For a moment yesterday, when we were on the river and before we went to the theatre, I thought Chris was going to pull out a ring and propose. I would have said “Yes” obviously, but there’s a part of me also glad that he didn’t. I still have an unexplained nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach, which today seems to be wobblier than ever. I wish I could decipher what it means. I love Chris. I would be devastated if he ever left me. I need him to love me, which he does, so why would I not want to have a ring on my finger? It makes no sense.
Despite the heat of the day, our walk through Abney Park Cemetery is shaded from the hot sun by the tall ancient trees that shelter the path. The air was so hot and stifling inside the goldfish bowl that is our flat, it has forced us outside into sunshine.
I enjoy graveyards. Not in a macabre, or unhealthy way; it’s not like I have a fascination with the dead or have any desire to streak through the headstones in the dead of night hunting for ghosts, rather the complete opposite. I find them comforting, calming, peaceful places, especially in the bright sunshine. I enjoy reading the inscriptions on the headstones and imagining what life was like for the person or family remembered there. Who were they? What did they achieve in their life? What struggles or triumphs did they experience?
Some of the graves in Abney Park are very grand. In one corner a cluster of carved angels stand quietly guarding over their charges buried just below the surface, heads bowed, wings resting. Another impressive tomb is topped by a full-size lion carved in marble. Frank Bostock, the grave’s inscription reads.
“I suppose he had something to do with lions?” Chris offers, neither of us none-the-wiser.
“He must have an interesting story to tell, to have such a magnificent grave,” I reply.
We reach the Gothic chapel in the centre of the park. Although derelict, it’s possible to wander around the empty shell of the stone walls. Shapes of brightly coloured light dance across the flagstone floor from the partial remains of the stained glass rose window embedded into the wall above the grand gothic entrance.
“Listen,” I say to Chris, standing stock still.
“What?” he replies, “I can’t hear anything.”
“Exactly. It’s so peaceful. No sound of traffic, or the constant drone of the buses. Only the sound of birds and the breeze whistling through the trees. I love it in here. It’s only a short walk from the High Street, yet it’s like a different world.”
As if on cue a stunning Red Admiral butterfly flutters around our heads, coming to land on my shoulder. I gently pick it up, allowing it to rest on the end of my fingers, lifting it up closer to my face. Its wings appear translucent from the shards of light that shine through the stained glass, illuminating its delicate beauty. It appears in no rush to fly away, completely comfortable on the end of my fingers.
Time stands still and I’m lost in the moment.
“Butterflies carry messages, you know,” I say across to Chris, who is staring at me, a bemused expression on his face, caused, I’m not sure, by the beauty of the butterfly, or my reaction towards it.
“Yes, butterflies symbolise death or rebirth after death. Many cultures around the world believe they carry the souls of the recently departed. It was Aristotle, I believe, who gave the butterfly the name ‘psyche’, which is the Greek word for soul.”
“God, you know some off-the-wall shit, Vicky.” Chris says lightly.
“Everything in the world is connected, Chris. That I firmly believe. I don’t believe we live in isolation and I do believe every decision we take and thought we have, has consequences and sets off a vibration that attracts more of the same.”
Chris continues to stare at me, stupefied.
“I wonder whose soul is inside this little fella? And why he chose to come and see me today? What’s your message, little one?” I say directly to the Red Admiral still sitting lightly on my fingers. “I’m listening.”
Almost immediately after the words leave my lips, a soft breeze whispers through the trees, breaking the stillness of the hot muggy air inside the chapel and lifting the butterfly up off my fingers. It flaps its wings and flies away. A feeling of peace and serenity, descends softly over me. It’s as if the butterfly has momentarily connected me to a world outside myself. A universe filled with energy. I’ve not felt anything like it before and it leaves me feeling centred and strangely calm, yet strong.
Chris reaches for my hand, watching me as I take a long deep breath in and asks,
”Everything OK?”
“Absolutely,” I reply. “Let’s head back,” I say after another deep breath. Holding Chris’s hand, he leads us back through the tree lined path towards the High Street, leaving me to ponder on the meaning of the visit from the butterfly, but certain that it carries some deep significance.
