The Forgetting(41)
In the corner of the room, the telephone sits silently in its cradle. It is only a few minutes since I finished speaking to Stephen. He seemed harried, said the traffic had been appalling even though he’d left at first light. He wasn’t able to speak for long, needed to register for the conference, locate some of the academics from other universities he’d arranged to meet. He just wanted to hear my voice, check I was okay, reassure me I would be fine. He promised to phone again later, reminded me about the bag of stir-fry in the fridge for my lunch that only needs a few minutes’ cooking in the wok.
A light comes on in the house behind ours and a woman enters, a child in her arms. The little girl is about a year old, wearing a pale yellow dress. As the woman leans over her laptop screen, the child places a palm on the woman’s cheek, leans her head against her neck, and there is such intimacy in the gesture, such instinctive trust and love, that I have to turn away, sit in the armchair with its back to the window, force myself not to look.
In the few days since Stephen told me about our failed attempts to have a child, I have been unable to think about much else. Thoughts of parenthood – the death of my parents, my own inability to conceive – have developed a gravitational pull, drawing me back, again and again, to a sense of impotent grief.
I have imagined what it must have been like, month after month, to have hoped and prayed for my period not to come, have imagined the sorrow that must have accompanied every stomach cramp heralding its imminent arrival. I have tried – and failed – to remember those two rounds of IVF, tried to envisage the cautious optimism and the crushing disappointment. I have wondered whether those turbulent swings from hope to despair put a strain on our marriage or whether they brought us closer. I have questioned whether my acceptance of our childlessness is the whole story or whether there is a private grief I keep stored in a corner of my heart, like a pair of knitted baby booties, bought with hope but never worn, wrapped in tissue paper and kept out of sight, to be looked at only in moments of quiet contemplation.
The doorbell chimes and my whole body flinches. There is nobody I am expecting, no reason for anyone to visit. Unease creeps across my skin and I think about the head injury leaflets that I have read countless times now, their words so familiar I can recall them verbatim: Nervousness and anxiety are common symptoms after a head injury. Patients can experience irrational fears and oversensitivity to light and noise.
Peering out of the window, I try to see who’s there, but my eyeline cannot achieve the right angle. Entering the hall, I slip the security chain into position, pull down the Yale lock, open the door the few inches that the chain will allow.
On the other side is a man in his early twenties, wearing loose denim jeans and an unironed white t-shirt. He looks at me expectantly, but when I say nothing, he is the first to speak.
‘I’m here to mend the leaking tap.’
It is a statement made with conviction, but sweat prickles the skin at the base of my spine.
‘Can I come in?’
My throat feels hot and when I speak there is a tremor in my voice, like unintended vibrato. ‘Who sent you?’
‘The letting agent.’
My head spins, too much information to absorb. ‘What letting agent?’
The man on the doorstep sighs, glances down at his watch. ‘The person you pay your rent to.’
He looks at me as if I am mad, or stupid, and for a moment I wonder if perhaps I am both.
‘Do you want to let me in?’
I hear the impatience in his voice, spot the toolbox in his hand. It is true that the bathroom tap has been leaking for the past few days, true that Stephen said he would organise somebody to fix it. But he did not warn me they were coming today. And, more importantly, he has never mentioned our house being rented. I have assumed that we own it, and the revelation that we don’t leaves me feeling as though I am standing on shifting sands.
Pulling the chain out of the chrome bar, I open the door, let the man in.
‘Bathroom tap, isn’t it? Upstairs?’
I nod. ‘Just at the top, straight ahead.’
The man leaps up the stairs, two at a time, and I hover below in the hallway, tell myself that it is okay: he is meant to be here, Stephen must have arranged it. And yet, having this stranger in the house has knocked something out of kilter, like a collision of asteroids, shifting them onto a different orbit.
A few minutes pass and I cannot help myself, call up the stairs. ‘Is everything alright?’
‘Fine. Just a faulty valve. Won’t take a minute to fix.’
Relief fills my lungs and I tell myself it is okay, he will be gone soon. I find myself craving the silence and solitude that only a few moments ago I had found oppressive.
The telephone rings, thrusting its way into the quiet, and I run to answer it, assume it will be Stephen.
‘Hello?’
‘Can I speak to Anna Bradshaw, please?’ It is a woman’s voice: educated, softly spoken, the faint hint of an East European accent.
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘My name’s Carla Stanislaw. I’m a therapist with the West London Wellbeing Service. You’ve been referred for a course of therapy after your recent accident. I’d like to make an appointment for you, if that’s okay.’
It takes me a moment to get my bearings. In the emotional disarray of the past two weeks, I have forgotten about the consultant’s referral.