Pete snorts. “I doubt they’re thinking that. After all, they’re the ones with the big house, the brand-new BMW, and the live-in nanny. They’re exactly the sort of people who can take a child like David in their stride. And they clearly adore him. We should just thank our lucky stars we all see things the same way.”
15
PETE
ON THE WAY HOME I did my best to reassure Maddie, repeating how fortunate we were that this had happened to people with such similar outlooks.
And it was true—we were lucky, incredibly so. We could have done so much worse than Miles and Lucy. But even so, I could tell it wasn’t going to be plain sailing.
When he showed me around, Miles took me down to the basement—his manshed, as he jokingly called it. It was vast. The previous owners had excavated the original cellar right out under the garden. There was an air-conditioned wine room down there, a gym, even a small swimming pool.
“Wow,” I said, which seemed like the only possible reaction.
“It’s all right, isn’t it?” Miles gazed around. “But it’s only material things, Pete. I’d give it all for David to be able to walk and talk properly.”
“Is there any chance he’ll catch up?”
He shrugged. “The doctors keep saying, Wait and see. Their best guess is that he’ll be mildly retarded. But he won’t be playing for the first eleven, put it that way.”
Retarded. The word sounded so harsh. In the NICU they’d tended to use euphemisms like challenged or delayed.
“We were lucky with Theo,” I said. “He seems to be progressing pretty well. In everything but his speech, anyway.”
“Yes.” Miles hesitated. “Look, I wasn’t planning to mention this today, but since we’re all getting on so well…When Lucy was pregnant and we found out it was a boy, I put down a deposit for my old schools—Radley and the Dragon School. I know it sounds ridiculous, but you need to get their names down at birth to have the faintest chance of getting in these days. Both are out of the question for David now, of course, given how competitive the entrance is. I’d like to put the places into Theo’s name. He’s clearly bright enough, and you can tell he’s going to be sporty. I think he might benefit from the opportunity.”
“Oh,” I said, taken aback. “That’s really kind, but I don’t think we’d ever consider sending Theo to a boarding school. We’ve actually got a really good C of E primary a few streets away. And we’ve started going to church.” Miles looked puzzled, so I added, “You know—On your knees to save the fees? The school’s massively oversubscribed, but if you’re a regular churchgoer, the vicar can allocate you a place.”
“Ah.” Miles nodded. “Well, you’ve clearly got it all under control. Boarding and so on can seem a bit antiquated now, can’t it? But look, I might as well change the places to Theo’s name anyway, and they’ll be there if you ever change your mind. You never know, he might turn out to be a Harry Potter fan, and actually quite like the idea of going away.”
I didn’t tell Maddie any of this in the car. I thought it was best to emphasize the positives. I suppose that’s something I’ve done for her ever since the NICU—being strong for her. People look at her and see someone who’s incredibly capable and tough. They don’t know about the struggles she had during the first year of Theo’s life, particularly after I did that charity ride. If I’m honest, that was one of the reasons I ended up becoming Theo’s main carer. Getting back to work was all part of Maddie’s recovery, and only I know how fragile she still is.
16
MADDIE
FOR THE FIRST FOUR months after Theo’s birth, I held things together. My parents flew over from Australia to see us. The flights had originally been booked around my due dates, of course, and the tickets weren’t transferable. Although they’d offered to buy new ones and come when Theo was in the NICU, there hadn’t seemed much point. When they did come, of course they wanted to meet Theo—but there’s only so long even a doting grandfather can sit with a small baby, let alone a restless grandfather like Jack Wilson, and they wanted to tour the sights of London as well, which kept us all busy. At least they stayed in a hotel, so only Pete could see how sleep-deprived and stressed I was becoming. Time after time I felt myself getting angry with him for no reason, and although I’d been signed off for sex by my GP six weeks after the birth, there was absolutely no chance that was going to happen. I didn’t even tell Pete the doctor had said it would be all right. I suspect he googled the timings, though, because one night when Theo was about three months old he tried to cuddle me. But when I went rigid, he stopped.
“It’s all right. There’s no rush,” he said gently.
“Too right there’s no fucking rush,” I snapped. Just for an instant, him telling me what was and wasn’t all right about my own body seemed like the most presumptuous, patronizing thing ever.
He peered at me by the light of the bedside clock. “Mads? What’s up? I only meant, it’s not a problem.”
But it was a problem, I knew—for me, not him. Sex meant childbirth, and people shouting Now and slicing my belly open with a scalpel. Sex meant small, monkeylike babies being fed with nasogastric tubes in the NICU. Sex meant exposing my C-section scar, and all the other scars that weren’t visible as well. Sex meant adrenaline flooding my veins, and a feeling of nameless dread clenching my insides.
But I didn’t tell him any of that, because I didn’t want to talk about it.
* * *
—
“I’M THINKING OF DOING a bike ride for the NICU,” Pete said, not long after my parents had flown back.
“A what?”
“There’s a Facebook group—Dads Behind the NICU. The idea is that we’ll all raise funds for the appeal.”
I didn’t even know the NICU was having an appeal. “Why do they need funds? St. Alexander’s is part of the NHS.”
“Yes, but they have a separate charity for nonessentials—the bits the NHS can’t pay for. The main one is, they want to buy a flat near the hospital for parents to stay in while their babies are in the unit. Bronagh and some of the other nurses did a sponsored fun run, but they’re still thirty thousand pounds short.”
I looked at him, surprised. “Are you still in touch with Bronagh?”
“Well, we’re both members of the fundraising group.” He saw my expression. “It’s a Facebook page, Mads,” he said patiently. “It’s not like we’re meeting up for coffee.”