Seventeen Years Ago
Fifteen weeks pregnant.
My eyes squint at the pain slicing through my head and my mouth is dry and gritty. I peel the duvet back slowly and push myself upright, groaning. I swing my legs out of bed and my feet land in a plastic washing-up bowl.
‘What the …’
‘In case you were sick, again.’ Reeni is lying on the blow-up mattress under her bedroom window. It was where I should have been sleeping when I stayed over after the party. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Crap.’ My voice croaks. I can’t sit up any longer and I lower myself gingerly back down to rest my head back on the pillow. ‘I don’t remember getting back here.’
‘Shannon brought you back. You were out of it.’
I cover my eyes with my hand and wince. My mouth tastes claggy and sour. ‘Shit.’ My voice pitches too high and tightens the screw on my headache. ‘I threw up, didn’t I?’
Reeni nods towards the corner where my black dress is in a scrunched-up heap. ‘I don’t think you’ll be returning it.’
‘I must have ate something dodgy.’ I look at Reeni out of the corner of my eye. She has one eyebrow arched, making it plain she doesn’t believe that lie for one minute. But she doesn’t push me for an explanation.
An electric spear of pain spikes behind my eyes.
‘Have you got any painkillers?’ I ask, glad to change the subject.
I glance at the bedside clock. I still have two hours before I have to meet Mum for my midwife appointment.
Thank God Jackson isn’t coming as it’s only talking and no scan, because he’d see through me in an instant.
Reeni clocks me reading the time. ‘Do you still want to meet at Daisy after your appointment?’
‘Yes, if I’m still alive,’ I groan. I take the glass of water and the two tablets she hands me and gulp them down, praying they’ll kick in soon.
‘You don’t look too good. I thought you were over your morning sickness?’ says Mum as we walk towards the hospital entrance.
‘It’s come back,’ I mutter, putting a Polo in my mouth.
‘Poor you,’ Mum says, rubbing the small of my back. ‘I can still remember how ill I felt when I had you.’
I smile weakly at her, praying the mint is covering up for me.
The maternity unit is on the first floor and we get the lift.
The upwards motion does not do my already queasy tummy any favours and I lean my head against the cool metal wall and close my eyes.
We don’t have to stay in the waiting area long before I’m called in.
It’s the same midwife as last time, Sue.
‘Ellie’s feeling a bit sick,’ says Mum, thinking she’s doing me a favour by pointing it out.
‘Yes, you do look a bit grey,’ Sue says, pulling out a plastic chair for me to sit on. ‘Morning sickness still with you? Although I’ve no idea why we call it that as it can happen at all hours. Are you coping with it OK?’
‘I’m fine. It’s not normally this bad,’ I say, feeling like a fraud.
‘That’s good then. Hopefully it should ease off in the next couple of weeks, it often does the further along you get. What are you now?’
She takes my notes and flicks through them. ‘Nearly sixteen weeks. Time flies, hey. And everything was good at your scan, yes?’
I nod.
She proceeds to go through her questions and take my blood pressure and my sample. All I can think of the whole time is that I wish she’d hurry up as I can’t wait to get out of here.
‘Let’s have a little listen then.’
She gets out what looks like a long thin trumpet and I climb up onto the bed and lift my top.
You’d think they’d have some new-fangled equipment to listen instead of something which looks so old-fashioned.
It reminds me of when we used to have cans and string to make telephones with.
Sue moves the trumpet around my tummy as she listens.
My head aches from watching her so I collapse back and close my eyes.
‘Is everything OK?’ I hear Mum say and my eyelids snap open.
Sue is pushing her chair back to stand. ‘I’m sure it’s fine, but baby’s being a little monkey and playing hide-and-seek. I think we’ll see about getting a scan to help us.’ She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, and then she’s gone.
A cold shiver passes through me. ‘What’s happening?’ I whisper to Mum as I swing my legs off the bed and sit up.
She pats my thigh. ‘Nothing, I’m sure. They’re just being thorough.’
I want to blurt out what happened last night so she can tell me not to be stupid and none of this is my fault. But I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. The pain in my head is excruciating and I rub my temples with both hands.
Sue’s head appears around the door. ‘Do you want to pop next door for me? The sonographer will be there in a minute.’
The room next door is the same one I was in with Jackson when our baby’s galloping heartbeat filled the room. I climb up onto the bed and the paper covering rips, but I don’t care. I’d give anything for him to be here with me now, squeezing my hand.
Sue and the sonographer, who is Jenny again, come in talking to each other in very low voices.
‘Hello again, lovie,’ says Jenny calmly. ‘Let’s see if we can find your baby.’
The gel feels even colder and she spreads it across my tummy with the wand.
Like last time I can’t see the monitor no matter how I strain, so I lie back and stare blankly at the ceiling tiles.
