Dark Place to Hide (2 page)

‘I know.’ You stare at the rug in front of the fireplace. ‘I won’t want to give him back. How long have we got left?’

‘Three weeks.’

‘Is that all?’ You give a little moan; exactly the same kind of sound that Frank makes when he wants to come in from outside. It shows how natural it would be to bring a new life into our family; we both know there is space.

You’re surprisingly calm after what has happened. You had to spend two more days in the ward, but you seem relaxed and unperturbed by now. I put it down to your natural resilience, but also the sedatives – they’re pulling your mouth into a near smile as if you’re floating in a warm, but false pool of serenity. Your expression looks odd, out of context, but if it means you feel stable, I don’t care.

‘How are you feeling?’ I know you went through a lot of physical pain, but what you said afterwards made sense; you hadn’t built up a strong emotional attachment to the baby, because you didn’t know he or she was there.

‘I’m shocked more than anything,’ you say, as I kneel on the floor in front of you. ‘They can’t say if it was a boy or a girl, it was too early.’ You cradle my face. ‘I suppose I’m glad really. Best not to know – it would only make it more…’

‘I know…’ I kiss your palm.

‘I think it will take me a while to process everything, because the idea is so new. I was a mum for a few weeks…’ You rub your flat belly. ‘I had no idea – it’s so weird.’

‘I always thought you’d know.’

‘Me too. I’m really cross with myself. And yet, it has also saved us from building up all our hopes and excitement.’ You close your eyes and have to stop every few words to swallow. ‘I’ll probably feel the loss a bit later, Dibs.’

You use my nickname and it knocks me off balance. You teased me with the name, after hapless Officer Dibble from ‘Top Cat’. We discovered we’d both been fans of the cartoon as kids, and the name had stuck. But, I mustn’t let the tenderness sway me. Now is the time.

I pause, make fists with my hands and tell you about my condition. I explain I was scared and ashamed and should have told you.

You try to sit up, but it hurts. I put my arm behind your back. ‘How long have you known?’ There is no shred of animosity in your question.

‘About six weeks.’

‘What’s the problem? Why can’t you…?’

I explain the issue briefly in medical terms, but I know you’re not able to take it in. The salient point is that I’ve been producing sperm, but the count is too low.

I shift forward to the edge of the sofa, on the edge of a cliff, waiting for your next response, waiting for it to sink in. If there is a miscarriage then what went before happened without me. Surely?

You put your finger on your lip. ‘You’ve had tests. You did all this on your own?’ Your eyes are full of sorrow for my decision to go it alone, not reproach.

‘It was wrong of me. I’m sorry.’

I’d conned myself into believing I hadn’t told you because I didn’t want you to worry, but I know that’s not true. In reality, I was terrified. Panic-stricken that my sterility would change how you felt about me. I couldn’t risk seeing your eyes dip away then quickly recover – as you took the hit that your super-fit, passionate, lustful husband has been firing blanks.

‘It’s not your fault,’ you say, pulling me back to you. It’s your trademark – to so easily slip into forgiveness in your desire to protect me.

‘I should have told you – we should have discussed it. My masculine ego got in the way. I thought you’d think I wasn’t a proper man…’

‘No –
never
…’ You nuzzle into my neck. ‘How could you think that?’

But, there is another issue at stake here. It’s setting fire to the air around us. I want you to realise and jump to your own conclusion so I don’t have to drag you towards it.
If I’m infertile – then how…?

You laugh unexpectedly, but it’s hoarse and shallow. ‘Both our bodies have let us down.’

I don’t want to have to spell it out. But I do need to know.

‘Something had to be wrong,’ I say. ‘We’d had nothing at all, since you came off the pill.’

‘I know. Over a year…’

You can’t see what I’m getting at. You aren’t hearing me. Your medication is making you detached from reality and you can’t seem to grasp the enormous repercussions. Firstly, the fact that all our future plans are shattered; our road ahead has turned into rubble – it leads nowhere. Secondly, the obvious unthinkable deduction that runs alongside your miscarriage. I can’t be the father. Your brain must be too foggy to take it in.

I wait. Perhaps, at any moment, you will put the two ends of the wire together and get the flash. But it doesn’t come. You really are spaced out and instead you ask another question. ‘There must be treatment? Something you can do?’

I can’t help but smile. This is so like you: to turn towards making things better, always facing the light instead of the darkness.

