Louisa
Now
I didn’t send the email, I’m almost certain of it – and yet there isn’t an alternative explanation, not unless Cory’s donor somehow managed to steal my phone when I fainted, sent the email out to all my contacts, then deposited the phone on the garden bench for James to find. Meaning he was here, in my garden, metres away from my son! I shudder, almost hoping I am going crazy, as surely that’s preferable. Regardless of how the email came about, a can of worms has now been opened, and I know they’re far too wriggly to put back in. People are bound to want answers, my mobile phone already pinging incessantly with emails. I can’t bear to look at them though. How do I even begin to explain?
I watch James undress, notice how he purposely turns his back on me as he steps out of his trousers and unbuttons his shirt, leaving the items discarded on the floor like an empty version of himself. Even though he is approaching forty, he’s still in good shape, his shoulders broad and stomach taut. His Calvin Klein briefs remind me of a time gone by, a time when he’d happily subject himself to Asda’s own-brand boxer shorts because they were loose fitting and he thought it would help the blood flow to his testicles; a time when hope still burnt deep in his eyes at the prospect of being a father. A lump rises in my throat as I watch the way he now carries himself, his movements sluggish, his posture hunched, like he has all but given up.
‘James, I know you’re angry. And I know we promised to never speak of the donor, but…’
‘But what?’ He turns to face me, his glare ripping me in two. ‘But nothing, Louisa. You’ve fucked this up well and truly. One thing I asked of you. One tiny thing and not only do you bring it up, you tell the whole world I’m not his dad in a fucking email!’
I blanch, his use of language shocking me. ‘There’s no need to swear. Cory might hear you.’
A condescending laugh flies out of his nostrils. ‘He’s two weeks old, Lou… or is the little miracle baby going to be speaking by his six-week check?’
I bat away his snipe, determined that I will keep a level head in order to make him realise I’m not crazy. ‘Don’t take it out on Cory, please… he’s innocent in all of this.’
‘I know, I’m sorry.’ He slumps down onto the edge of the bed, now facing away from me so I can no longer see him. ‘I just can’t understand why you’ve done this. Do you know how it makes me feel, knowing the whole world is out there laughing at me? And I’m not sure my parents believed a word I was saying. How do you think they feel, eh, Lou? They thought they had a grandson and…’
‘They still have a grandson!’ I snap, sitting up in order to hammer my point home. ‘Cory is your son. And believe me, nobody is laughing at you. It takes more than DNA to be a father.’
James looks over his shoulder at me and for the first time in all the years I’ve known him he looks small, vulnerable, almost as if he’s desperate for my words to be true but can’t quite believe them. I want nothing more than to hold him in my arms, to make all of his pain go away.
‘But you didn’t have to make out like I was crazy,’ I hear myself saying, finding an argument somehow easier than having an honest, intimate conversation. ‘I think it’s best if you come clean with your parents, don’t you?’
James lies on top of the bed covers and stares up at the ceiling. He doesn’t answer my question and I realise, possibly for the first time, just how deeply this whole thing has affected him. In hindsight we should have agreed to counselling, and yet talking to a stranger about our thoughts and feelings wasn’t something either of us wanted.
‘Are you seriously trying to tell me the donor has come back to take Cory from us?’ James turns to look at me, anger now masking his hurt. ‘You heard what Doctor Hughes said when we signed the paperwork. We’re anonymous, there’s no way on earth the donor can find us.’
‘Maybe I should go and see Doctor Hughes myself,’ I say, not daring to meet his eye. ‘Ask him for the donor’s details so we can visit him.’
James scoffs. ‘You know that’s not possible. Only Cory can request his information when he turns eighteen… and there’s no reason to try and track him down anyway because he hasn’t come back for Cory! You’re being absolutely ridiculous!’
‘I’m not!’ I suddenly remember the card, still positioned on the mantelpiece. In all the confusion regarding the email, I had forgotten all about it. Hope flutters through me. Surely once James reads the card, he’ll have no choice but to believe me. ‘You need to come and see something,’ I say, having already jumped out of bed. ‘A card came this morning, the same card I opened at the hospital. Only I threw it in the bin and now it’s back!’ I pull my dressing gown from the back of the door, eager to make James see that I’m anything but mad.
‘Which card? The one with the stork carrying the baby?’
‘Yes! I threw it away this morning because I was so afraid of telling you about the donor. There was a message from him inside. I know you think I don’t care about your feelings but I do. I wanted to protect you.’
‘Lou…’ James sits up and sighs. ‘I think we need to talk.’
‘No, later, first you need to see this card.’ I pull down the door handle, impatient to prove my sanity. ‘The card, it has a Bible quote inside, about a son, about being pleased with a son.’
James’s eyebrows knit together, seemingly in confusion. ‘That card arrived today, while you were out. I put it on the mantelpiece.’
‘Oh my God!’ The door handle remains in limbo as my brain works overtime in order to process what this means. If I put the card in the bin this morning and it was posted back through the letterbox this afternoon it means the donor must have been in the back garden. ‘Oh shit!’ I say, my mouth now dry. ‘We really need to ring the police.’
James leans back against the headboard and squeezes his eyes shut. ‘You’re going mad, Lou,’ he says, taking a deep breath. ‘You really are.’
‘I’m not mad!’ I try to suppress the rage which rolls up into my stomach, a feeling which has been slowly building since this morning. ‘Did you even read the card? Or are you just assuming I’m crazy because it’s easier than facing the fact that another man’s sperm impregnated me?’
James drops his gaze, every muscle in his face clenched, as if he too is desperate to hold on to his anger. ‘Just come with me,’ he says after a second. ‘You need to see this.’
