Chapter 48 Lottie
LOTTIE
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
I close my eyes in disbelief.
I open my eyes again, and my headache ratchets up a notch. Miriam is sitting on a chair by the window in what is apparently my hospital room. She has just announced I am pregnant.
I stare at her. A pain shoots through my forehead, almost blinding me. Fuckety fuck fuck.
Before Miriam’s statement about my impregnation, she made another unbelievable statement: that I had walked under a truck, which is why I am now in this blindingly sterile room with a drip in my arm, surrounded by the smell of disinfectant.
Around me, monitors and machines are beeping.
I am, of course, deeply suspicious of her story.
But as I have no evidence to counter it, I don’t bother to argue.
Miriam is frowning and talking about blood test results and the reasons she’d asked them to test for pregnancy: classic food aversion, I’d been getting chunkier according to the finely honed MFR (Miriam Fat Radar) and complaining about smells that were innocuous.
I tune out as she wafts on about due dates and glucose tests and my general idiocy.
I think about my recent craving for blueberry scones and smoked cheese and wonder how to procure some.
‘Charlotte?’ says a young, male voice.
I open my eyes.
‘Ah, back in the land of the living. Excellent!’
The doctor—I assume he’s a doctor because he appears relaxed in this room, even though he looks sixteen—is at the foot of my hospital bed grinning and running his eyes over my chart. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Like I was hit by a truck.’ Actually, I feel like crying, but that’s out of the question with Miriam hovering.
He gags and makes a throaty coughing noise. I think it’s a laugh. ‘It didn’t injure your sense of humour, I see!’
I close my eyes again.
‘You took quite a hit, Charlotte. We’ll keep you in overnight to make sure that head knock doesn’t develop into anything nasty and get you downstairs for an ultrasound to check the baby.’
I nod, pretending that checking for the wellbeing of a potential human inside my body is a perfectly ordinary thing for a stranger to suggest. Then I look out the window.
I think about the deep satisfaction Miriam took in delivering the pregnancy declaration.
The self-congratulation, as if all her predictions for my total ruination had finally come true in spectacular style.
There is a black bird in the tree outside, on a skinny branch that’s swaying in the wind. I wonder if it’s a crow; if Phyllida would see it as a portent of something bad. Although, this situation already seems pretty bad.
‘Charlotte! Pay attention,’ snaps Miriam.
‘The doctor is talking to you.’ She turns to the teenager with the chart.
‘Charlotte has inattentive ADHD. It’s unmedicated, which is fortunate seeing as how she’s gone and got herself pregnant without even knowing it.
I imagine ADHD stimulant medication is bad for a foetus. ’
Miriam diagnosed me with ADHD from her Instagram feed last year.
She sends me dozens of reels every day about things that my brain is supposedly doing when it’s not paying attention to the things she is trying to tell me.
It hasn’t occurred to her that I choose to ignore her, because such a thing would never occur to a narcissist. She assumes that any sane person would hang on her every word if their brain was in tip-top neurotypical working order.
‘I probably didn’t get myself pregnant,’ I observe.
‘What? Don’t be silly.’
I look up at the ceiling as if weighing up the evidence. ‘The implication in your statement is that I’m entirely responsible for my pregnancy.’ She stares at me, lips parted but silent, so I continue. ‘There are generally two parties involved. If you want to talk blame.’
She is grimacing at me, because she is a man’s woman who believes men are never at fault for anything, and I am embarrassing her in front of the Y-chromosome specimen in the room, who has pleasingly shiny black hair and perfect blemish-free skin, which will not have escaped Miriam’s notice.
‘What day is it?’ I ask.
‘Thursday,’ says Miriam, just as the boy says, ‘What day do you think it is?’
I look around for my phone, but it’s not here. He says something I miss and then puts the chart back and says the nurse will be in soon with some more medication. I try to smile a thank you.
When he’s gone I look back at the bird, pretending Miriam has gone too.
Pregnant. I haven’t had sex for maybe … six or eight weeks. This situation is not ideal, given the fact that I do not wish to be a parent. I slump back into the pillow and close my eyes. I keep them shut tight against the emotion that threatens to swamp me.
‘Where’s my phone?’ I ask Miriam.
‘You smashed it in the accident.’
‘I’m meant to see Phyllida tonight. I need to message her.’ The idea of leaving Phyllida hanging, wondering why I haven’t turned up for our Thursday night dinner makes my stomach tighten.
Miriam eyes me suspiciously, almost as if I have said something offensive.
‘You don’t remember?’
‘Remember what?’
‘About Phyllida?’
I hesitate. Something is tapping at my brain. Something that involves Phyllida. ‘Is she okay?’
‘Oh … she’s, er, she …’ Miriam falters, discomfort flitting across her face. ‘We can talk about it later. When you’re feeling better.’
‘Mother,’ I snap. I close my eyes again. A memory swims, just out of reach. ‘She’s sick, isn’t she? In hospital,’ I say slowly, as the memory arrives.
‘A stroke, apparently,’ says Miriam, with a sceptical air.
‘A stroke,’ I repeat, but that doesn’t feel right.