The next morning, I wake, unusually, before my alarm goes off. I’m hardly conscious before realising the reason I’ve woken up so early is an overwhelming need to throw up. My wobbly tummy of the past few days seemingly becoming progressively worse. I bolt into the bathroom, one hand clamped over my mouth before I hurl on the floor.
Making it just in time and after I’ve thrown my guts up, I jump into the shower, dabbing my face with a cool wet facecloth hoping the nausea will pass, but ten minutes later I feel no better. I dress ready for work, but find myself rushing for the toilet again, the griping pain in my stomach growing rather than dissipating with each visit.
I’ve only just vacated the bathroom, when Chris pushes past me, slamming the bathroom door loudly. The sound of him vomiting violently seeping underneath the closed door. He emerges moments later, looking like hell, holding his stomach, seemingly also in pain.
“I think I’ve eaten something that hasn’t agreed with me,” he says.
“Me too. I’ve got a proper gripey tummy. I’ve had to rush to the loo more than once this morning already,” I reply. “Oh-oh, gotta go again,” I say, pushing past him as I rush towards the toilet, holding my stomach, the cramp causing me to bend double.
Not surprisingly I’m sent home from work after only an hour, to discover Chris sat on the loo, a bucket in front of him, the duvet wrapped around his shoulders, shivering uncontrollably.
“I think we’ve picked up a bug, Chris,” I say, stroking his hair as I offer him a glass of weakly diluted juice. “I think I’m still in better shape than you, as I’ve only thrown up so far. I’ve not got the trots - yet. So I’ll head down to the chemist now and buy some Lucozade, some rehydration sachets and some diarrhoea tablets before I become too weak and we’re both too ill to leave the flat.”
“Good idea,” he confirms. “Pick up some loo roll while you’re at it. Something tells me we’re going to need it!”
The next few days pass in a haze of sleep, restlessness, interspersed with bouts of violent sickness as Chris and I ride out the worst of the bug, taking care of each other as best we can. It’s five days before we’re able to leave our bed for any length of time and attempt to try and eat something, starting with dry toast. Not surprisingly the flat is a tip. Empty glasses strewn all over the place, towels left wherever they’ve been dropped and bedlinen waiting to be washed. Chris and I set to, and begin to straighten up our home.
Somewhat weakened, but once I’m able to, I return to work the following Monday and Chris invites Michelle and David to come over for dinner on Thursday evening. A dinner date that we had had to postpone from the previous week when we were both so ill.
“Time for us to re-enter the world,” he’d said when he called his sister, “and probably the last chance we’ll have to hang out, before the baby comes.”
The following Thursday, Michelle waddles through the door, her gait now radically altered by the lumbering weight of her pregnancy.
“Wow, you’re positively glowing, Mich,” I say giving her a warm hug.
“That’s one way of putting it,” she says dryly. “I, meanwhile, do not feel beautiful, or glowing, or any of the other phrases they use to describe heavily pregnant women. I just feel big and fat and with swollen puddings for hands and feet!”
“Well I still think you look beautiful,” I say warmly.
“Bud?” Chris asks David, as I take Michelle’s wrap from her, revealing the full extent of her ever-growing belly.
“Yeah, that would be great,” David replies to Chris.
“And what would you like to drink, sis?” Chris asks, whilst cracking open a couple of bottles of Budweiser, passing one to David.
“Anything cold and wet - but not alcoholic, obviously,” Michelle replies.
“We’ve got plenty of juice if you’d like.” Chris turns to me and asks, “Vicky? Wine?” while he roots through the fridge looking for a bottle of white wine.
“Actually, babes, I think I’ll join Michelle in diluted cordial - I don’t think my stomach is up to wine just yet,” I reply. “It still hasn’t settled properly since our bug last week.”
“Yes, Vicky, that was absolutely awful,” Michelle says at the mention of our recent illness, “I really felt for you guys. It sounded horrendous. Glad you’re both over it now.”
“I’ve lost seven pounds in weight,” Chris says, slapping his flat torso. “It’s called the ‘shitting through the eye of a needle diet!’”
“I flippin’ wish,” I interject, “I’ve put two pounds on - go figure,” I add, passing Michelle, who’s now sat cross-legged on the sofa with a large glass of diluted juice. She’s unconsciously scratching her belly that is straining to break free from the tight white maternity vest top she’s wearing. She looks like a beautiful, big, long haired Buddha.
