The Day We Met (16 page)

“Claire.” Greg says her name again. “Babe, please…”

“I know your game,” Mum says, pushing hard against the center of his chest. “You thought because I was older and single and lonely that you could fool me into thinking you were interested in me, then move in, take my house, my money, everything. But you can't! I'm not about to be hoodwinked by you. You don't frighten me. I want you to go now, or I'm calling the police.”

Her face is white with fury, her eyes hot and dry, and there is something else: she is frightened.

“Mum.” I step in front of Greg. “It's fine. It's okay. Greg is a friend.”

It doesn't seem anything like an adequate enough word to describe him—what he is, who he's been to my mother—and I know that hearing it must hurt him, even if he understands why I've used the most neutral word I can think of.

“Claire.” Greg says her name once more, softly, as gently as he can. “It's me, darling. We're married. Look, there's a photo of us on our wedding day….”

“How dare you!” Mum shouts at him, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me away from Greg. “Don't you dare pretend
you're their father! Why are you here, in my house? What do you want from me? Caitlin, can't you see what he's doing? Get out! Get out!”

“Mummy!” Esther, attracted by the noise, arrives at the top of the stairs, followed by Gran, who stands one stair down, peering anxiously at the scene.

“What's all this racket?” she asks. “Claire, what on earth are you playing at?”

Something in Gran's voice calms Mum, who loosens her grip on my wrist. Her eyes are still wide with fear as she stands there, breathing very hard.

“I was…I was running a…a bath…and then there was all this stuff in my bedroom. And it's not mine!”

“Mummy!” Esther shakes Gran's hands off her shoulders and runs to Mum, who scoops her up and hugs her hard. “They are Daddy's things, Mummy. You are very silly, Mummy-forget-me-not.”

With Esther in her arms, Mum sinks down onto the carpet. The air is still damp with hot steam, and the smell of wet carpet rises in the air.

“I forgot,” she told Greg, unable to look at him.

“Mummy, get up!” Esther commands, taking Mum's cheeks in her hands and pressing them together between her little palms, twisting Mum's face out of shape. “Get up now, Mummy. It's time for tea.”

We stand back, the three of us, and watch as Esther tugs at Mum's hand until she finally climbs to her feet.

“What do you want for tea?” Mum asks her, not looking at any of us, as she carries Esther down the stairs.

“Lasagna!” Esther says.

“Or beans on toast?” I hear Mum say, as her voice recedes into the kitchen.

“Lasagna!” Esther repeats.

And then there is silence.

“I'll get the camp bed,” Greg says. “Sleep on the floor in Esther's room.”

“No,” I say. “I'll sleep on the camp bed. You have my room. I'll be away for a few nights anyway, unless you want me to stay?”

“She's getting worse,” Greg says, the words spilling out of him before any of us are quite ready to hear them, even him. “I didn't expect it to be this quick. I mean, I know they talked about the blood clots, but I thought…I'd hoped we'd have some time together, to say goodbye. I thought she'd come back and say goodbye.”

Finally, Gran climbs the last stair, and puts a hand on Greg's shoulder. “Everything that's happening now, the things she says and thinks, the way she feels…it doesn't mean she hasn't loved you, more than any other person in her life. It doesn't mean that, Greg. This isn't her, it's the disease.”

“I know, it's just…” Greg's shoulders descend, and, suddenly, it's as though the air is let out of him. He fades to half his size in front of our eyes. “I'll get the camp bed out of the garage.”

Neither of us moves to follow him out of the front door, knowing he needs some time alone to mourn.

“Mum!” Mum comes to the foot of the stairs, calling up as if nothing has happened. “How do I get into this beans container, again?”

“You go,” I say. “I'll try to mop up some of this.”

“Are you all right?” Gran asks me.

“Are any of us?” I ask her.

“Mum!” I hear my mum shout again. “Can I do it with a knife?”

This is the first photo I took of Claire and Esther.

Esther is wrapped in a towel, and Claire's got that annoyed look on her face because she strictly forbade me to take any photos until she had brushed her hair and put on mascara. But I couldn't help it. I couldn't believe what had just happened.

