Her neat cupboard is an unlikely home for a stash of ill-sorted children’s books. But I don’t want to give up. I feel another pull across my belly and I absent-mindedly rub it.
‘Don’t worry,’ I tell my baby. ‘We’ll find your books.’
So I get the stool from my mother’s dressing table and stand on it. I have a moment of hope as I see that the top shelf is uncharacteristically messy – a tangle of old jerseys and scarves – none of which I can remember my mother wearing. I reach in and feel, but there’s no box and no books. Just a mess. I feel a stab in my stomach.
‘Braxton Hicks,’ I tell no one. I like the words ‘Braxton Hicks’. I will get the baby a puppy called Braxton. I’d think about calling the baby Braxton, given the number of Hicks I’ve been having, but I already know what I’m naming the baby. I’ve always known.
I keep expecting my mother to ask about the name, or suggest a name, or anything. But she doesn’t. And for some reason I feel awkward initiating a conversation about it. You’d think it would be the most natural conversation in the world, but I guess by now I should be used to the fact that nothing between my mother and me will ever be natural – no matter how different she’s been lately. I consider sending her a text saying that I’m naming the baby ‘Braxton’, just to see how she’ll react.
That’d be hilarious.
I carefully climb off the stool – I will not be the statistic who falls off a chair and goes into labour – and I take my phone from my pocket.
I’m naming the baby Braxton, I text my mother. And then, to be clear, I send another message: After the Hicks.
As I push send, I feel another sharp pain – this one gives me such a fright that I drop my phone, which falls under the bed.
‘Dammit!’ I yell. ‘Enough with the Hicks, baby!’ Bending down is the biggest mission with my huge tummy, but I need my phone. After all, I could go into labour any minute. I manoeuvre myself onto my knees with my face flat on the floor to see where the phone has gone. I lift the bed frill and spot it quite far under the bed. Peeping out from behind a box.
A box.
‘Eureka,’ I whisper.
I reach under the bed, my belly pushed against the floor, and catch hold of the box. I expected it to be dusty, but it’s not. My mother’s housekeeping is clearly of a very high standard if an old forgotten box of books under a bed is dust-free.
I’m expecting the box to be taped shut, but it’s not. Its flaps are loose, and I open it.
It’s not books. It’s a photo album and some other things.
And lying on the top is a photograph of a very little boy carefully holding a baby.
As I try to figure out who these people can be, a hard cramp grips me. And I realise – these aren’t Braxton Hicks. This is the real thing. I drop the photo, and reach for the phone again – I can touch it, but I can’t get a grip. I reach farther, almost grasping it, and it shoots out from under my fingers, farther under the bed. ‘No,’ I yell, as another contraction hits.
Helen
I don’t spend long with Mike. I’m jumpy and restless, and I can’t seem to sit still. I need to get meeting Miriam over with. There’s something else nagging at my mind. I thought it was Mike, but now that I’m with him, that doesn’t feel like the answer.
But I do lean down next to his ear and whisper, ‘Julia’s baby is due any day now. And then we can decide what to do.’
I desperately want to convince myself that he has reacted – that there is a change in his position or his impassive face. But I can’t. Mike is still far away from me. Close to Mike’s ear, so Larry won’t hear me, I say, ‘Miriam’s woken up. Stupid cow. It should have been you.’ I look at him again. Nothing.
I sigh. I can’t feel him today. This happens sometimes, but it seems to be happening more and more. Since the nightmare about Jack. I pat his hand and leave.
Down the passage from Mike’s room, Lizette is standing with Larry. When she sees me, she flings her arms around me.
‘Isn’t it exciting?’ she says. And then before I can answer, she peers around me, at the door to Mike’s room. ‘Is your husband in there? In a coma?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Should I come and speak to him? I’m the sort of person a person would come out of a coma for.’
I try very hard not to catch Larry’s eye as I pat Lizette’s arm. ‘I am quite sure that if I was in a coma, a visit from you would be just the thing,’ I say. ‘But let’s leave Mike for another day. One person recovering is quite enough.’
Lizette beams at me. ‘You are so right,’ she says. ‘And also so thoughtful. I am not one to repeat myself, but I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you’re the sort of person who puts other people first. You know,’ she says, slipping her arms through Larry’s and mine – quite a feat given how tall Larry is and how short she is – ‘I was just telling Miriam how wonderful Helen is, and how she’s not the sort of person to blow her own horn. I’m always one to give credit where credit is due, you know.’
Larry extricates himself gently. ‘Well, let’s take Helen to meet Miri, shall we, and she can judge for herself.’
‘Oh, yes,’ says Lizette, walking purposefully down the passage I have known intimately for more than two decades. ‘Follow me, I know the way.’
Larry and I look at each other. ‘Do