They’re cracked and chipped and have dirty brown patches across them.
Mum’s fingers find mine and I lie like a statue and cling to her.
I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but Jenny seems to be pressing even harder on my tummy than before as she swirls the wand in circles.
‘She’s still got morning sickness,’ I hear Sue murmur and a lump lodges in my throat, because I know that’s not true.
‘I’m going to get the consultant to have a look. Won’t be a minute,’ says Sue, and before we can ask anything both women leave the room.
I swing around to look at Mum, pleading with her to tell me everything is going to be OK. Her eyes are glassy and she’s caught her lip between her teeth and doesn’t speak.
After what feels like an eternity, the door scrapes open and the room fills with person after person.
A man in a pale green shirt and navy trousers introduces himself as the consultant and then he sits down at the scanning machine.
He puts another squirt of gel on my bump and then swipes the wand back and forth, stroking it around my tummy.
Every now and then he pauses and clicks some buttons and twists a knob.
And then he sighs and it chills me to my core.
He hands me a paper towel to wipe the gel and swivels in his seat to face me head on.
‘I’m really sorry but your baby doesn’t have a heartbeat anymore.’
‘What does that mean?’ I scrunch the unused paper towel tight and Mum clutches my arm, her nails pinching me.
‘It means you’ve had a silent miscarriage.’ He glances at Sue for confirmation. ‘Your body hasn’t shown any signs, but your baby has no heartbeat so it’s not alive anymore.’
He’s so matter-of-fact in the way he says it, that I can’t take it in.
‘But she’s here. Look.’ My hand goes to my tummy and it slides across my skin in the gel.
He swings the monitor around and the image flickers on the screen, but the shape in the centre is still. And there’s no flickering blip inside her.
The sob that’s been doing circles around my insides claws its way up my throat and erupts into the room.
The consultant’s beeper goes off and he glances down. ‘Your midwife will fill you in on where we go from here. I’m so very sorry, but I have to go.’
‘Oh, lovie.’ Jenny gets to me first. I stay still for what feels like an eternity, but it’s probably only seconds. The arms encircling me are claustrophobic and all I can hear is my own voice inside my head.
Look what you did.
This is all your fault.
You were drinking.
I push Jenny away roughly.
I need to get out of here. I drag the paper towel across my skin and it scratches as I wipe up the gel. I don’t deserve the sympathy that is flooding my way. I deserve to hurt.
My hand curls into a fist, my knuckles white, and I scrub even harder.
‘Go easy there, Ellie,’ Sue says, laying her hand on my arm.
I flinch at her caring touch.
My chest is tight as if someone has wrapped an elastic band around it and they’re twisting it tight, turn by turn.
With every breath I think my ribs are going to splinter.
I slide off the bed and my legs buckle when they take my weight.
The screen is directly in front of me now.
Her tiny shape in the middle with no beating heart.
I want to reach out and trace my fingers around her outline, but my arm won’t rise and my tears won’t fall.
I’m not allowed to cry because I made this happen. No one should feel sorry for me. I want to rip my insides out and fling them as far away from me as possible.
‘Are you OK, Ellie?’
I raise my eyes to look at Mum and nod numbly.
‘I have to go.’ I push myself towards the door. The antiseptic smell is filling my nostrils and I want to run from it.
‘No, Ellie …’ Mum is getting out of her chair, her arm outstretched towards me.
I ignore her and out of the corner of my eye catch Jenny putting a comforting hand on Mum’s arm.
‘I need some air,’ I gasp and run, my feet slapping on the squeaky-clean resin flooring.
I bolt down the stairs two at a time and run through the entrance hall.
The doors slide apart with a hiss and I burst through them out into the fresh air and keep going.
I don’t want to be anywhere near the hospital.
By the time I get to the car park I’m out of breath and gasping for air. I hang on to the lamp post and bend over double.
‘Ellie, love. Oh Ellie.’ Mum is running towards me. She folds me in her arms, but I stand like a wooden board resisting her hug, thoughts still hurtling through my head.
My baby is gone because of me.
I disgust myself.
Mum takes a step back and takes my face in her hands. ‘I’m so sorry, love. This is not your fault. You …’
I jerk myself away from her. She has no idea. How could she?
‘I need to go.’ My voice is bland and detached.
‘No, Ellie. We need to …’
‘Mum, I said I’d meet Reeni. I’ll be fine. There’s nothing anyone can do now anyway.’
She wrings her hands together. ‘We need to talk about what happens next.’
I swallow. Not now. I can’t do this now.
‘Later, Mum. Please.’
Then I turn and run. I can hear her voice floating after me, but I close my ears. I want to scream and shout and throw myself on the floor in a ball and I still can’t cry.
On automatic pilot, I queue up at the bus stop and wait my turn to board the bus to the beach.