Rich gets up, gets ready for work, again pleads with her to get up. But once he has gone, she admits defeat to herself: she can’t move, go anywhere. Even the cocoon of her familiar bed in
this familiar room doesn’t feel safe – how on earth could she venture further? She wants, craves, safety, but without it, the most she can hope is to go back to sleep again: if she
sleeps she might find peace. For hours she tries; the harder she tries the more sleep eludes her. All she can do is think the same thoughts repeated again and again:
I deserve what happened.
I don’t deserve to be a mother.
Childless women are useless.
I’m a terrible person.
I’ve let everyone down.
I’m a failure.
My womb doesn’t work.
I hate my body.
I hate myself.
I don’t deserve to be happy.
Round and round and round they go, and as they whirl and crash and explode she feels her personality disintegrating, disappearing, being burnt up in the chemical fire in her brain. All the while
she doesn’t move; she lies absolutely still, on her side, paralysed, stuck, like one of the dwellers from the city of Pompeii, captured forever by volcanic ash and lava.
* * *
‘I still can’t seem to get through to her, Rich. She won’t pick up the phone. I’ve tried both the landline and her mobile time and again. I want to see
her.’
Rich is standing outside the double doors of his office in Leicester. Even though it’s chilly, he’s stepped out so they can speak in private. ‘Judy, I’m sorry, she says
she doesn’t want to see anyone, and she won’t answer my calls half the time either. She’s been like this all week. I gather she’s still bleeding a little, but I don’t
think that’s what’s laying her up. She’s not getting out of bed at all.’
A pause while Judy assimilates. ‘You don’t think she’s headed for another depression, do you?’
‘I can feel her disappearing from me.’ He doesn’t need to elaborate.
‘Oh dear, it sounds as if she might be. Is there anything I can do?’
Rich sighs. ‘I’m very worried about her, but it’s really difficult for me because I have to go to work. The company is going through tough times – there’s such
pressure. I worry that if I take my eye off the ball they’ll bin me off at the first opportunity.’
‘Bin you off?’
‘Sorry.’ Rich has used an in-joke he shares with his colleagues. They are all on edge, concerned whose turn it will be next. ‘I mean make me redundant.’
‘That must be dreadful for you. I was going to suggest that you take some compassionate leave to be with Cath, but I guess that’s not easy.’
‘I daren’t ask, I’m afraid.’
‘No, I quite see that.’
There’s another silence. Rich doesn’t wish to hurry his mother-in-law, yet can’t help worrying that he’s been absent from his desk too long. He’s not sure he can
trust those he works with not to tell tales if he is seen to be slacking.
Judy says, ‘Is she eating?’
‘I’m not sure. I make her a meal every evening, but when I’m not there I get the sense she isn’t.’
‘That won’t help.’
I know, thinks Rich. But what can I do? He has a crazy notion that he should set up one of those automatic feeders like they use for the cat when they go away for the night. It rotates round
over twenty-four hours, slowly revealing food. He could put it on the bedside table, fill it with nuts and nibbles. Then the only thing Cath would have to do is reach out a hand . . . He stops
himself. Maybe he’s going mad too.
Judy continues, ‘Could you hold on a minute? I just want to discuss something with Peter. I’ll be back.’
‘Yes, sure.’ He bites back a mounting anxiety.
Shortly, she returns. ‘If you don’t mind, I’m going round. I know she says she doesn’t want to see anyone, but I can’t bear to think of her so miserable, all
alone.’
‘She might not answer the door.’
‘I’ve a key.’
‘So you have.’ When Cath was weak from chemo and needed nursing, Judy used to let herself in. ‘By all means then, go. It would be a relief for me if you saw her.’
* * *
Cath jumps. Someone is standing over the bed.
It’s a burglar.
Then she realizes: it’s her mum. In the semi-darkness she can just make out Judy’s mouth opening and shutting like a goldfish.
‘Hang on.’ Cath removes the little yellow sponges from her ears. ‘What are
you
doing here?’
‘I let myself in. What on earth have you got there?’
‘Earplugs.’ She half sits up.
‘Why? This is a perfectly quiet street.’ Judy shakes her head. ‘No wonder you didn’t hear me phone.’
How can Cath possibly explain?
Judy goes directly over to the window and pulls open the curtains. Sunlight streams in; searing white, burning.