“Well, if anyone’s going to win the - who’s put the most weight on competition,” she says taking a sip of her drink, “I think you’ll find I win hands down,” she says raising her hand into the air as if claiming a prize.
“Not long now, darling,” David says wrapping his arm protectively behind her.
“And then once the little sprog starts bawling, puking and filling nappies, you’d wish you could put it back,” Chris teases. “You should have come around here last week, sis - it would have been good practice.”
“I think I had plenty of practice when you were a baby, Chris-to-pher, dearest,” Michelle teases back. “I’ve wiped your arse plenty of times, changing your nappies. And I have no desire to see your bum ever again!”
“Touché, sis,” Chris raises his bottle, acknowledging his sister has won this particular battle of words.
I’ve cooked a lovely spaghetti bolognese, with salad and garlic bread for us all, but once we sit down and I dish up, my appetite vanishes. I only pick at the food, moving it strategically around my plate, hoping our guests won’t notice.
“Are you not eating?” Chris asks, having observed my lack of hunger.
“For some reason, no,” I reply, “I keep waiting for my appetite to return to normal, but my tummy still feels funny.” Chris squeezes my hand under the table in support while our guests finish eating.
“Well, thank you, Vicky. That was all absolutely delicious,” Michelle says a few hours later, throwing her wrap around her shoulders, preparing to leave, David having already headed downstairs to hail a cab.
“Pop round this weekend. I want to soak up every last minute of independence I have before this little rascal turns my world upside down,” she adds, stroking her stomach affectionately.
“That would be lovely, Mich. Shall we pop over on Sunday? I could knock up a picnic and we could head out to one of the parks and sunbathe while the boys talk shite. St James’s or Green Park maybe? Hyde Park is always so busy at this time of year,” I suggest. “I’m sure Chris wouldn’t mind driving us into town. I know you won’t be up for battling with public transport.”
“Great. See you then. Vic-tor-ia. Chris-to-pher,” she says, air kissing both of us, before Chris walks her downstairs and back into David’s arms and the waiting cab.
In bed, later that evening, Chris rolls in behind me, spooning into my back while his hands reach round to cup my breasts in the usual way he does as he falls asleep. However, instead of finding my usual small, soft and squishy mounds, his hands discover hard, heavy and very tender melons.
“God, Vicky. Your boobs feel enormous tonight,“ he says, testing the weight of them.
“I know. They’re incredibly tender,” I reply. “Be gentle with ‘the girls’ Chris please. They’re really really sore.”
“You must be due on,” Chris says matter of factly, snuggling into my neck, preparing to drift off into the land of nod.
On hearing his words my blood instantly turns ice cold. I can’t remember when I was last on or when my next period is due, but it must be soon. Images flash through my mind as I try and remember where I was and what I was doing when I had my last period. I know I’ve taken a couple of pill packets back to back, either because I was away in New Zealand, or because I was due on when Chris landed back in the UK. I’m desperately trying to remember if I’ve had a period since we’ve moved in here. They’re so short. Blink and I miss them, so I honestly can’t remember. Long after Chris falls asleep, I lie for hours in the darkness, listening to the sound of Chris’s soft breath behind me, the gentle puffing of air entering and leaving his body as it blows against my neck. So peaceful and blissfully unaware of my own fear. As I lie in the dark, I’m absolutely petrified.
I must have fallen asleep at some point in the night because I wake up sharply the next morning when the sound of my alarm penetrates the quiet of our bedroom. Once dragged back into consciousness, the familiar rumble of the buses driving past on the A10 outside, reminds me that last night wasn’t a dream, that this situation is real - very real - and I remain as terrified this morning as I was last night.
I shower and dress as normal, preparing to go to work, except once I leave the flat, rather than board the 7.50am train from Stoke Newington into Liverpool Street, instead I find the nearest phone box and leave a message for Jonathan on the office answerphone telling him that I can’t come in as once again my sickness bug has reared its ugly head overnight, and I’ve spent yet another night no more than ten paces from the bathroom. I add that I hope to recover fully over the weekend and I hope to see him back at work on Monday morning.