‘I’ve started having injections.’

‘Do they have side-effects?’

S
ide-effects
…We can’t be having this conversation! My insides are dripping with murky, churned-up feelings and I need to let them out. I need you to face what I’m facing. I have to turn the discussion back to where it should have been heading all along. I have to know.

‘You seem to be overlooking something,’ I say, trying to keep my voice even.

‘What?’ Your face is tilted up, the light from the window cradling it in innocence.

‘Well…we’ve just established that I can’t father a child.’ I glance down at my nails. ‘So how…?’

You push yourself up on the pillow, more alert. ‘It must have been a freakish one-in-a-million chance, Dibs,’ you conclude. ‘You still produce sperm – you told me that – but a low count doesn’t mean none at all. One must have slipped through. That’s all it takes.’ You fling down your arms in exasperation. ‘Can you believe it? It was probably our one and only chance and I couldn’t keep the baby.’

Your gaze drops, your face fragments into shadows.

I refuse to slip into consoling you. Not yet, not until I’m sure of what you’re saying. ‘So – you haven’t, you know…?’

‘What?’ You’re wide-eyed now. Incredulous. ‘
Slept
with someone else, you mean?’

I grit my teeth.

‘God, no! Harper! How could you even think that?’

My doubt and bewilderment cluster together. ‘It seems the obvious conclusion. If I’m classified as infertile and have been since the sarcoidosis diagnosis eighteen months ago, then it stands to reason…well, my assumption is…
was
…the baby couldn’t have been mine.’

You grab me by both sleeves and drag me against your chest. ‘No! No way, darling. Honestly. No way! I’ve
never
cheated on you. It’s not how we do things is it? It’s not how we
operate.’ You shake your head, talking to the floor, rocking me, cooing; ‘No…no…absolutely not…no…no way,’ over and over, hammering it home to me.

I sit up and look at you, feeling my love for you rush into all the spaces in the room.

I want to believe you.

I don’t tell you that I’ve requested a DNA test on the unformed child. Now is not the time.

‘Shush,’ I say, rocking you in my arms. ‘I’m sorry. I needed to know…I love you. Get some rest.’

Mid-June

Tara links arms with Diane as they head out of the school gates and cross the road towards the trees. She never stands on ceremony – it was one of the first things that drew Diane to her and she loves her friend’s ‘want-it, go-get-it’ approach to life.

Tara brushes away the purple petals that have fallen from the nearby magnolia onto the bench. Diane is certain it’s going to rain, but doesn’t want to miss their daily walk over to the park. She glances up at the elegant blossoms, standing proud like candlesticks, and realises she’s barely noticed spring breaking through this year with its bold colours and promise of new life. In fact, spring is already on the cusp of summer.

‘You wanted to borrow my phone?’ Diane reiterates, remembering Tara’s request as they left the staffroom. She’s holding her lunchbox under one arm, her folded umbrella under the other, trying to reach into her rucksack for her mobile. She gives up and drops everything onto the bench.

‘Please. Mine’s on the blink. Just a quick call to tell Erica I can take the Disco-Jack class.’

‘Disco-Jack? What’s that?’ Diane is unbuckling her rucksack.

‘It’s a kind of disco shuffle hip-hop thing.’ Tara waves her hand dismissively and sits down, propping her handbag on her knees as if she is in a doctor’s waiting room. She is dressed in an expensive canary-yellow coat, with matching high heels and a navy pencil skirt. Diane looks at the fraying strap of her own rucksack and marvels at the way Tara persistently
overdresses. Tall and willowy – a former pole-dancer – Tara Nørgaard teaches older children at the same primary school.

‘You can step in and take over a new dance class, just like that?’ Tara loves all kinds of dancing. Her body has a natural rhythm inside it – you can see it when she walks. She has a tendency to wiggle her hips and twirl around without any intention of showing off. It’s simply how her body sings.

‘Yeah - well. I’ll buy a DVD on the way home and find out what the steps are. How hard can it be?’

Some of the staff find Tara brash, but she seems spirited, straight talking…fearless, in Diane’s eyes.

She drops the phone into Tara’s hands. ‘Help yourself,’ she says.

