The Girl in the Mirror(61)
“But they can’t do this now that you’re onto them, can they?” I ask. “So why are you so scared?”
“They might think of something else. Maybe slip something into my food that puts me into labor. Uncle Edgar is the worst. I honestly reckon he would kick me in the guts! Hide me, Summer, hide me and keep my baby safe! I know you won’t let him be born too soon. I don’t expect you to love me, but I know we want the same thing. You’ll want to keep my baby inside me. And you deserve the money. You and Adam married for love.”
Uncomfortable words roll through my head. CPAP. Hemorrhages. Holes in the heart. In all the days and weeks and years I spent obsessing over the will, I never thought about what would happen if the Carmichael heir died.
All those years, right up until I learned that Summer was pregnant, I believed that my baby was going to be the heir. I was going to beat Summer. I would have one baby and collect the check. Although I never wanted the kid, I’m not so evil as to plan for its death.
Now, words from my law school lectures come flying back into my head. The law of inheritance is ancient British law, adopted by Australia centuries ago. We had to learn words like bequeath and issue and testatrix.
A miscarriage or a stillbirth won’t count, but if a baby’s born alive, even for a moment, it inherits. And then if it dies, its parents are its heirs. Virginia is a minor, so her guardian will gain control of the money. Francine.
The words fall out of my mouth. “It only has to take one breath.”
Virginia shrieks, as though I’ve pronounced her baby’s death sentence. But it’s not Virginia’s baby I’m thinking about. It’s my own.
I’ve blithely reassured my lame-brained midwife that I’m happy to “go overdue.” The plan is to induce labor in mid-December, if I don’t go into labor naturally, which I shouldn’t, since I’m not really due till next year.
It all seemed perfect. Adam would think the baby was overdue, when really it would be early, but not early enough to be sick like Tarquin.
But there is a flaw in this plan. I’ve put up with a crappy midwife who doesn’t make me get a scan (or, as she describes it, “put your baby in the microwave”) even though the fetus is super small for eight months. Skybird is almost as desperate as I am to deliver the baby at home, safe from all those doctors and their prying stethoscopes. She seemed like a godsend, even if her drab dreadlocks and distrust of deodorants made her visits not entirely charming. But what if something goes wrong?
I’ve had phone calls and emails from Summer’s old workmates, aghast at my apparent turn against medical science, and I’ve ignored them all, deleted their emails, hung up on them. But their warnings come back to me now. Nina, whoever she is, was so persistent that I blocked her number, but she kept emailing. Please, Summer, anyone but Skybird, she wrote. Months after I deleted her emails, she left a handwritten card in my mailbox. I’m trying to support your choice to have a natural birth, hon. Please have one quick scan to rule out placenta previa so you don’t bleed to death. The note went on and on, but I didn’t read the rest.
Skybird was the ideal choice, full of nonsense about feng shui and lotus births. When I told her that I thought stethoscopes stole energy from the fetus, she promised to leave hers in the car during my labor.
I have chosen the worst midwife in Wakefield.
There’s a loud rap at the door.
Virginia clutches me, her face frozen. “It’s Mum!” she hisses.
17
The Album
I look around the room for somewhere to hide my giant half sister. I have a crazy image of bundling her inside the grand piano.
An alarm sounds on my iPhone. I glance at the screen. Get Tarquin from day care, it reads. Whoever is at the front door will have heard my phone, even if they haven’t spotted us through the glass. We can’t pretend not to be home.
I can’t get off the couch. Virginia’s fingernails digging into my arm have frozen me to the spot. Her cowardice is infectious. My belly seems to be spasming, the child itself rigid with fear.
But the next sound is so welcome that it’s beautiful. It’s Tarquin singing. “Mama-sama-mama-sea,” he warbles.
“It’s not Francine,” I whisper. “Someone’s brought Tarquin home for me, maybe Annabeth.”
“No!” says Virginia. “Don’t let your mum see me like this!”
I glance down at Virginia’s swollen body. From her double chin to her elephantine thighs, she’s quite a sight. Her skin is sickly and pitted with acne.
“My mother won’t care what you look like!” I say. “She’ll want to keep that baby inside you, right? Our family are your best friends now!”
Virginia nods. My abdominal spasm dissipates, and I go to the door. It’s Adam.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Why did you dead-bolt the door?” he replies. “Remember, I was picking up Tarq today? Annabeth’s coming for dinner so we can talk about Iris’s birthday and the christening.”
I don’t remember any of this, but now Adam spots Virginia. She’s glued to the couch, her arms wrapped around her belly, her eyes as wide as a rabbit’s. Adam’s eyes narrow. Another jittery convulsion passes through my body. For a split second, my husband looks like a predator watching prey.