After the End(82)
She must be tired, this mother—this single mother—and yet there’s a smile in her voice. I picture Eileen in her kitchen, flour in her hair and a sink full of dishes. Overworked, overwrought. But she will go to bed satisfied with her dachshund-shaped cake, in the knowledge that, tomorrow, Bridget will cry out with delight, her birthday made.
I could have that again. I could bake cakes and stay up late planning birthday surprises. I had it once, I could have it again. I press my hand against my stomach. Pregnant.
* * *
Max opens the door as I pull onto our drive. He stands, silhouetted in the light from the hall, a glass of wine in one hand.
“Traffic bad?” he says, as I emerge.
“Awful. How was work?” I follow him inside.
“Great! My client broke his leg.”
I raise an eyebrow, and he grins.
“He’s had to postpone our scoping visit, which means I get to stay in the office next week, instead of spending three days in Berlin. Here, take this.” He hands me his wine. “Not only that, but Schulman’s delighted with the project so far, so much so that Chester’s dropping sizeable hints about bonuses.”
“That’s great, honey.” I didn’t drink when I was pregnant with Dylan, and although I put the glass to my lips now, I can’t bring myself to take a sip.
“You look tired.”
From nowhere, tears prick my eyes, and Max’s face fills with concern. “Are you OK? Did something happen?”
Now. Tell him now.
But I don’t.
* * *
I don’t tell him the next day, or the day after that, and as one week morphs into the next, the prospect of telling him becomes harder. Because why haven’t I told him sooner? I pretend it isn’t happening. I push the idea of a baby deep inside me, ignoring the waves of nausea that send me rushing to the sink, and the tiredness that sends me to bed at nine.
At work, I undo the top button of my skirt, and fight travel sickness I’ve never suffered with before. At home, I go through the motions of my marriage, claiming tiredness as I push Max gently away at night, so he won’t feel the swell of my breasts, the thickness of my waist.
I will have to tell him soon, but telling Max—telling anyone—will make it real, and whenever I let myself think of this pregnancy, all I can see is Dylan’s still body in my arms. It will happen again, I just know it. Maybe not in the same way—maybe sooner, maybe later—but it will happen. I won’t be allowed to keep this child, either.
Max and I cohabit like flat sharers, polite but distant, taking turns to cook, then retreating to our separate spaces; him downstairs with the television, and me in my reading room, upstairs with a book. I wonder if he regrets making this haven for me, and then I think perhaps this is what he wanted, all along. I watch the cracks appear in our marriage, and even though I know I am the cause, and even though I love Max so much it hurts, I still pull away from him.
Work is a relief—for both of us, I suspect. Our messaging becomes more sporadic, limited to Arrived safely x and Hope you had a good flight x. I miss FaceTiming him, I miss our long text conversations. I miss him.
“So tell him,” Jada says. We’re checking the empty cabin before leaving the plane, and she’s already planning which Joburg nightspot to hit first. Everything is simple, in Jada’s world. You like someone? Tell them. Got a problem? Air it.
“I don’t know where to start.” I haven’t told Jada I’m pregnant. We are friends, of a sort, but she is first and foremost a colleague, and—despite her age—a senior one; and I am four whole months into a pregnancy I haven’t declared. I’ve attributed my sobriety to a desire to lose the extra pounds that have “crept on,” and body-conscious Jada has accepted the excuse without question.
“We used to be able to talk about anything, but now it’s as though the words stick in my throat.” I pick up a scarf that’s been left on a seat, slot an in-flight magazine back in its rack.
Jada chews the inside of her lip thoughtfully. She’s wearing the airline’s bespoke shade of lipstick, a deep red that looks like it was made especially for her. “My parents had couple’s counselling after Mum threatened to leave Dad if he didn’t stop playing golf.”
“Sounds a bit extreme.”
“You don’t know my ’rents. Anyway, it obviously worked, because they’re still together, and Dad put his clubs on eBay.” We reach the end of the cabin, retrieve our cases from the hat racks, and change into our ground shoes. I can’t help feeling sorry for Jada’s dad. “Maybe you should give it a go.”
“Maybe.” My answer is noncommittal, but my mind is whirring. I think of Jada’s parents—Mum no doubt as tall and glamorous as her daughter, Dad proud of his little girl—and imagine being the sort of person who goes to counselling because of an argument over golf. And yet here I am, with a problem far weightier than time spent on the golf course, and what am I doing? Ignoring it. Hoping it’ll go away.
It isn’t going away. I have to speak to Max.
As we stride through Johannesburg airport behind our pilot, I already feel better. A child points at us, tugging at his mother’s hand. Look! I think about standing in my parents’ garden, watching the planes, and I wonder if this little boy will grow up to be a flight attendant, a pilot, an aviation engineer. He’s around the age Dylan would be now, and instead of looking away I smile at him and he beams back. I can do this, I think. I can get better.