Hanging up, my hands still shaking with fear, I walk towards the local chemist. Casually glancing down at the shelf where the pregnancy tests are, I still can’t comprehend that I need to buy one, never mind that there is a distinct possibility that the result will be positive.
I couldn’t tell Chris this morning. I have absolutely no idea how he might react. What if he lost his temper? Blew his stack like he did in Hong Kong that time. What if he says it’s all my fault? What if he doesn’t want it? What if he does? What if he leaves me? Abandons me? Jumps on the first plane back to New Zealand and leaves me high and dry. I’d like to think he wouldn’t, but I couldn’t guarantee it.
We’ve only ever talked about having kids in hypothetical scenarios, and only a very long way off in the future and only in some undetermined future ideology. Never have either of us, ever discussed the real possibility of what we would do if we did fall pregnant, by accident or otherwise. Therefore, lying awake into the early hours last night, I decided my best course of action, was to find out for myself first. At least then I will know what I’m dealing with. Hopefully it will be a false alarm, and he need never know.
I select the test that seems to be the easiest to use, at a price point I can afford and walk purposefully towards the cashier behind the counter, throwing my shoulders back with fake confidence. For some reason it’s important to me that she believes this situation is something that was planned and that I’m in control of and I’m hoping for a positive outcome. She smiles warmly back at me, seeing straight through my façade as she rings through the transaction, putting the test kit into a bag and handing me my change.
I stop at the local corner store and buy another bottle of Lucozade, taking it into the cemetery where I wait patiently. I let two hours pass, until I’m certain that Chris will have left the flat for the day. At 10.30, I tentatively turn my key in our front door, hoping that he’s headed out to meet Mo, as I would have expected him to. When I hear no sound from inside, I walk in through the door, throwing my keys into the bowl on the side before walking into the kitchen and flicking the switch on the kettle. I know I’m going to need a strong cup of tea before I pull out the contents of the brown paper bag.
Five hours later, I hear Chris’s key turning in the lock, before the door opens and I hear the familiar sound of his own keys landing in the bowl in the hallway. He must have paused momentarily, possibly because he’s noticed my keys also lying there when I wouldn’t normally be home for at least another two hours.
“Vicky. Vick-yyyy,” he calls out, “are you home already?”
“In here,” I shout back from the living room.
He walks into the room, where I’m sat silently at the table, my hands clasped around yet another cup of tea.
“How come you’re home early?” he asks breezily.
“Chris, come and sit down,” I say solemnly, “there’s something serious we need to discuss.”
“What’s going on, Vicky,” he laughs nervously. His cheeky grin, making my heart flip over. I almost feel sorry for him. I know what I have to tell him is going to change his world forever.
“Oh my God, have you told Jonathan where to stick it? You have, haven’t you?” he continues. “Well, don’t worry, we’ll manage. Cash might be tight for a couple of months, but I’m sure you’ll be able to find another job.” He comes up to hug me and plant a kiss on my cheek.
“Chris, sit down please,” I beg.
“Why? What’s the matter? You’re scaring me, Victoria.” I can’t remember the last time I ever heard him use my name in full. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Chris, I’m pregnant,” I pause, allowing him to absorb what I’ve just said, while I study his features intently, trying to work out what he’s thinking and feeling as he processes the bombshell I’ve just dropped.
After what seems like an eternity he asks, “But how, Vicky? You’re on the pill.”
“I am. But no contraception is 100% fool proof, Chris. And you know how dodgy my stomach has been since we’ve moved up to London. It’s never felt right. I assumed it’s the change in the water, or the air, or the commuting or whatever, and that it would settle down eventually. I can only assume my body hasn’t absorbed enough hormone on a particular day. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter how it happened - it’s happened and I’m pregnant.”
“How far on are you?”
“Are we,” I correct him, “this is your baby too, Chris.”
“I know. I know,” he says, his voice elevated by a palatable panic. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just such a shock. I suppose it explains a lot. I’ve been thinking for a while how pale you look.”
“And tired. And with an upset stomach, add in morning sickness, weight gain and tender boobs and it was bloody obvious really. But I suppose having never been in this situation before, I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I’ve just assumed all my symptoms were due to other reasons - like the bug last week. In hindsight, I don’t think I had the same bug as you. I think it was just morning sickness that seemed to go on all day. That can happen.”