Cath shields her eyes. Judy sits down on the end of the bed, her outline dark against the brilliance. ‘Darling, I’m worried. Rich says you haven’t got up the whole
week.’
Cath flinches, ashamed. Somewhere inside, she knows that this is absurd, but the force keeping her pinned to the mattress is enormous. Moving anywhere is terrifying.
‘I can’t,’ she says.
‘Are you still bleeding?’ asks Judy, more gently. She shifts up the bed so as to be able to squeeze Cath’s shoulder through the duvet.
Cath nods. ‘A bit.’
‘Oh, sweetheart, I really am so sorry.’
‘It’s all my fault,’ murmurs Cath.
Her mum leans in. ‘Now why would you say that?’
‘Because it is. I should never have tried. I’m clearly not meant to have a baby.’
‘Now you’re being silly,’ says Judy. The words might sound critical, but her tone is kind.
‘Am I?’ Cath has no idea if she’s being silly or not. Her thoughts don’t make much sense. ‘My stupid womb is totally fucked up after my stupid cancer. It’s
not surprising a baby didn’t want to stay there.’ She half sits up, and starts to weep. As before, once she’s started she cries and cries and cries, and in between sobs gasps in
giant gulps of air, just as she used to when she was very little. Her mother reaches in, takes her in her arms and just holds her. Her bosom is soft and she smells of washing powder. She’s
used the same brand for decades. Eventually, Cath moves out of her clasp and says, ‘Can you get me a tissue?’
‘Of course.’ Judy goes to the bathroom – no treacle for her to swim through, it seems – and returns with a length of loo paper. ‘Here.’
Cath blows her nose.
‘Have you eaten?’
Has she? ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Oh goodness, darling!’
Cath isn’t surprised her mum is exasperated; she’s beyond exasperated with herself.
‘I’ll go and make you a sandwich and bring it up to you.’
Cath leans back against her pillows, looking out of the window. She has to squint. The whole world still feels eerily detached. But at least the panic seems to have subsided a little. It’s
good to have her mum here. She can hear her crashing plates and rummaging with cutlery, then the kettle coming to the boil. It’s the first sound she’s not wanted to block out for days
and days.
Shortly Judy is back with a tray. On it is a cheese sandwich on brown bread and a steaming mug of tea.
‘There’s sugar in the tea.’ It’s a family tradition when they are ill.
‘I didn’t know we had any bread,’ says Cath.
‘There’s heaps of food. Rich has been trying to look after you.’ Judy pauses. Cath feels her mother watching her. ‘Well, you must be feeling pretty terrible if
you’re not eating.’
Cath cracks a tiny smile. It feels odd, as if her face is doing something it’s never done before.
‘Now, love, I’ve a suggestion,’ says Judy.
Cath takes a bite of the sandwich. Her mouth is so dry the crusts scrape the sides of her cheeks. She has a sip of tea in the hope it will help.
‘Come home.’
‘Home?’ Surely she is home.
‘To our house, I mean.’
‘What, leave Rich?’
‘It’s not good for you here.’
Her mother can’t mean it. ‘I’m not deserting him. I’ve already let him down so much.’ I can be so horrible to him sometimes, so selfish and impatient, I’m
surprised he’s not gone and left me, she thinks. But how can she explain how much she hates herself? They must all loathe her too – her mum, Rich, everyone.
‘I don’t mean forever, you ninny.’
‘Oh.’
‘I just mean for a couple of weeks, maybe more. While you recuperate. Let us look after you.’
‘I’m all right, really.’ Even as she says this, Cath knows it’s not true. But the idea of going anywhere is petrifying. She can’t move.
‘Well, if you don’t mind my saying, I don’t think you are.’
Cath tries to assess if this is a good idea, but her brain is such a muddle. Finding a rational thought is like trying to locate a single tin in a rubbish tip.
Judy continues, ‘It’s not doing you any good to be on your own all day.’
Maybe she’s right. Cath does feel awful. And she is aware she has felt similar to this once before.
‘I’ve spoken to Rich about it, and he’s happy for you to be with us.’
‘He wants to get rid of me,’ says Cath, and starts to cry again.
‘Of course he doesn’t!’ Judy’s tone is brisk once more. ‘It’s just he’s out at work such long hours, it’s mad for you to be here alone.’
‘What about the gallery?’
‘Bugger the gallery.’
