After the End(32)

“I’d love to meet you,” I told Eileen.

Max promised he’d be there at seven on the dot, and Mum said she’d do the afternoon, so Max could show his face at the office. And then I drove the two hours to the quiet street where Eileen and her family live in a terraced house with a paved front garden, fighting the urge to turn around and drive back to my boy.

Objectively, I note the concrete ramp replacing the steps to the door, and the silver van with the sticker on the back: Please leave room for my wheelchair! I tell myself what I told Max: that I’m on a reconnaissance mission.

“I thought it would be useful to get a picture of what equipment we’ll need when Dylan comes home.”

“It’s a good idea. She might be able to let you have supplier details, that sort of thing.”

I’ve never lied to Max before.

“You must be Pip.” Eileen is tall and strong, with salt-and-pepper hair in a long plait down the middle of her back. She wears jeans and a rugby shirt, with the sleeves rolled up. “Phil’s at work and the twins are at school, but Bridget’s here—come on through.”

The house is cluttered, with a pile of shoes by the front door, and PE kits hanging on pegs coming away from the wall. I follow Eileen and see an open doorway leading to what must be B’s bedroom.

Eileen stops. “That used to be the sitting room. Now it’s Bridget’s room, and her wet room is the old kitchen, and our kitchen is the dining room, and our sitting room is upstairs.” She laughs. “It was cheaper than moving, but my God, what a year that was!”

The room is dominated by a hospital bed and hoist. There’s an oxygen tank, and a metal cabinet on the wall. “Drug safe,” Eileen says, following my gaze. “Essential, with two other kids in the house.”

Cheerful curtains hang at the windows, and I smile to see the CDs above the bed, spinning rainbows around the room. “That was such a beautiful episode,” I say, pointing at the mobile.

“The twins would do anything for her.” Eileen smiles. “Sadly, Bridget’s sight’s been failing for some time now, so I don’t know how much longer she’ll be able to see it. Come on—I’ll put the kettle on, and you can meet her.”

Bridget is fourteen. Her limbs are so thin I could close my thumb and forefinger around them, and they are secured to her chair with strong black straps. A foam rest circles her head.

“It looks barbaric, I know,” Eileen says quickly, “but it’s much more comfortable for Bridget if she’s in the right position. You’re lucky—she’s having a good day today, aren’t you, Bridget?” She drops a kiss on her daughter’s head. I look for a reaction from Bridget—a movement, a flicker of acknowledgement on her face—but there is nothing.

“Hi, Bridget, I’m Pip.” I smile at the girl. It’s strange, meeting someone you know so much about. I think of the funny stories Eileen tells on her podcast, and the places she and her husband have taken B over the years. “No school today?” I know Bridget’s deaf, and that she cannot lip-read, but it would feel rude to talk to Eileen as though Bridget isn’t here.

“Ah,” Eileen says, with a roll of her eyes. “There’s a story.” She hands me a mug of tea. “Sorry, I didn’t even ask if you take milk—is that OK?”

“Perfect, thank you.”

“Bridget’s school closed last week. We got a letter on Monday, and they shut the doors on Friday.” Eileen sits at the kitchen table, which is piled with books and pens and the remains of breakfast. I sit too.

“Can they do that?”

“Apparently so. They’ve offered us a place in a school two hours away, or a residential placement in Sussex—thanks but no thanks.”

“What are you going to do?”

For the first time since I arrived, Eileen’s no-nonsense tone falters. She shrugs. “I honestly don’t know. I work part-time during school hours—we can’t cover the bills without it—and although Bridget has carers, they’re not supposed to be here without one of us.” She smiles. “It’ll work out. It always does.”

We drink our tea, and then Eileen excuses herself to put Bridget to bed for a rest, and I insist on doing the washing up. Afterwards I take a deep breath, and I ask the question I know she’s been waiting for.

“Did you know Bridget was going to be disabled?”

“We knew from the twenty-week scan she had spina bifida.” Eileen gives a wry smile. “The rest was a surprise.”

“And you—” Eileen said I could ask her anything. But I can’t. I can’t.

“Still had her?”

I nod, ashamed of what my question implies. “I’m not saying I’d—”

“It’s OK. These are important things to talk about.” She leans forward and clasps her hands together on the table, staring at her thumbs. “There was never any question of my having a termination. It was a huge shock, but we’d named her, we were excited about her. We already loved her. I would walk through fire for that girl—and some days it feels like I do.”

“So you’ve never regretted it?”

Eileen looks up. “I didn’t say that.” She gazes through the doorway towards Bridget’s room, speaking quietly, as though she hasn’t ever voiced the words before. “People say we’re selfless, putting Bridget’s needs ahead of ours; giving her a life, even though sometimes it makes it difficult for anyone else to have one. But it’s the other way around. I had my daughter because I wanted a baby.” She pauses, and I hold my breath, willing her to continue, needing this insight into her thoughts.