I Unlove You (18 page)

“
I guess we
won
’
t be able to hide it from people
soon,
”
I say, smiling myself, although this lethargic offering has
become so frequent, I
’
ve forgotten what a
real smile feels like.

“
Yeah, I think
it
’
s safe to tell everyone now. I guess
that
’
s when we get all the presents and
advice.
”

“
And the
questions,
”
I
say.
“
Lots and lots of questions.
”

“
Everyone will be excited for
us.
”

“
You think?
”

“
Of course. At least, to our
face, anyway.
”
She laughs and rests her head on my
shoulder.

I make another pathetic attempt at
a smile, gazing over the water as a stationary barge boat consumes
nearly half the canal. Red and white all over, its wooden structure
juts up and over the edge of the bank, tied to the side with a
black rope I assume was once white.

I love walking beside the canal,
especially in weather like this. Shaded from the trees above, I can
walk all the way into Halifax without so much as breaking a sweat.
Parallel to woodland most of the way, this side of the canal
remains in the shade, only the occasional clearing showering the
ground in brief sunny delight.

Homes that housed my youthful dreams and fantasies line the
other side of the bank. My father and I used to walk along here
every Sunday morning, him bringing his guitar to teach me snippets
of tunes. Gazing at those houses, I
’
d imagine sitting in
their gardens with a guitar of my own, playing and strumming, until
one day I
’
d teach my own son.

I keep thinking about my father,
and long ago memories of no real significance. Simple moments, such
as the time he wrapped my arm in a bandage, telling me a story
about when he fell out of a tree. Laughing at his mocked squeals
and silly voices, I forgot about the pain.

Or
a random memory of standing in a school playground, Dad crouched on
one knee and tying my shoelace.
“
You
’
ll be able to do
this for yourself soon, kiddo,
”
he said, looking up at me.
“
I
’
ll teach
you when we get home, if you like.
”

“
Yes, please,
”
I said, hopping on
one foot.

I
didn
’
t have a father, rather a superhero. Big, strong, fast
and funny. I
’
d read comic books
each day after school, picturing him as one of the X Men, or saving
Spiderman after he ran into trouble. Each day, I looked up to him
in awe, loving him, but in a different way to my mother; a
father
’
s role, that of protector and monster-beater.
Soon my own son or daughter will look up to me like that. But
I
’
m no superhero. I
’
m not strong enough,
or fast enough, or funny enough.

Wiping my forehead with my free
hand, I breathe the fresh air scented with freshly cut grass.
Today, the shade only does so much, the heat too intense for my
poor Yorkshire body. I wear shorts for the first time in years, the
faded blue denim frayed along the bottom, the right pocket
half-torn and hanging down my thigh.

“
I can
’
t remember the last
time it was so hot,
”
I say, wiping my forehead
again.

“
This is what
I
’
m saying. And you
’
re not carrying
another human being in your tummy.
”

“
You can hardly call it a human
being.
”

“
It
?
Did you just refer to my son or daughter as an
it
?
”

I
bite my lip and scrunch my nose.
“
I think I
did,
”
I
say.
“
I
’
ve been meaning to ask you. How do we refer
to
…
well,
it
?
”

Laughing, she places her head on my shoulder again; it
bouncing up and down with each gentle step.
“
Well, not as
it
. And I
don
’
t know. I think some couples create a nickname of
sorts.
”

“
What, like Baby
B
or Mini
Aus?
”

“
I guess, something like
that,
”
she says.
“
Or we could come up with a name
that
’
s gender neutral, so whatever he or she turns out to
be, we already have a name.
”

“
A name?
Already?
”

“
Maybe,
”
she says, shrugging.
“
We need to
come up with one at some point.
”

“
Yeah, but not yet,
right?
”

Lifting her head, she laughs and
closes her eyes.

“
Sorry,
”
I say.
“
I
didn
’
t mean it like that.
”

“
Of course
not,
“
she says, kissing my cheek and quickening her step. She
laughs again.
“
It still makes me laugh when I think of your face the
other day.
”

“
Don
’
t.
”

“
I
’
m sorry, but it was
funny.
”

“
The fact I
’
m a
terrible father
’
s funny?
”

“
Stop it.
That
’
s not true.
”

I
mumble under my breath, glancing over the water once more. The
first scan still keeps me awake at night, as I remain unnerved by
my reaction. In the waiting room beforehand, I
didn
’
t comfort
B
or calm the situation, rather sat in
silence, my shoulders arched and head slumped
forward.