We both fall into a heavy uncomfortable silence. Neither wants to speak. Both of us petrified what the other is going to say.
“Well you have to get rid of it,” he says bluntly making his position very clear. No discussion. No debate. No ‘what ifs’. It’s simple, he doesn’t want this child. My child. Our child.
“OK,” I reply softly, “I was going to say, I can’t see how we can keep it. Our lives are just not set up to have a baby. So I suppose we’re both saying the same thing,” I add, knowing that we’re not saying the same thing at all.
If he had turned around and been delighted and said something like, ‘Oh my God, Vicky, I have no idea how we’ll make this work, but we’ll find a way. This is the best thing that could have happened to us,’ then perhaps I might have thought differently. But I absolutely know I haven’t got the strength to do this on my own, so I resign myself to doing what I know I must.
My heart breaks in two as I hear a voice I don’t recognise as my own saying, “I’ll make a doctor’s appointment on Monday,” before dropping my gaze, no longer able to look Chris in the eye.
***
lying in bed. Wet heavy tears fall silently down my cheeks as my hands cradle my hardly noticeable but slightly rounded pregnant belly and I say a silent prayer to my unborn child.
“Please forgive me, for what I’m about to do. Know that you are loved, you were created in love, but you’re here too soon and I can’t offer you what I would want for you.”
I’m so angry with Chris. Angrier than I’ve ever been with anyone in my life - ever! He should be here by now. Why am I having to deal with this all alone? It’s unjust that in this, my most vulnerable of moments, when I can hardly handle the turmoil of the emotions that race through my body, that he’s not here to support me. I should have been able to lean on him, but he’s checked out. Not just right now but in the entire three weeks since I first discovered we were pregnant.
He made his intentions clear in that moment, and they haven’t changed since. He’s not come near me since I told him, in fact we’ve not discussed it since and he’s never asked me once how I’m feeling. Sleeping next to each other every night in a heavy silence. I’m the walking, talking, real-life effigy of the situation he simply doesn’t know to handle, so therefore his way of dealing with it is to pretend it’s not happening, leaving me to shoulder the entire burden.
He’s made his choice, which to him needs no further discussion, but then he’s not the one with a new life growing inside him. His body is not raging with pregnancy hormones designed to protect the life within. He checked out instantly, assuming that once the decision was made, life would return to normal, leaving me to handle all the details. To have the worst possible discussion with a doctor I’ve never met before and justify the reasons why I can’t keep this child, then to have to research a private clinic when the NHS couldn’t offer me a termination for another six weeks, which would have made me almost seventeen weeks pregnant - and I just knew if I’m going to do this, it had to happen before the end of the first trimester. Every day this child lives within me, the self-condemnation of what I have to do deepens further, my resolve weakening with every passing hour.
Instantly my anger at Chris turns to guilt. Perhaps something has happened to him. Something must have happened. There must be a logical explanation why he hasn’t come home tonight when he promised me he would. I know the night out with the guys from Tilbury was important and he had to go (I would never have stopped him anyway) but he promised me he would be home to comfort me. To ride out this long night together and then drive me to the clinic on the opposite side of London early tomorrow morning.
“Chris, I need you to be home tonight,” I’d said yesterday afternoon as he was preparing to leave. “I don’t need to explain why. I just need you home.”
“I’ll take the car, so I don’t drink,” he’d replied, “don’t worry, I’ll be home just after 10pm at the latest. I promise.”
For the briefest of moments he’d looked me in the eye and for the first time in weeks, he’d actually seen me. Or so I’d thought. Leaning forward to given me a tender kiss on the cheek before adding, “You know I love you, Vicky.”
I check the time again. The neon green numbers on my bedside clock say 2am.
At 11pm I was annoyed. At midnight I was furious. I pictured what I would say when he walked through the door.
“You’d better have a damn good reason for being so fucking late, Chris, so let’s hear it,” I imagined myself shouting at him, arms crossed, determined to make it known how fucked off I was. I imagined him striding across the room, throwing his keys into the bowl as he rushed to embrace me, whispering in my ear that he was so, so sorry. That everything would be alright and he would make it up to me. And in that moment, I imagined forgiving him. Accepting his plausible excuse and just being thankful that he was here to help me deal with this most awful of situations.
