The Family Next Door(36)
“No,” Ange said firmly. “Stay. We’ll work this out.”
Lucas sighed. “I’m sorry, Ange. But I want a…”
Don’t say it, she thought, bracing. Don’t say it.
Ange’s parents had divorced when she was eleven. Ange’s father had remarried within the year and had two more children—he was still married to Deidre and they were excitedly expecting their first grandchild. Her mum, on the other hand, had spent the decade after the divorce watching Oprah and telling Ange she should never settle for a man who didn’t appreciate her. Her mother had died of a heart attack in front of the television. Ange always hoped it happened during Oprah. Then, at least, she wouldn’t have been completely alone.
Suddenly, Ange began to see a world without Lucas. A world of Oprah, and inevitable death on the couch.
“I’m pregnant,” she’d blurted.
The lioness was eating the zebra now, each mouthful a great bloody massacre. Will cringed away from it, burying his face in his forearm the way he did when he found something shocking. (Lucas had the exact same tic.) Ollie, on the other hand, was enthralled. His elbows were on his knees and his chin in his hands. Poor zebra, Ange thought. It was so conspicuous there on the plains with its great black-and-white stripes. What hope did it have?
The front door opened and shut and a set of keys clattered into the little bowl on the hall table. The boys looked up, grunted, and looked back at the TV.
“Nice to see you too, boys,” Lucas said, winking at Ange. Usually she loved that wink, but today, it bothered her. Why no kiss? Did he smell of perfume? Had he gotten enough kisses today from Erin or someone else? She had so many questions, not least of which was: If you’re the one fooling around, why am I the one going crazy?
“Do I have time for a shower before dinner?” he asked.
“Of course.”
She looked down at the chopping board where the fish fillets lay bare. She seasoned them with a little salt and pepper and positioned a wedge of lemon to the side. Then she took a photo, which she posted it on Instagram. Nothing better than a healthy delicious dinner with my men, she captioned it. #fish #family #yum
It was showtime. The pillows were propped behind me, my legs were in the stirrups. The baby’s head was out and I was in a bizarre reprieve from pain, waiting for the next contraction. The drugs I’d been given were spectacular. (I’d said yes to everything they’d offered me. What fool wouldn’t?) They didn’t take the pain away entirely, but they made it so I was flying too high to care.
“Patient’s name?” the doctor muttered, after glancing at my paperwork and finding it blank. It had all happened too quickly for paperwork.
The nurse shrugged.
“Is the baby’s father coming?”
They both looked at me. I dropped my gaze.
When I began to moan again, the nurse nodded. “Big push, whenever you’re ready. I want you to give it all you’ve got.”
I screwed my eyes shut, and pushed. A moment later, it was over.
They didn’t hand you to me right away. They had to check you over, I guess. I didn’t mind, to be honest. Birth had left me depleted and a little sick. Did I tell the doctor that? Did he prescribe something? Because I have a vague recollection of a needle in my arm and then going into a lovely, deep sleep.
When I awoke, it was with an odd, ominous feeling. I remember pushing my buzzer for the nurse.
“Can I see my baby now?” I asked when she came in.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” I said. “Is it a boy or a girl?”
I don’t know why, but I always had a feeling you would be a girl. I’d been craving pink for nine months. Strawberries and watermelon and raspberry jam.
“A boy or girl?” I asked again.
Silence.
“For heaven’s sake,” I cried. “Is my baby a boy or a girl?”
“I need to speak to the doctor,” the nurse said, and she shuffled off again.
A sickening feeling overcame me. Was something wrong with you? I hadn’t laid eyes on you—had you been born with a defect? What if … you hadn’t survived? I imagined going home without a baby in my arms. No. That couldn’t happen.
It wouldn’t happen.
The doctor came into the room. Though I was frustrated that he didn’t bring you with him, I also felt relieved. Finally I’d get some answers.
“Can I see my baby?”
He pulled up a chair beside the bed and his eyes fell to the floor. “I’m very sorry to tell you this,” he started.
22
FRAN
Fran had considered skipping her six-week follow-up altogether, but she forced herself to go. After Rosie was born, she’d diligently attended all these appointments so she reasoned she should do the same for Ava, even if there wasn’t much to say. There was never much to say about her pregnancies, they were both more or less normal. Some morning sickness, a little heartburn. She’d never had any of those frightening periods when she couldn’t feel the baby move, or any panic attacks about eating potentially harmful food. Everything had been remarkably, blessedly normal. Except, perhaps, her mental state.
Three other women sat in the waiting room, all of them big-bellied. Two of them made googly eyes at Ava, while the other one (clearly already a mother) focused on her magazine. (Fran didn’t take any offense to this. When you had children at home, you didn’t waste your alone-time looking at other people’s babies.) “Fran,” Dr. Price said, appearing in the doorway to his office. “Come on in.”