I had to stop driving weeks ago because I couldn’t reach the pedals any longer and now walking is agony as the baby rests on my sciatic nerve, causing shooting pains down my leg.
But oh, how it’s worth it.
I would take ten times more discomfort and pain if I had to.
I limp to the study and I’m about to knock when I hear his voice through the door. He’s talking in a low voice, but he sounds agitated.
‘No, you can’t. She’s nearly due and I won’t let anything jeopardise this for her. For us. I’m sorry, I know it’s not what you want to hear, but she has to come first now.’
There is a pause, then he mumbles something that sounds a little like, ‘I miss you too.’
Perhaps it’s his mother, threatening to come and visit. She lives in the Algarve with her second husband, a plumber called Gary with lambchop sideburns and a penchant for wearing T-shirts that say things like ‘Cleverly Disguised as a Responsible Adult’ and ‘Fart Now Loading – Please Wait’. Greg dislikes him immensely; I can tolerate him in small doses. As far as grandparents go, they’re not ideal but the only ones this little one will have.
I can feel the tugging again, deep and urgent inside my belly. ‘Greg!’ I burst in just as he is hanging up.
He takes one look at my face and says, ‘What is it?’ I register the fear and I’m pleased in a small, sadistic way. He’s come back to me in the last few months and it’s almost like we’re the way we used to be. This pregnancy has brought us closer again and I like that he’s worried. It means he’s still here.
It hasn’t been an easy pregnancy at all. Weekly scans at the hospital in London have meant lots of time off work. He has had to learn to cook while I have been mostly on bed rest. When he hasn’t been at work, he’s been at my beck and call, caring for me, meeting my every need, all without complaint. He’s even been working from home more often, leaving the running of the office to his PA, Gemma. She has turned out to be a lifesaver in all this, a necessary cog in the business, keeping everything running smoothly in my complete absence. Surprising, considering her earlier incompetence. It’s like she’s trying to impress Greg. Maybe she’s looking for a promotion. She’s welcome to my job. I won’t be needing it once the baby is born.
Throughout the last few months, despite the anxiety and nerves, Greg and I have laughed, joked, planned and experienced every moment of it together – at least once the pregnancy stretched past the twelve-week stage. Before that, it was like Greg was in denial, but looking back, I understand why he responded the way he did. Everyone handles things differently and for him, denial is the best policy. We’ve tried not to stress or worry and as the pregnancy progressed, we began to relax and enjoy it more.
‘I think there’s something wrong.’
‘What? Are you in pain?’
‘No, it’s just… I don’t know. It feels like something is tugging on me and my back is aching.’
‘Maybe you were lying at a funny angle? There’s still three weeks to go. It’s probably nothing.’
I can feel tears building. ‘I think we should go to the hospital.’
*
The rest of that day is a scattered collection of images in my head, like a kaleidoscope, at once moving into my brain, then hurtling away, as if I won’t let myself fix on any one moment long enough for fear that I won’t be able to come back from it.
There are flashes of doctors, eyes and frown lines above surgical masks. At one point Greg is looming over me, a surgical mask clamped over his mouth, but his eyes are recognisable as they peer into mine, tears dripping from his lashes.
There is pain, both physical and emotional, raw, open and searing, then retreating to a dull, throbbing ache.
Then a tiny baby is placed in my arms, all mottled and pink with the tiniest hands and feet I have ever seen. Out of all of it, this image is clear and crisp, as though I am looking down on myself. I can feel the weight of him, barely there, in my arms. I can smell the blood iron on his skin. I can taste the sweat on my lips. His hands are splayed and I expect them to flail at me in anger at being ejected from safety so brutally, but the hands are motionless.
There is not a sound in the room except for the beep of machines. Everyone is standing around me, watching, waiting like a held breath.
Then a sob escapes from Greg and I am dropped back into my body and I realise that while Greg and I are crying, the baby is not.
His tiny hands are still. His eyes are closed. His heart is not beating.
*
We named him Archie.
He was my last baby. The twelfth pregnancy.
He was the boy who breathed.
Just once.
Then no more.
9
Maddie felt raw. The scan photos and cards lay spread out in front of them on the kitchen counter. All twelve children, all named. Seven boys and five girls.
Every single one remembered and mourned.
‘Fuck,’ Jade said poetically.
She’d kept quiet while Maddie talked, getting up only to refill their wineglasses and then to open another bottle when they’d emptied the first.
She didn’t ask questions or push for details. She just listened – and for that Maddie was grateful. Her face was unreadable. Maddie couldn’t tell if Jade felt pity, sadness or anything at all. Maddie supposed not everyone would find this as heart-breaking as she had. Perhaps Jade would think it all a lucky escape, would wonder why Maddie had persevered for so long. She knew Jade struggled with Ben, after all.
Jade got to her feet, grabbed her cigarettes from her handbag and disappeared through