“
Would you like to come this
way, Mr and Mrs Ashford?
”
said the nurse.
B
clenched her hand
around mine.

“
Sure,
”
she said, clearing her
throat.
“
Call us Aus and
B
,
though.
”

An antiseptic linger filled the
hallway, the cream walls the same as we rounded each corner. Each
door identical, we passed closed ones and open ones; couples in
chairs as they awaited for this and that; doctors scurrying past in
white coats; nurses consumed by clipboards and papers. The bright
lights hurt, and the ever intensifying smell burned my nostrils,
and each step worked my stomach into a further frenzy.

Faster and faster went my breath. Harder and harder beat my
heart. Holding
B
’
s
hand, I sensed nothing at all, my entire being numb
and lifeless. It didn
’
t feel like walking,
rather floating down an endless corridor.
Is this what death feels like
?

On
entering the room, I grew faint and dizzy, rushing past the doctor,
or nurse, or whoever she was, and towards the chair that resided
beside the bed. My chair. The father
’
s chair, the person
who
’
s supposed to comfort the mother, not dash to sit down
for fear of losing consciousness.

“
Hello, Beatrice and
Aus
…
dylan? Is that right?
”
asked the doctor, or nurse, or
whoever the hell she was.

Nodding, I looked through her and
focused on the white wall behind.

“
Okay
…”
she said, pursing her lips.
“
Well, if
you
’
d like to lie down, Beatrice. We
’
ll get
started.
”

Rough white sheets crackled under
B
’
s
weight, her neck and
head settling into the thin, flimsy pillow before the nurse, or
doctor, or whoever she was rubbed circles around her stomach with
some plastic contraption that looked like an old-fashioned
telephone. Round and round in circles she pushed it, my stomach
following suit, my head, lighter and lighter.

One
deep breath after another, I clenched
B
’
s
hand, hoping to
settle my inner turmoil and offer the strength she needed. The room
fell silent, the buzz of machines the only sound. Hearing each beat
of my heart, feeling each surge and pounding of my chest, I closed
my eyes, the bright lights too much to handle.

“
Oh my God,
”
said
B
, squeezing my fingers
and pushing herself up into a sitting position.

I
’
d forgotten about the monitor, the reason
I
’
d booked a day off work and why we
’
d
ventured to a hospital. I saw him, or her, for the first time, and
for a brief second my face relaxed and my chest eased. Fuzzy and
grainy, and barely visible at all, a little curled-up, human-like
ball floated in the middle of the screen.

“
Is that
…
is
it
…
?
”
I whispered, my throat dry.

“
Yes,
”
said the nurse or doctor, or whoever
she was.
“
That
’
s your
baby.
”

B
said nothing, her fingers still
clasped around mine. Unblinking, I didn
’
t take my eyes
off the monitor, scanning it from left to right, capturing every
possible detail. Out the side of my mouth, I sensed a smile, a
genuine one.
‘
Yes
,
’
I thought.
‘
This is
our baby. It
’
s beautiful and
lovely and real. This is real. We
’
re real.
Everything
’
s real, and
everything
’
s okay.
’

I
pictured holding him or her for the first time, kissing their nose
and lips and forehead. I saw me and
B
overlooking their
crib, watching our baby sleep in a room within a house that will
soon become our home. I imagined lazy mornings with our little
bundle nestled between us, playing with their fingers and toes, and
reading one story after another.

I smiled because everything was
real; everything would be okay.

But
the skin around my mouth grew heavy as a surge of panic throbbed
through my veins. Numb and lifeless, I continued to stare at the
screen, but no longer with longing.
‘
This is
real!
’
I thought, my heart almost tearing through my
chest.
‘
Our baby is real. This is real.
Everything
’
s real, and I
can
’
t do this
.
’

“
Hello, you,
”
B
said, her voice cracking.
“
You
’
re
…
Is everything
okay?
”
she asked the person still rubbing her stomach.
“
Everything
’
s okay,
right?
”