Chapter 51 Lottie
LOTTIE
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
There is a knock at my bedroom door and Miriam enters. The sight of her carrying a tray with tea and a sandwich is so unexpected that I am momentarily lost for words. I think I may be gaping.
‘What’s wrong?’ snaps Miriam. ‘You like tuna. It has omega fats for the baby.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
‘Well.’ Miriam looks out my bedroom window, then returns her attention to mothering tasks. ‘Do you need a Panadol? How’s your head?’
‘It’s okay. I had some drugs earlier.’
‘Were they safe? For the baby?’
‘Umm … sure. Of course.’ I hadn’t thought about it. But it seems obvious they would have been, since I was discharged with them.
‘Well, then.’ Miriam seems uncharacteristically uncertain.
‘You have some things to think about. Do you want me to stay and … discuss anything?’ She raises her eyebrows in question.
This dancing around the situation is torture for her.
What she desperately wants to know is whether I have told Hugo about the pregnancy yet, and what the outcome of the conversation was.
‘No thanks, Mum. I’m fine. You go do your thing.’
‘I still don’t understand how you went under the truck,’ she says, more certain of her stake in the conversation now. ‘It just seems so ridiculous that you’d step out in front of it.’
I bite into the tuna sandwich. I stopped eating them in high school when I discovered that the brand Miriam bought was unsustainably caught. But I remember how much I like them now.
I focus on chewing. ‘I really can’t remember, Mum. It’s all a blur.’
‘Well, half the town saw it, so no doubt it will continue to be the only thing people are discussing in the village today.’ She folds the throw on the end of my bed. ‘There might be grounds for a court case. You might be able to sue.’
‘For what? I’m fine. You said I caused it.’
‘It’s never that simple. That truck should never have been on the main street. There’s a weight limit for trucks coming across Bells Bridge. He was well over it. And the driver always has a duty of care. It’s negligence if he’s in control of a—’
‘Yeah, okay, whatever.’ My mother often forgets I have two years of a law degree under my belt and don’t require her legal explanations.
‘Aren’t you late?’ Surely her golf game or whatever it is that keeps her busy on a Friday has to be starting soon.
My head is throbbing rhythmically and I am craving silence.
‘There’s a tablet there, next to the tea. It’s folate. You need to take it so the baby doesn’t get a neural tube defect.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Spinal formation problems. It may be too late, though. I read up on it. The baby could have spina bifida already. We can have a scan for it, though.’
‘Right.’ The ‘we’ in that sentence sounds ominous. But I have no intention of discussing this pregnancy with her right now, so it’s easier to just go along with her.
‘It was careless to become pregnant without putting any thought into it.’
‘I was just thinking the same thing.’
‘Don’t be glib. You’ve put my grandchild at risk. Drinking too. I’ve seen you pouring drinks several times in the last few weeks.’
‘Can’t deny it,’ I say, fascinated by her take on this, given it is always her who is pouring me the drinks, so that she has a drinking buddy. I rarely drink otherwise.
‘I’ve been on the phone to the foetal alcohol syndrome helpline. They weren’t especially reassuring but said as long as you stopped drinking now, the baby will probably be okay.’
‘Good news, then.’
‘They said probably.’
I take another bite of the sandwich and chew in order to validate my silence.
Not that my internal voice is silent. It is currently shouting some very unpleasant sentences, all of which contain the word ‘Miriam’ or ‘Mother’ or, more satisfyingly, ‘motherfucking nutcase’.
It is oddly calming, and also, in the event there is actually a foetus in my womb (a fact I remain sceptical about), it’s probably good for it to understand that it’s a minefield out here.
‘I pulled some strings and booked you into an obstetrician. Luckily, I insisted on you keeping that private health insurance. It’s Peter Blinko’s brother. He has a five-star rating online.’
I gulp down a mouthful of tea. ‘Doctors have Google reviews?’
Miriam squints. ‘He’s not just any old doctor. He’s an obstetrician. Pay attention, Charlotte.’
‘I’d prefer a woman.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’s the best.’
‘And I’d prefer not to have a strange man poking around near my snatch.’
‘You’re being sexist. And it’s called a vagina.’
‘Actually, it’s a vulva.’ I kick off my slippers. ‘I need to lie down.’ I put my feet up on the bed, close my eyes and pray that Miriam will disappear.
I have a sudden memory of a young girl in the bookshop. A face I can’t quite name. I want to call Roddy, but my new phone isn’t arriving until this afternoon.
‘It would have been much better to plan this pregnancy, Lottie. You could have found someone highly intelligent to breed with and given this child a head start.’
‘Hugo has an excellent brain,’ I say, miffed, even though I don’t especially want his child. Or any child. ‘What’s wrong with his brain?’
‘It can’t be all that sparkling if he’s ended up as a barista.’
I close my eyes and envision the tiny life inside me. A tear slides down my cheek and into my ear. I rub it away. ‘I need to sleep. Could you please go away?’
Although my eyes are closed, I sense Miriam hovering.
‘I know you’re sad about Phyllida,’ she says hesitantly. ‘But you mustn’t fall apart. There’s been a lot happening in the last few days, but you have a baby to think about now. Phyllida is in her eighties and if she doesn’t recover … well, it’s her time to go.’
I keep my eyes closed.
‘Pregnancy can do odd things to you, Charlotte. Especially after stress, as you’re experiencing now. I became pregnant around the time my mother died … then when David died, I went a little off the rails. It wasn’t helpful to feel like that with a baby coming.’
‘What sort of off the rails?’ Miriam rarely speaks of her mother. I open my eyes.
She shrugs. ‘I won’t go into it. But stress is a funny thing. It can creep up on you, so just be aware. Now, I’m late for tennis and then I’ll do the groceries. Text me through your laptop if you need me. Or if you want anything at the shops.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
She heads to the door, then stops, giving me a puzzled look.
‘By the way,’ she says, as if it’s only just occurred to her, ‘Roddy dropped a letter in for you. He said he didn’t want to disturb you, but Sienna—whomever she might be—persuaded him to go to London in your place, so apparently, it’s all under control.
’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Whatever “it” is.’ She pulls a letter from her bag and hands it to me.
Sienna! The girl in the bookshop!
‘Why on earth would he be going to London in your stead?’ she asks.
I close my eyes as memories begin to return in glassy fragments. China Eastern. That’s what I told Sienna to look at. Flights to London. And something about Phyllida. I have a very clear memory now of using a bolt-cutter to access the locked cellar in the bookshop and finding old letters.
‘Francis,’ I murmur, as the word appears in my mind.
My mother scowls. ‘Who the hell is Francis?’