The Women on Platform Two

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Dublin City, 22 May 2023

Saoirse

I have pee on my fingers. It’s my own pee, but it makes me feel gross nonetheless. I’ve never taken a pregnancy test before and I wasn’t expecting it to be this fiddly. I set the test down on the back of the loo—face up, according to the instructions. I read them twice—front and back—hoping to calm my nerves. It didn’t say anything about peeing on your own hand, but it did say to wait three minutes before reading the result. Three whole minutes. I think my heart might beat out of my chest by then.

“One line not pregnant. Two lines pregnant,” I whisper out loud. Oh God.

I wash my hands, close my eyes, and take some deep breaths. Seconds seem to crawl by in slow motion and I hear the ticking of an imaginary clock inside my head.

Tick. Tock. You might be pregnant. Tick. Tock.

Finally, I open my eyes. I think I may be sick as I bring my gaze to the back of the loo. The small plastic test stares back at me, proudly displaying a single, bright blue line.

“One line not pregnant,” I say again, louder this time.

My hand is shaking as I curl my fingers around the test, pick it up, and tuck it against my chest. Fat, salty tears trickle down my cheeks as relief washes over me.

The bathroom door creaks open behind me and I spin around. In my haste to test, I must have forgotten to lock the door. I find Miles, my fiancé, standing in the gap. His eyes are on the test in my clenched fist and his mouth drops open a little.

“Is that—”

“A pregnancy test. Yes,” I say, wiping under my eyes with my free hand.

“Is it—”

“Negative.”

Miles closes his mouth and his face fills with sadness.

“Negative,” he echoes in a barely audible whisper.

“Yup.”

I pass him the test so he can see the single blue line for himself.

“Be careful, there might be some pee on it.”

“It’s really negative,” he says, shaking his head. “But you’re two weeks late. I thought you must be pregnant for sure.”

“You were hoping, you mean,” I say, and I can’t keep the frustration out of my tone. The swell of relief I felt at the negative test clashes with the disappointment in his voice and everything bubbles to the surface.

“Is that so wrong?”

“Yes. I’ve told you a million times that I’m not ready for a baby.”

“But if it just happens…”

I raise my hand like a cop directing traffic. “Stop. Please. I can’t have this argument again.”

“It’s not an argument. It’s just…” Miles trails off.

His downheartedness whips around us like an icy breeze. I step back to avoid the freeze of it. I love Miles. He’s my favorite person in the world. I love how his floppy brown hair falls into his eyes when he’s overdue a haircut, like at the moment. I love his round-rimmed maroon glasses that he says are only for reading, which we both know is absolutely not true. He walked into a wall trying to prove how much he didn’t need glasses when we first started dating. He still has the scar above his left eyebrow. I love that too. I love how he waits to eat dinner with me when I come home from a long shift at the hospital even though I know he’s been starving for hours. Miles is wonderful. He would be a fantastic father. And the only, single thing I don’t like about him is that he cannot accept that just because he’s ready to be a dad doesn’t mean I’m ready to be a mam.

“But you love children,” Miles says, rehashing the same tired line I’ve heard more times than I can count. “And the kids at the hospital love you. You’re their favorite nurse.”

I puff out, “It’s my job.”

“But it’s not your job to keep their artwork on our fridge or bake them cakes for their birthdays and stuff. It’s not your job to care about them so much. But you do.”

“Of course I care about them. They’re sick and it breaks my heart. But making their day less crappy if I can is not the same as having a child of my own.”

“We’re not getting any younger, Saoirse…” Miles sighs. “Think about it. Our life could be so great.”

“Our life is already great.”

I’m not exaggerating. We have a great life. Careers we both love. A cozy one-bedroom apartment in the city center. It’s small, but the perfect space for the two of us. A good group of friends. His and mine. Weekends away, dinners out, impromptu takeaways, and too much wine. A grown-up life with no room for a child.

Miles stares at me with longing eyes and my guilt is instant. As great as our life is, he needs more. I feel him cling to the hope that someday, for some reason that neither of us can put our finger on right now, I’ll feel the same. I place my hand on my heart, take a deep breath, and try once again to explain.

“Most of the children at work won’t make it past their tenth birthday,” I say. “Last week we lost a seven-year-old who I really thought was going to beat the odds. I watched her fall into a forever sleep in her mother’s arms and I watched her mother die inside too. I don’t want that. I don’t ever want to feel anything like that.”

“But not all children get sick. Our baby would more than likely be perfectly healthy.”

I shrug. “Yeah. Probably. But the ‘what ifs’ scare me. Christ, why can’t you just accept that?”

“Because it’s bloody selfish, Saoirse. That’s why.”

“See, this is why I didn’t want to talk about this.” I brush past him to make my way into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. “We just go round and round in circles. Over and over. It’s pointless.”

“It’s not pointless. It’s a baby. Our baby,” he says, following me.

I fetch a glass from the cupboard and run the tap. I stare at the water flowing for a moment before I push the glass under and fill it. I drink some and feel better.

“Now who’s being selfish?” I say. “Do you plan to keep arguing about this until I finally give in? I told you. I’m not ready.”

“If you would just think about it,” he says, as if I haven’t already spent years agonizing over this. “I know as soon as you hold our baby in your arms you’ll fall in love.”

I slam the glass down on the countertop and water sloshes over the edge.

“How do you know that?” My voice is too loud for the confined space of our small kitchen. “How could you possibly bloody know that? Do you have a crystal ball?”

“Of course not,” Miles snaps, his voice equally loud. “But all women love their babies.”

“You mean, you think all women love their babies. But that is just not true. Sadly, for whatever reason, some women just can’t. And besides, not all women are mothers. It’s bloody insulting if you can’t separate the two.”

I march out of the kitchen and grab my favorite oversize cardigan from the coatrack in the hall.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“It’s going to rain,” he says.

“Then I’ll get wet.”

“Saoirse, stay. Please? Can’t we talk about this?”

“No.”

I slip my arms into my cardigan and open the door of our apartment. The lift creaks and groans as it lowers me two floors and spits me out at street level. I hurry outside and take a deep breath, inhaling as if I’ve just come up from underwater, and I start to walk, with absolutely no idea where I’m going.