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MEGAN
FRIDAY, JULY 12, 2013
MORNING
She’s forced my hand. Or maybe he has. My guttells me she. Or my heart tells me so, I don’t know.
I can feel her, the way I could before, curled up, aseed within a pod, only this seed’s smiling. Biding hertime. I can’t hate her. And I can’t get rid of her. Ican’t. I thought I would be able to, I thought I wouldbe desperate to scrape her out, but when I thinkabout her, all I can see is Libby’s face, her darkeyes. I can smell her skin. I can feel how cold shewas at the end. I can’t get rid of her. I don’t wantto. I want to love her.
I can’t hate her, but she scares me. I’m afraid ofwhat she’ll do to me, or what I’ll do to her. It’s thatfear that woke me just after five this morning,soaked in sweat despite the open windows and thefact that I’m alone. Scott’s at a conference,somewhere in Hertfordshire or Essex or somewhere.
He’s back tonight.
What is it with me, that I’m desperate to be alonewhen he’s here, and when he’s gone I can’t bear it?
I can’t stand the silence. I have to talk out loud justto make it go away. In bed this morning, I keptthinking, what if it happens again? What’s going tohappen when I’m alone with her? What’s going tohappen if he won’t have me, won’t have us? Whathappens if he guesses that she isn’t his?
She might be, of course. I don’t know, but I justfeel that she isn’t. Same way I feel that she’s a she.
But even if she isn’t, how would he know? He won’t.
He can’t. I’m being stupid. He’ll be so happy. He’llbe mental with joy when I tell him. The thought thatshe might not be his won’t even cross his mind.
Telling him would be cruel, it would break his heart,and I don’t want to hurt him. I’ve never wanted tohurt him.
I can’t help the way I am.
“You can help what you do, though.” That’s whatKamal says.
I called Kamal just after six. The silence was righton top of me and I was starting to panic. I thoughtabout ringing Tara—I knew she’d come running—butI didn’t think I could stand it, she’d be all clingy andoverprotective. Kamal was the only person I couldthink of. I called him at home. I told him I was introuble, I didn’t know what to do, I was freaking out.
He came over right away. Not quite without question,but almost. Perhaps I made things sound worse thanthey are. Perhaps he was afraid I was going to DoSomething Stupid.
We’re in the kitchen. It’s still early, just after seventhirty. He has to leave soon if he’s going to make hisfirst appointment. I look at him, sitting there acrossfrom me at our kitchen table, his hands foldedtogether neatly in front of him, his deep doe eyes onmine, and I feel love. I do. He’s been so good tome, despite the crap way I’ve behaved.
Everything that went before, he’s forgiven, just likedI hoped he would. He wiped everything away, all mysins. He told me that unless I forgave myself thiswould go on and on and I would never be able tostop running. And I can’t run anymore, can I? Notnow she’s here.
“I’m scared,” I tell him. “What if I do it all wrongagain? What if there’s something wrong with me?
What if things go wrong with Scott? What if I endup on my own again? I don’t know if I can do it,I’m so afraid of being on my own again—I mean, onmy own with a child?.?.?.”
He leans forward and puts his hand over mine.
“You won’t do anything wrong. You won’t. You’renot some grieving, lost child any longer. You’re acompletely different person. You’re stronger. You’rean adult now. You don’t have to be afraid of beingalone. It’s not the worst thing, is it?”
I don’t say anything, but I can’t help wonderingwhether it is, because if I close my eyes I canconjure up the feeling that comes to me when I’mon the edge of sleep, which jolts me back intowakefulness. It’s the feeling of being alone in a darkhouse, listening for her cries, waiting to hear Mac’sfootball on the wooden floors downstairs andknowing that they’re never going to come.
“I can’t tell you what to do about Scott. Yourrelationship with him?.?.?. Well, I’ve expressed myconcerns, but you have to decide what to do foryourself. Decide whether you trust him, whether youwant him to take care of you and your child. Thatmust be your decision. But I think you can trustyourself, Megan. You can trust yourself to do theright thing.”
Outside, on the lawn, he brings me a cup of coffee.
I put it down and put my arms around him, pullinghim closer. Behind us a train is rumbling up to thesignal. The noise is like a barrier, a wall surroundingus, and I feel as though we are truly alone. He putshis arms around me and kisses me.
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for coming, forbeing here.”
He smiles, drawing back from me, and rubs histhumb across my cheekbone. “You’ll be fine, Megan.”
“Couldn’t I just run away with you? You and I?.?.?.
couldn’t we just run away together?”
