I Unlove You (19 page)

“
Everything looks normal and
fine. You seem to have a very healthy baby on your hands. Would you
like to hear the heartbeat?
”

B
nodded whilst I remained unmoved and
useless.

Dreamlike, I became detached from the moment, a hazy memory
you can
’
t quite grab hold of. Silence took over once
more, but then a single thud, followed by another, and more and
more as they grew louder and louder.

“
That
’
s your
baby
’
s heartbeat. And everything sounds
perfect,
”
said the nurse, or doctor, or whoever she
was.

“
Oh my God,
”
B
said.
Facing me for the first time since she laid down, her smile faded.
I
’
m not sure what she saw. I don
’
t want to know
what she saw. Whatever fear-filled face looked back, it was enough
to kill her smile during a moment we should both treasure forever.
There
’
s only one first scan. Only one moment you hear
your baby
’
s heartbeat for the first time. I ruined it. I
destroyed it for us both.

I
can
’
t shift
B
’
s
face, or the monitor, or the sound of
thud-thud-thumping. Each day I look at the image of our baby,
framed in a little white piece of card. I hoped so much that seeing
him or her would change everything. It hasn
’
t, because the
fear remains, and all she does is play it off as some humorous
anecdote we
’
ll one day tell our
kids. It wasn
’
t funny then and it
isn
’
t funny now, and I doubt something so horrible ever
will be.

Each morning I look at myself in
the mirror, disgusted at the person reflecting back. Angry at the
weak man who hesitated when given the opportunity to fall in love
with his child. Angry at the doctor or nurse, or whoever the hell
she was, her pitying smile and condescending tone, no doubt meeting
useless fathers like me all the time.

Angry at
B
, for how can she love me and accept
everything
’
s
fine?

Why
do things have to change? Why did this all have to happen now, when
so much changes anyway? Is it not enough to finish school? To start
a career? To figure out tomorrow
…
next
year
…
the next decade? Are there not enough decisions as it is
without involving a little person who
’
ll soon rely on us
to decide everything. Hell, I
’
m still incapable of
choosing for myself.

“
You okay?
”
B
asks,
snapping me out of my misery.

“
Yeah. Lost in my own world,
that
’
s all.
”

“
Unlike you,
”
she says, prodding my
arm and stepping into me.
“
You know
I
’
m only joking about the other day, right? And that I
do actually believe you
’
ll be an amazing
dad. Because you will, and already are.
”

“
You think?
”
I half-cough,
half-laugh.

“
It
’
s true.
You
’
re here, and that
’
s all that matters.
This is hard. The other day was emotional, and I
don
’
t want you beating yourself up just because you
didn
’
t dance around the waiting room. I know what
you
’
re like, and you
’
ll just worry
yourself more.
”

“
Come on,
B
.
There
’
s a difference between dancing and falling apart
like I did.
”

“
You didn
’
t fall
apart. We shared an amazing moment together, one
I
’
ll never forget. What else matters?
”
she says, stopping
and halting me as she does.

Stood in an opening, the sun bathes down on us. The oranges
in
B
’
s
dress turn golden, my dark denim shorts transform into the
blue of the sky. Heat soaks through my white shirt, the beads of
sweat above my brow bulging to a point of no return. Soothing, the
sun massages my tense muscles, rubbing my head with its warm
fingers.
B
’
s
touch helps too, her hands stroking the sides of my
arms.

“
You
’
re
right,
”
I say,
nodding.
“
I suppose I just wish
—“

“
Don
’
t.
Everything
’
s fine. Everything
will always be fine, Aus.
”

“
Okay. Okay. I know. Should we
head back?
”
I ask, kicking a few loose stones on the gravel path into
the open water.