It’s now 4am and my anger is replaced by sheer panic. An icy cold fear rushes through my body as my mind races, picturing all the horrific things that could have happened to him. While I’m lying here feeling sorry for myself and angry at him, he could be smashed up on the road somewhere having taken unnecessary risks as he was racing to get back to me. Perhaps he’s been mugged, wandering around dazed, with no money, no phone and no way of contacting me.
“I hope he’s OK. Please keep him safe,” I plead silently into the empty room. I’m not sure which is worse, facing what I’m about to do tomorrow or picturing all the possible reasons why he hasn’t come home. Something must be keeping him from me, it’s the only explanation, I justify in my mind. It never enters my head that he could have simply chosen to stay out and to not come home. To abandon me. Tonight of all nights. He knows that this is the hardest thing that we - that I - have ever had to deal with and to make me have to face it alone seems even too cruel for him. I’m not sure I could forgive him if that is the case. If he’s just stayed out with the boys and got drunk. Not when he promised. Not when he says he loves me. Not when I told him when he called at 9pm, how much I need him to leave and come home now. I needed him then. I need him even more now.
We’ve told no one. He needs to keep it a secret, especially from his mum. Lynne would be distraught if she knew. Her devout Catholic beliefs meaning she fundamentally believes that every child is a gift from God, a gift to be revered and to be cherished, regardless of circumstances. So to protect Chris, I’ve told no one. How I wish I could pick up the phone right now and call a friend, or one of his sisters. Blurt out the truth and receive comfort and solace in return.
I couldn’t call Michelle, obviously. How could I expect her to understand when she’s about to give birth to her first baby any day now? If anything, she’s likely to try to get us to change our minds. To give her baby a new cousin to play with.
Even though we’re not as close as we once were, perhaps Mellie would understand? She knows how much her brother and I care for each other, but I couldn’t guarantee she’d be supportive. What might she say? I’m not sure? Her words from the day we went to the lido, many moons ago, ringing in my ears, “I consider you family, but he’s my blood, Victoria.” She will always side with her brother, so could she potentially lay the blame with me? How could I possibly tell her? This child would also be her own niece or nephew, after all.
What about Fiona up in the Midlands? Chris and I popped up to spend a weekend with them not long after he returned, and we are quite close, but I couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t tell Mike and therefore I’d be breaking Chris’s trust.
I absolutely couldn’t call my own mother. She would be the last person I could trust to not judge me harshly. She only just approves of Chris and is fearful he’s going to take me away from her, so I sense instantly that she would turn against him, use this as leverage and I don’t want to give her anymore reasons to not like him.
It’s been so long since I’ve spoken to any of my childhood friends or university mates, I couldn’t possibly call them in the middle of the night and dump something as huge as this on them. Only now does it dawn on me how isolated I’ve become from my own network of support. I’ve become solely dependent on Chris and his family and network, so much so that now, when I need support of my own, I have no one. And the one person I need support from has abandoned me.
Tim would be my final option, but again we’re not as close as we once were. Not since Hong Kong and the big bust-up between Chris and I that was triggered by my dinner out with him. Tim only knows parts of the story, but he’s sensed that his presence caused unnecessary tension between Chris and I, so the last conversation I had with him was just after I came back from New Zealand and we haven’t talked since, plus he’s a bloke. So I decide it would be completely unreasonable to call him in the middle the night and dump this enormous horrible situation on him.
I love Chris and keeping this between us is the most important thing to him, so I can’t, I won’t, tell anyone. Instead I lie here alone, powerless to do anything but watch the minutes tick slowly by. Waiting. Listening for the first sound of his car screeching around the corner, or his key turning in the lock. I close my eyes, desperately trying to get some much-needed rest but sleep eludes me, and I continue to lie awake, my tears having made the cotton of my pillowcase soaking wet.
My only option now is to take public transport across London to reach the clinic in time. Not a straightforward journey as it will mean catching a number of buses, a tube and a train to the outskirts of Streatham on the opposite side of town, but I make a plan and decide if Chris doesn’t come home, that is what I will do. I must deal with one situation at a time. He is the lower priority and I’ll have to worry about him and his whereabouts afterwards.