He laughs. “You don’t need me. And you don’tneed to keep running. You’ll be fine. You and yourbaby will be fine.”
SATURDAY, JULY 13, 2013
MORNING
I know what I have to do. I thought about it all dayyesterday, and all night, too. I hardly slept at all.
Scott came home exhausted and in a shitty mood; allhe wanted to do was eat, fuck and sleep, no timefor anything else. It certainly wasn’t the right time totalk about this.
I lay awake most of the night, with him hot andrestless at my side, and I made my decision. I’mgoing to do the right thing. I’m going to doeverything right. If I do everything right, then nothingcan go wrong. Or if it does, it cannot be my fault. Iwill love this child and raise her knowing that I didthe right thing from the start. All right, perhaps notfrom the very start, but from the moment when Iknew she was coming. I owe it to this baby, and Iowe it to Libby. I owe it to her to do everythingdifferently this time.
I lay there and I thought of what that teacher said,and of all the things I’d been: child, rebelliousteenager, runaway, whore, lover, bad mother, badwife. I’m not sure if I can remake myself as a goodwife, but a good mother—that I have to try.
It’s going to be hard. It might be the hardest thingI’ve ever had to do, but I’m going to tell the truth.
No more lies, no more hiding, no more running, nomore bullshit. I’m going to put everything out in theopen, and then we’ll see. If he can’t love me then,so be it.
EVENING
My hand is against his chest and I’m pushing ashard as I can, but I can’t breathe and he’s so muchstronger than I am. His forearm presses against mywindpipe, I can feel the blood pulsing at my temples,my eyes blurring. I try to cry out, my back to thewall. I snatch a handful of his T-shirt and he lets go.
He turns away from me and I slide down the wallonto the kitchen floor.
I cough and spit, tears running down my face. He’sstanding a few feet from me, and when he turnsback to me my hand instinctively goes to my throatto protect it. I see the shame on his face and wantto tell him that it’s OK. I’m OK. I open my mouthbut the words won’t come, just more coughing. Thepain is unbelievable. He’s saying something to me butI can’t hear, it’s as though we’re under water, thesound muffled, reaching me in blurry waves. I can’tmake anything out.
I think he’s saying that he’s sorry.
I haul myself to my feet, push past him and run upthe stairs, then slam the bedroom door behind meand lock it. I sit down on the bed and wait, listeningfor him, but he doesn’t come. I get to my feet andgrab my overnight bag from under the bed, go overto the chest to grab some clothes and catch sight ofmyself in the mirror. I bring my hand up to myface: it looks startlingly white against my reddenedskin, my purple lips, my bloodshot eyes.
Part of me is shocked, because he’s never laid ahand on me like that before. But there’s another partof me that expected this. Somewhere inside I alwaysknew that this was a possibility, that this was wherewe were headed. Where I was leading him. Slowly, Istart pulling things out of the drawers—underwear, acouple of T-shirts; I stuff them into the bag.
I haven’t even told him anything yet. I’d juststarted. I wanted to tell him about the bad stuff first,before we got to the good news. I couldn’t tell himabout the baby and then say that there was apossibility it wasn’t his. That would be too cruel.
We were outside on the patio. He was talking aboutwork and he caught me not-quite-listening.
“Am I boring you?” he asked.
“No. Well, maybe a bit.” He didn’t laugh. “No, I’mjust distracted. Because there’s something I need totell you. There are a few things I need to tell you,actually, some of which you’re not going to like, butsome—”
“What am I not going to like?”
I should have known then that it wasn’t the time,his mood was off. He was immediately suspicious,searching my face for clues. I should have knownthen that this was all a terrible idea. I suppose I did,but it was too late to go back then. And in any case,I had made my decision. To do the right thing.
I sat down next to him on the edge of the pavingand slipped my hand into his.
“What aren’t I going to like?” he asked again, buthe didn’t let go of my hand.
I told him I loved him and I felt every muscle in hisbody tense, as if he knew what was coming and wasbracing himself for it. You do, don’t you, whensomeone tells you they love you like that. I love you,I do, but?.?.?. But.
I told him that I’d made some mistakes and he letgo of my hand. He got to his feet and walked a fewyards in the direction of the track before turning tolook at me. “What sort of mistakes?” he asked. Hisvoice was even, but I could hear that it was a strainto keep it so.
“Come and sit with me,” I said. “Please?”
He shook his head. “What sort of mistakes,Megan?” Louder that time.
“There was?.?.?. it’............
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