“
Sure. What would you like to
do?
”

I
pause, smiling as I picture my father and me siting on the
banking.
“
Let
’
s play together. I haven
’
t heard you
sing in so long.
”

“
Really? That
’
s what
you want to do?
”

“
Yeah. Let
’
s do something we
haven
’
t done for a while; that always makes us
smile.
”

Wrapping her arms around my neck, she kisses my dry
lips.
“
I love that idea.
”

“
And I
’
m writing you a
letter tonight,
”
I continue.
“
I
haven
’
t written to you in weeks.
”

“
I
’
ve
noticed.
”

“
I
’
m sorry.
”

“
Don
’
t be. I
haven
’
t written you, either.
”

“
But it
’
s my
turn.
”

“
You better get writing
then,
”
she whispers, an inch from my lips.
“
Because I miss reading
your messy handwriting.
”

“
My messy
handwriting?
”
Pushing her away, I cough and splutter.
“
My
handwriting
’
s wonderful.
It
’
s your chicken scratch that
’
s
—“

“
Blah, blah, blah,
”
she says, placing her
index finger over my mouth.
“
Just hug me and kiss
me, please.
”

Obliging, I place my lips over
hers and run my fingers down her neck until they graze over her
cloud-shaped birthmark.

Her kiss tastes of cherries like
it often does, her favourite lip balm never far away. I work my way
up her cheek and then to her forehead, resting my chin against her
hair and gazing out to the water.

Shadows from the trees reach out
into the canal, strips of sunlight streaking up into the green
woodland beyond. Leaves rustle above, a bird escaping into the sky,
no doubt. The smell of nature, its woody, flowery, fresh aroma
mixing with the old water from the canal.

Everything
’
s fine. Everything
will always be fine
. I replay
her words, and they
’
re true, yet so
difficult to trust. Fine doesn
’
t feel like this.
But they
’
re true. They have to be.

JULY 15
^TH
- THE COFFEE SHOP:

“
What should we do this
weekend?
”
asks the somewhat familiar girl at the table next to
us.

“
There
’
s a gig at The
Trades Club,
”
says one of the guys, a floppy black fringe covering
half his face.

“
No, I
’
ve seen that band
before. They
’
re shit
live,
”
says the other guy, decked in a denim jacket with denim
jeans, and a denim backpack slung over his
shoulders.

“
What about
James?
”
says the girl, her blonde hair bundled together and kept in
place by a red and orange neckerchief.
“
Isn
’
t he having a
party?
”

“
That
’
s next
weekend,
”
says the denim-clad guy.

“
Yeah, I think
Stephanie
’
s having one. Are you thinking about
hers?
”
says the one with the fringe, his tattooed arms creeping
out from under his baggy black t-shirt.

“
Oh, I don
’
t
know,
”
says the girl, standing up and brushing down her stripy
blue skirt.
“
I
’
m going to the bathroom.
”

“
Okay,
”
says Mr Denim, pulling out a pack of
cigarettes from his pocket.
“
Get us a coffee on
your way back.
”

All
three rise, the girl venturing to the bathroom, the guys walking
outside with cigarettes in their mouths. Slumping in my chair, I
rest my cheek on the cushion and watch, undecided as to whether
I
’
ve met any of them before. They know
B
, the girl
hugging and congratulating her as soon as we walked through the
door. Hovering behind her, I snook into my favourite chair before
any of them could do the same to me.

“
You look
beautiful,
”
said the girl.
“
Your
bump
’
s so cute.
”

“
Thanks,
”
said
B
, smiling,
although I sense she
’
s as frustrated as I
am.

It
’
s not like we announced it in the local paper or
held a
coming-out
party
, but once we made a
conscious effort to tell a few people - or should I say, for
B
to tell a
few people - the snowball effect rumbled into
gear.

“
I just heard the
news,
”
said a girl in the supermarket, two days
ago.

“
I
’
m so happy for you
both,
”
said another in the middle of the street, as we walked home
from the train station.

“
You look wonderful. Are you
having a baby shower? When are you due? Is it a boy or girl? Can I
feel the bump?
”