‘They’ll fire me. I’ve had so much time off already with this pregnancy’ – even the word tears her up – ‘not to mention when I was ill before. And Rich
is worried about being made redundant . . . ’ Panic rises in her chest, her head starts whirling again. ‘We need the money.’ Even as she says this, she knows that however much
they could do with her income, there is no way she can go to work. She can barely get herself to the bathroom.
‘We’ll get our doctor to sort you a sick note. There’s no point you worrying about any of that right now. The best thing you can do is to come with me. Let Rich worry about his
job; let me and your dad focus on looking after you.’
‘You want me to come now?’
‘Yes, why ever not? Unless you want Rich to bring you over later, give you time to gather your things?’
Suddenly, the thought of being alone a second longer is heinous. ‘OK.’
Impulsively Cath throws back the sheets, stands up, wobbly on her feet.
Gradually, she and her mother assemble her clothes. Clean knickers and socks, comfy trousers, shoes she can actually go for a walk in, jerseys because their house is colder. She’s glad
Judy is able to make suggestions as she can’t seem to remember half of what she might need. Slowly but surely they assemble everything on the bed. Then she yanks down the suitcase from the
top of the wardrobe. As she lays it alongside her packing she sees a label attached to the handle. It’s from the ski trip she and Rich went on almost exactly a year ago.
What a long and difficult journey they’ve both been on since then.
‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ says Lou. She edges past some passengers loading bags onto luggage racks, then reaches Anna’s side. ‘Sorry I’m late.
Thought you’d have to give my place away. Phew.’
‘I did have to fend off a couple of people,’ says Anna, lifting her coat to make room for Lou to sit down. ‘But I said I was waiting for a pregnant friend and it worked a
treat.’
‘I’m still not used to having to come to the station by bus,’ moans Lou. ‘It’s so impossible to time it, compared to my bike.’ She’s flushed and hot.
She grabs a flier from Anna’s magazine and fans herself.
‘Thanks for getting me one,’ she says, as Anna hands over her decaf latte.
‘It’s OK, I was early. So, how are you? Good weekend?’ It’s Wednesday, but Anna has been with Rod for the last couple of nights – lately she’s been staying
there more and more. She says it’s because he lives nearer to London which cuts her commute to work, but Lou suspects they’re getting ready to move in together.
‘Yes, it seems a while ago though, now.’ In fact she had a friend to stay and they had a hoot, but she’s not in the mood to run through it all. ‘The clinic called me
yesterday afternoon.’
‘The Harley Street one? I thought you were all through there, pretty much?’
‘I was – well, I am, I mean.’
‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’
‘No, um, not with me, anyway. Don’t worry, I’m fine.’
‘Gosh, good. You look well, I must say.’
Lou rests her coffee cup on her belly. ‘You know the woman I gave my eggs to?’
‘Sure. She’s pregnant too, isn’t she?’
At once Lou feels herself well up. ‘Well, no, actually. I found out yesterday she lost the baby.’
‘Oh no!’ says Anna. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Me too,’ says Lou. ‘Me too.’
For a while they both say nothing.
‘Oh, that’s such a shame,’ says Anna eventually. Lou has been staring out of the window at the landscape flashing past. The sky is clear blue, yet the fields are still covered
in frost. On the South Downs it’s unusual for it not to melt in the sunshine; it must still be freezing out there today. ‘Though it’s not your fault, you do know that, don’t
you?’
‘Mm,’ says Lou. She picks up the napkin that came with her coffee and dabs her eyes.
‘Oh, sweetheart, you’re such a generous person, but it really isn’t your responsibility. There’s nothing you could have done.’
‘No, I suppose . . . ’
‘In some ways I’m surprised the clinic told you. It might have been better if you hadn’t found out.’
‘I asked them to keep me informed,’ says Lou. ‘Some clinics won’t do that, but this one will, if you request it. And they were my eggs, so I wanted to know.’
How can Lou explain? She tried to make Adam understand the night before; he didn’t really get it either. It’s not that she feels responsible, exactly, it’s that she feels
bound
. There’s a connection between her and her recipient and it might be invisible, but it’s powerful nonetheless. To find out her recipient miscarried at eight weeks is unfair
and cruel, yet that doesn’t touch on the half of it. It was Lou’s egg she was carrying and in some way Lou feels as if she has lost part of herself.
* * *