Diane sits back, peels open the lid of her lunchbox and scoops a forkful of mushroom risotto into her mouth. Tara is half Danish with only the trace of an accent. Maybe it’s tradition over there never to have lunch, Diane ponders, as she’s rarely seen Tara eat anything other than the occasional apple during their breaks. Nevertheless, Tara generally joins her, if neither of them are stuck with playground duty. Since spring, they’ve been returning almost daily to Diane’s favourite bench by the children’s paddling pool.

While Tara makes the call, Diane is watching a small boy wave a plastic spade at a woman. His mother? His nanny? She gazes at the patches of sand that have clung to his knees and wonders how old he is.

‘Tomorrow night at seven,’ she tells Diane as she ends the call, ‘fancy trying it?’

‘Yeah, I’d love to.’ Diane has an aptitude for all things sporty, but tends to play it down. Only a handful of staff at St Mary’s know that, as a teenager, she was verging on Olympic
standard in the pool. In 2006, she won silver in the 200-metre butterfly at the British Championships. There was a gold the following year in the GB team relay, but in 2008, a hip problem brought her competitive career to an abrupt end.

‘You can show everyone how it’s done.’ Tara nudges her friend’s elbow and laughs – a loud whoop like a teenager.

‘Don’t you dare!’ Diane retorts.

Tara is still holding the phone. She’s stopped laughing. ‘What are all these?’ she says quietly. Diane reaches for the phone, wet grains of rice toppling out of her mouth. ‘Dee – there are loads of them…’

‘It’s nothing. It’s okay,’ she protests. ‘You shouldn’t…’ Diane finally snatches back the mobile. She hadn’t meant for anyone to see them. Probably around thirty of them by now. Photos of new-borns in carrier baskets leaving the maternity ward. Infants in buggies being wheeled into the supermarket. Toddlers in shopping centres. Heavily pregnant women waiting at a bus stop.

‘That’s why we always come here isn’t it, during our lunch break?’ says Tara, looking up. ‘To watch the children in the playground?’

Diane winces.

‘Does Harper know about this?’

‘No.’

Tara puts an arm round her. ‘I didn’t know it had got so bad.’

Diane leans into her. She feels ashamed, but safe. ‘It’s silly, really. I’m only twenty-six. Harper’s thirty. It’s not like we’re running out of time or anything. This maternal desire – a craving, really – has taken me over. It’s filled me with a constant ache. We’ve been trying for over a year…and nothing’s happened.’

‘It
will
, though. When you least expect it. When you’re relaxed and not so uptight about
trying
so hard.’

Diane rests her chin on Tara’s shoulder; she can smell expensive perfume on her collar. She can never do this with Alexa. It wouldn’t feel right, even though Alexa is always pushing for a closer and deeper relationship. Diane feels a flicker of confusion when she thinks of her sister – and the way much of her inner landscape feels too vulnerable and intimate to express with her own flesh and blood. ‘I haven’t been uptight about it…not really.’

‘Taking all these photos seems pretty uptight to me.’

‘Yeah – okay.’ Diane pulls away. ‘But otherwise, I’ve been doing all the right things. I’ve never smoked, I hardly drink. I’m fit and healthy, I’ve always eaten well – no caffeine, additives, no sugary rubbish.’

‘From your swimming days?’

Diane murmurs in agreement.

‘I know I should be patient, but I can’t stop watching women with kids,’ she admits, staring out at the children running for the swings. ‘I’ve even started buying baby clothes…’

Tara squeezes her closer, rubbing her arm. ‘It’s going to happen one day. Of course, it is.’

‘Is it normal, do you think? To wait this long? To want it so much?’

‘Absolutely,’ says Tara. ‘You’re craving a child. It’s the most natural thing in the world to want to be a mother. It’s turned into a bit of an obsession, that’s all.’

Diane crinkles her nose. ‘I’m even finding reasons to avoid Sally.’

Sally Lord is a fellow teacher at St Mary’s and six months pregnant. Every day she carries around with her the treasure Diane wants more than anything. ‘I’m trying to share her
delight over her pregnancy. I really am…but, every conversation revolves around birthing pools, baby buggies, stencils in the nursery. She’s so exuberant and glowing. I can’t…’

Tara nods. ‘Do you want me to have a word with her?’

‘Thanks. No. It’s okay. I need to do it myself. I need to explain why I’ve been so off with her.’ She shakes herself. ‘I need to pull myself out of this.’

‘You need to talk to Harper about it, girl. He’ll understand – you know he will.’

‘I don’t want to put him under pressure.’