I follow him down the stairs, not bothering to switch on the landing light. Once in the lounge, I make my way over to the card which is still positioned on the mantelpiece. I’m terrified to touch it and yet at the same time thankful for its presence. Picking it up, I hold it out to James.
‘No, Lou,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I think you ought to look.’
‘But I’ve already read it.’ I try once more to give James the card, unsure as to why he’s turned white. ‘Don’t be scared. The donor might be trying to tear us apart but he won’t succeed. We’re Cory’s parents and that’s all…’
‘Open it, Louisa!’
Realising he isn’t going to take the card any time soon, I open it myself, slightly peeved that I’m now being shouted at in my own home. I understand James must be angry about the donor reappearing but it’s hardly my fault. I haven’t caused this to happen.
‘There, look!’ I point down at the writing inside the card, the words somehow off kilter. I look again, this time reading one word at a time, a cold dread working itself through my insides as I realise what it says.
‘James… it wasn’t. I promise.’ I trip over my words, my brain and mouth seemingly disconnected. ‘The donor, he must… he must have switched the cards.’
‘No, Louisa, just stop this please!’ James reaches out to grab hold of my arm. I take a swipe at him, suddenly suspicious of everything.
‘Get away from me. What did you do with the cards? Is it you? Are you doing this?’
‘What?’ He takes a step away from me as if I’m dangerous. ‘Just what are you getting at?’
‘It isn’t the same one as earlier.’ I hold the card up to James’s face, my hand shaking so badly I’m certain a panic attack is imminent. ‘Come, I’ll show you!’
Running out of the lounge, I dart down the hallway and into the kitchen where I unlock the back door. Once outside, the ferocity of the wind almost knocks me off my feet. I push through it, my bare feet stinging as they hit the icy path.
‘Louisa! Come back!’ James grabs the sleeve of my dressing gown as I approach the wheelie bin.
‘It’s in here, I’ll prove it!’ I yank my arm away from him and pull off the bin lid. The smell of rotting food hits my nostrils as I stick my hands down into yesterday’s leftovers, feeling something cold and slimy squelching between my fingers. ‘It’s in here somewhere. Just wait. Give me a minute.’ Tears stick to my cheeks as I continue to pull out boxes and cigarette butts for what seems like hours, all the while feeling James’s hot stare on the back of my neck.
Finally, when I’m nothing other than a sobbing wreck, James reaches over and gently pulls me away. ‘It’s all right, Lou,’ he says, his voice laced with regret. ‘I never should have made you keep the donor a secret. It’s my fault you’re ill. I’m sorry.’
‘I’m not ill,’ I say, my voice too small to be convincing.
‘You are, sweetheart. But that’s okay.’
A moment later, I allow James to guide me back into the kitchen. ‘There was a Bible quote in the card, I promise you,’ I say, no longer sure who I’m trying to convince. ‘The donor must have removed the original from the bin and posted the new one.’ Even to my own ears I sound delusional, and I start to wonder if it’s possible I imagined the message inside the card this morning. After all, I was convinced Carol was about to take Cory. Is it not possible that I looked at one thing and saw another?
‘Look at it, Louisa!’ James prises the card from my hands and holds it up towards me. His voice is gentle, and for some reason that scares me more than if he’d been shouting.
I see the writing for a second time, the typed font like a mirage in front of my eyes.
To Mr and Mrs Carter,
Congratulations on the birth of your baby.
We at SureLife family clinic wish you much happiness for your future x
‘Will you let me take you to the doctor now?’ he asks, the fear in his voice palpable.
All I can do is nod.
‘Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path’ Psalm 119: 105
The stairs creek beneath my bare feet. I shift my weight onto the handrail and feel the next step with the tip of my toe before committing to it. The stairwell is blacker than an underground tunnel; silent, still… as if an anaesthetic has seeped into its cladding.
I have been home for almost three hours but insomnia refuses to surrender. It bounces off the walls of my mind, like a hyperactive child with a tube of Smarties.
Ahead of me, light seeps out of a thin crack in the kitchen door. The promise of alcohol draws me towards it, like a moth to a flame if I were being predictable. My resolve towards Louisa has continued to weaken since I arrived home but I mustn’t allow it to. ‘Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful.’ I have started to wonder if I am going too far in my pursuit of happiness, in pursuit of righting the wrongs which have befallen me… but no, in my spirit I know what is right. After witnessing the incident in the garden, it is clear that Louisa now firmly believes the donor has returned to take her child. The irony is almost funny.
The day flashes before me like an express train as I finally touch down on even ground, the icy coldness of the hallway floor biting at my heels. The first stirrings of winter cold cause my limbs to ache. I arch my back and hear it crack. That is what happens when you stealth around in woodland in the height of winter, spying on your prey. But of course it is a ransom I must pay. I know to some my actions may appear ungodly, like the story of Saul in reverse, and yet I know in my soul that the child was meant for me and me alone. Louisa was merely a vessel… like the Virgin Mary.
The whiskey feels like soft silk as it coats the back of my throat. Bushmills single malt. It warms me from within, spreading outwards and soothing my aching muscles. I tip it back in one, enjoying the feeling of serenity as my eyes cloud over.
I am doing the right thing. I am righting every wrong.
Standing in the kitchen brings back memories of the day gone by: The homeless man, the phone, the matching cards and the email. I may wait a little while now, remain vigilant, assess how my planted seed of doubt grows and flourishes. ‘Faith as small as a mustard seed can move a mountain.’
Especially when that seed is planted on fertile ground.