Page 72 of The Man Who Didn't Call
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I laid a hand on my belly.I am pregnant. I am carrying a baby.
Jenni was telling Javier about a Slovenian genetics researcher she’d met in the waiting room at the acupuncture clinic yesterday. Javier was listening attentively to his wife while keeping a keen ear on the lady dispensing orders at the counter. The last number she’d called had been eighty-four. Our ticket, curled between Javier’s fingers, said eighty-seven.
I imagined cells multiplying, all those weeks ago. Sarah cells, Eddie cells. Sarah-and-Eddie cells, splitting into more Sarah-and-Eddie cells. The Internet said it would be the size of a strawberry by now. There was a computer-generated picture on the page, and it looked like a tiny child. I’d stared at that picture for what seemed like hours, and felt things I had never felt before, things to which I couldn’t even put a name.
I am nine weeks pregnant.
But we’d been careful! Each and every time! And how could I be pregnant when I was three pounds lighter?
‘You told me yourself you’ve struggled to eat,’ the doctor had said patiently. ‘Weight loss is not uncommon with morning sickness.’
Nausea. Fatigue. Tumbling hormones, food aversions, a brain packed with thick fog. The real surprise, I supposed,was not so much that I was pregnant but that I had failed to spot so many obvious markers.
A parcel had arrived for me this morning. I’d been lying in bed, filling in the paperwork for my scan, and had felt so dislocated from reality that for a moment I had wondered quite seriously if it might be Eddie. Eddie, curled up inside a box, ready to spring out, shouting, ‘I’ve changed my mind! Of course I want to be with you – the woman who killed my little sister! Let’s start a family!’
Instead I had unwrapped a toy sheep, with little leather hooves and a wool coat, and a note round its neck saying – in Eddie’s handwriting –LUCY. There had been a letter, too, in an envelope that smelled oddly of sherbet. I took it outside.
On Jenni’s deck, I curled myself into a chair and stared at the dirty jumble of air-conditioning units and satellite dishes stretching out below me. I ran my fingertips along the tiny indentations that Eddie’s pen had left where he’d written my name. I knew what this letter would be. It would be the final punctuation mark to a relationship that had ended nineteen years before it had even begun, but I wanted a few more minutes before I saw that final full stop. A few more minutes of precious, poisonous denial.
I watched a cat for a while. The cat had watched me. I’d breathed the slow, steady breaths of someone who knows the drama is over, who knows herself to be truly beaten. When the cat had marched off disdainfully, tail in the air, I’d slid my thumb into the gap at the top of the envelope.
Dear Sarah,
Thanks for your honesty yesterday. It was very comforting to know that Alex was happy that day.
I want to say everything’s fine, but it’s not, nor can it be.For that reason I think it best we don’t stay in touch – it would be too confusing to be friends. I do wish you well, though, Sarah Harrington, and will always remember the time we had together. It meant everything to me.
What a terrible coincidence, eh? Of all the people in the world.
Anyway, I wanted to send a little something to make you smile. I know how rough this whole thing has been for you, too.
Be happy, Sarah, and take care,
Eddie
I read the note three times before folding it back into its envelope.
Be happy, Sarah, and take care.
I’d leaned my head back against the outside of Jenni’s bungalow and stared at the sky. It was milky and expectant up there, smudged with clouds the colour of Turkish delight. A sweep of birds passed high above, and, beyond them, a plane on its ascent.
I hadn’t told Jenni about the baby. I couldn’t bear it; couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I’d got pregnant while using birth control, when for more than ten years she had put every scrap of her emotional, physical and financial resources into creating a family of her own.
I’d stared at my abdomen, trying to imagine the tiny beginnings of a person in there, and felt an odd sensation in my heart, like my chest was being compressed. Was that pleasure? Or panic? It had its own heart now, the doctor told me. In spite of the poor nutrition, the wine and the stress I’d fed it. It had its own tiny heart that was beating twice as fast as my own, and I would see it on a scan tomorrow afternoon.
I stared at the sky. Was he up there already? Still waiting at the gate to board? I half rose out of my chair. I had to go to the airport. Find him. Stop him. For the sake of this baby I had to talk him round, convince him that I—
What?That I wasn’t Sarah Harrington? That I hadn’t driven his sister into a tree that day?
I’d sat there, drumming my fingers on my thighs, until Javier had let Frappuccino out into the yard and the dog peed on my leg. I’d started laughing, and then crying, wondering how I could possibly have a baby when I’d spent my whole adult life avoiding children. Wondering how I could bringanyoneinto the world, knowing the father wanted nothing to do with me. Yet somehow knowing that it was already too late to turn back. That I wanted this baby in ways I didn’t even understand.
I continued in this vein for hours. Jenni, when she finally got out of bed, tried to look after me, but she had nothing left to give. We spent two hours sitting together in grim silence.
When Javier was unable to bear the emotional potency a moment longer, he offered to drive us all up to Neptune’s Net in Malibu – a bikers’ cafe – for fried fish. It was his solution to all serious problems. He had hunched over the wheel as he’d motored up the coast, although whether to speed us on towards the comfort of food or to protect himself from all the messy feelings surrounding him, I didn’t know.
And now here we were, jammed like sardines into a booth. The restaurant was packed. Every table was full, and the entrance was packed with people waiting for a seat. We, the seated, ignored them. They, the standing, stared determinedly at us. Music was drowned out by the deafening roar of conversation, Harley-Davidsons revving outside and thefurious sizzle of that morning’s catch hitting boiling oil. It was a big, long motorbike ride away from calm, but, in some small way, it was working.