It’s now 6am and time has run out. I call Chris’s mobile one last time, hoping that he’ll pick up but instead I hear the familiar click of the automated voicemail message kicking in, apologising that he’s not available to take my call and requesting that I leave my message after the tone.
“I’m sorry, Chris, I don’t know what’s happened, why you haven’t come home, or where the fuck you are, but if I’m going to get to the appointment by bus I have to leave now, so quite frankly, fuck you!” I say in a calm but highly charged tone, before hurling the handset and cradle across the hallway, hearing it clatter against the radiator before falling to the floor. My head in my hands I sob uncontrollably, my shoulders heaving as I struggle to catch my breath between each wretched cry.
I sob until I have nothing left, until I’m completely empty. Then from somewhere I find the strength to stand. My mind is numb, but my body moves on autopilot, my survival instinct taking over. I gather my things and prepare to leave the flat.
I hope when he finally picks up my messages, he feels as shit as I do right now, I think to myself, locking the front door as I leave.
Walking down Stoke Newington High Street to catch the number 243 bus into town, the neighbourhood is beginning to stir. Some commuters are already suited and booted, walking briskly in the direction of the train station. Shopkeepers are rolling up their shutters as the delivery truck drivers unload their fresh produce, carrying the open boxes of fruit into the waiting shops. No one is aware of the secret I’m carrying or the turmoil I’m feeling.
The urge to vomit sweeps over me. Today, my morning sickness is worse than ever. I assume heightened by the heaviness in my heart, the panic of not knowing where Chris is and the guilt I feel in the pit of my stomach. Guilt at being angry with Chris when he could be hurt and the enormous guilt of what I’m about to do.
How will I ever know if I’m doing the right thing, I ask myself again, as I stop to take a sip from my water bottle? I know that this is a ‘no going back’ decision. Something that can never be undone. The enormity of my situation hits me again, but I can’t give in to my emotions, I have to stay strong for the three of us. I have to do what is right for Chris, for myself and for our unborn baby.
On the many long lonely nights when I’ve been lying awake long after Chris had fallen asleep, I had thought through my other options. There is absolutely no way I could ever imagine having a child of mine adopted. Bringing a child into the world knowing that I would be giving it away within hours of it being born. I still carry the void of being abandoned by my own father and I could never do that to my own child.
For them to always wonder, who am I? Where did I come from? What’s my mother like? Did she ever love me? No, I could never knowingly put another human being in that same situation - let alone, do that to myself. Never knowing, always wondering where my child is. Are they safe? Are they loved? I know that would absolutely rip me apart. I would never be able to get past that. I only hope that time will help me heal the pain and consequences of the choice I’m making now.
Unbeknown to Chris I’d also thought about the other possibility. The possibility that we keep the baby and he leaves me - eventually. Just like my father left me. What then? With no way to support myself, I’d pictured myself landing back on my mother’s doorstep with a babe in my arms, as she had done with me in her own arms just over 20 years ago. I know I would do anything to stop history repeating itself.
I remind myself the decision was mutual, even if it was made quickly and without hesitation. However, what I never anticipated three weeks ago when we sat round the table, is that when I would need Chris’s support and his strength the most, to counter my weakness and to help me follow through with our decision, I would find myself alone and abandoned. The irony almost makes me want to let out a deep dark horrible laugh. If only he knew that my deepest fear if I kept his child, especially knowing he doesn’t want it, would be him leaving me and I ending up alone. Never did I consider that by making this choice I would be dealing with the exact situation I feared the most. If anything, his absence confirms that I’m doing the right thing.
I look down the high street again longing to see his car come into view. Screeching round the corner, coming to rescue me.
It doesn’t.
He doesn’t.
I turn and look the other way, at the bus that trundles towards me from the other direction. I hold out my hand indicating for the bus to stop. The hiss releasing from its brakes as comes to a halt in front of me. I take another sip from my bottle of water, pushing down another wave of morning sickness that washes over me. I look longing in the opposite direction one last time, but the road remains empty. Smiling weakly at the bus driver, I flash my travel pass and take the first available seat, leaning my head against the cold morning condensation of the window, as more silent tears roll down my cheeks.