healthy. A lot has happened in that time and we’ve had our ups and downs, but I want you to know that you’re joining a wonderful family.
Your father is a man I love, admire, adore, and need. He is my rock and he will be yours too. You have a wonderful sister who is going to save the world one day and a brother who hates seeing pain or suffering. You have only one set of grandparents, but they’re very active and will love you more than you will believe a person can be loved. Topping it all off, you have a very cool aunt called Grace who will try to lead you astray but that’s OK because life should be an adventure.
Now I should tell you something about me—the woman who has carried you around these past nine months. Firstly, I am not crafty, so if you’re looking for a mum who can decorate cakes, make Halloween costumes, or cut sandwiches into exciting shapes, you’re out of luck.
I can’t sing or dance, and I’m terrible at sports. No hand-eye. That’s your father’s domain. I’m also not very cool. I’m more the opposite of cool. I learned to play the oboe and was the goalie on my lacrosse team.
I know a lot of mums write lists of things they want for their children, or how they hope things will be, but I’m not one for lists. As you’ll discover soon enough, I rely a lot on guesswork, but thankfully my guesses are pretty good.
I give you these promises: I’m going to say some things I don’t mean, raise my voice when I shouldn’t, and say no when I should say yes, but I vow that when I make a mistake I will apologize.
I promise I will be there when you want and need me and sometimes when you don’t, but that’s my job. More importantly, I promise I will love you unconditionally, forever and ever, even if you vote Tory or support Man United or forget to ring me on my birthday.
Take care, my baby boy. I’ll see you soon, OK?
Love,
Mum
P.S. If you scoot over a smidge and stop kicking me in the kidneys, I’ll buy you a puppy.
By six o’clock I’m in the shower, washing my pregnant belly for the last time. Lucy, still in her pajamas, sits on the bed as I dress, asking me questions about the baby and whether it’s going to hurt.
My parents arrive at seven o’clock and Jack and I say our good-byes, which involve kisses, hugs, more kisses, and more hugs, until I remind everyone that I’m having a baby, not emigrating to Australia.
Jack drives me to the hospital. I keep going over things in my head, thinking I should have made a list. Two kids? Check. House? Check. Meals? Check.
“We should have updated our wills,” I say, suddenly remembering.
“Now you’re being morbid,” he replies.
“If something happens—”
“Don’t worry—I’ll remarry.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
He’s laughing at me.
I can’t describe how I’m feeling. It’s almost like a fake sense of calm. At the hospital I fill out the various forms and get changed into surgical stockings and a gown with an opening at the back—surely the most unflattering garment ever designed.
As I’m wheeled along the corridor, Jack takes hold of my hand. He’s dressed in blue scrubs and wearing a surgical mask and matching cap. I can only see his eyes.
“We’re having another baby,” he says, squeezing my fingers.
“Uh-huh.”
Dr. Phillips is walking ahead of us, whistling happily. He’s a chirpy morning person, which is better, I suppose, than an OB who is cranky or caffeine-deprived.
The theater is bright and white and filled with technology. A whiteboard identifies each member of the surgical team. The anesthesiologist asks me if I’d like him to put on some music. Jack suggests the “Hokey Pokey” and begins singing. “You put your right arm in, you put your right arm out, you put your right arm in and you shake it all about . . .”
“He’s joking,” I say.
The anesthesiologist laughs hesitantly and begins administering the drugs.
“You don’t have to stay,” I say to Jack.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“But you hate the sight of blood.”
“I have seen all my children born and I’m not missing this one.”
AGATHA
* * *
Wearing a dark wig and a shapeless overcoat, I cross the hospital foyer pulling my tartan trolley. Ahead of me, a large family carrying helium-filled balloons and flowers has summoned a lift. The doors open. I slip inside. A pink balloon bounces against my face. IT’S A GIRL! says the message.
The maternity ward is on the fourth floor. I choose the fifth: Administration. The family get off and I ascend alone, knowing that most of the management staff will have finished for the day.
The doors open and I step out, not looking for CCTV cameras. Lights flicker above my head, triggered by sensors. A phone rings in an empty office. Turning left along the corridor, I find the ladies’ toilet. Unzipping a pocket on the trolley, I pull out a yellow OUT OF ORDER sign, propping it on the carpeted floor.
After checking that the cubicles are empty, I lock the door and begin to change. Maternity support workers wear dark blue trousers and navy shirts with white piping on the sleeves and collar. My trousers are extra long to hide two-inch platform heels that will make me look taller and thinner. Leaning closer to the mirror, I pull open my upper eyelid and insert contact lenses that change the color of my irises from blue to brown. Next I adjust my wig, letting the long fringe fall across my right eye, breaking up the symmetry of my face, which will make it harder for my features to be matched by facial-recognition software.
Unzipping a small makeup bag, I use black eyeliner pencil to thicken my brows and lip liner to slenderize my lips, while adding a beauty mark low on my left cheek. Finally, I put on a pair of dark, wide-rimmed glasses, which cause me to squint slightly. Straightening up, I study myself in the mirror, amazed at how different I look. The old Agatha is gone.
The creature is unimpressed.
This isn’t going to work.
Yes, it will.
You should have stolen an identity card.
How?
You could have followed a nurse home and lifted her handbag.