I suppose most men think their pregnant partner is beautiful, and I was no exception. I loved the way she looked—the swell of her belly carrying our baby. And she was happy, then. Claire liked to bitch and complain about her ankles getting fat, her skin stretching, and about how she was far too old to be doing this, but I could see she loved it too, most of the time. She had this energy about her—this sort of vibration of life. And I would look at her and be amazed. You know, my baby was in there.

Esther came a little early, and even though Caitlin had been born early too, it took us all by surprise. As it had been such a long time since Caitlin, everyone thought Claire would most likely go overdue, because her body had forgotten that it had ever been pregnant before. Claire hadn't stopped doing anything while she was pregnant—not going for walks, or working—she even went out dancing with Julia, on Julia's birthday, even though she was as round as a ripe pomegranate. I hadn't wanted her to go, but I couldn't stop her, so I sent Caitlin out with them to keep an eye on her. Caitlin wasn't impressed.

When Esther was born, it was the middle of the night and Claire got up, suddenly—especially considering she was so big, by then. She was at the stage when she didn't do anything quickly. Like a supertanker—that's what she said she was like, it took her at least a week to turn around. But on this night, she got up like a rocket and went to the bathroom. I went back to sleep again, almost straightaway, but it could only have been for a few seconds because I woke to the sound of her calling. Not shouting my name at the top of her voice, but one quiet little call after the other, more like whimpers, I suppose. I went to the bathroom, and Claire was sitting on the tiled floor.

“He's coming.” She breathed the words out.

It took me a second to get what she was on about, then I noticed there was a puddle of fluid between her legs, and I realized she was in labor. “Right, I'll call the hospital, tell them we are coming,” I said. “And get your bag…”

“No, I mean he's coming
now
,” Claire said, and then this wave of pain hit her.

“But that's impossible,” I said, and I realized I was still standing in the doorway, so I crouched down. She wasn't screaming,
or making any of the noise I was expecting. She almost wasn't there: her eyes were closed and she looked like she was concentrating hard on the world inside her. The next wave of pain passed.

“Tell that to the baby, and call 999!”

The call handler stayed on the phone and told me to look between Claire's legs, and basically use my fingers to measure how dilated she was. I did try, but Claire growled at me, like she was possessed by a devil. So I knocked on Caitlin's door, and although she could usually sleep through an earthquake, she got up immediately.

The woman on the phone said the ambulance was five minutes away, which seemed like a lifetime.

“Check how dilated your mum is,” I said to Caitlin.

“What? No way!” Caitlin looked horrified.

“Oh, for chrissake, give me a bloody, mirror,” Claire said, and I thought about it and remembered that this was my woman, and my baby, and I am six foot two and like to think of myself as pretty manly.

“I'm looking,” I told Claire. “So just get over it.”

Claire told me that she hated me, and used some choice swear words, too, but she still seemed quite in control, groaning a bit, closing her eyes, bracing herself with her back against the bath, her feet planted wide on the tiles. I felt sure that if it were really close, she'd be making more of a fuss. I got a towel and mopped up the fluid on the floor, and then looked.

The woman on the phone asked me again if I could estimate how far dilated she was. I said, “I don't know, but I can see the top of the baby's head.”

The woman on the phone started to say that I should tell her not to push, but before she'd finished the sentence, Claire pushed—and there was a rush of life, and water and blood, and
I caught her, the baby. This mucky little pink and gray thing covered in crap. She shot into my arms! It still makes me laugh when I think about it.

“She's out!” I yelled at my phone, which I'd dropped when I went to catch the baby. Ever since then, Claire has said that this was the time all those Sundays playing bloody cricket finally paid off. Caitlin picked up the phone, and I laid the baby on Claire's chest. Her eyes were wide as she watched me do it—wide and full of wonder.

“She's asking if it's breathing?” Caitlin said, looking worried. But before I could check, this cry, a howl of intent, cut through the air, and I burst into tears—proper stupid woman tears, running down my face. I couldn't stop. Caitlin got a clean towel from the airing cupboard and we wrapped it around the baby, and then the doorbell rang. The ambulance had arrived. That was when I grabbed my phone and took this picture, even though Claire threatened to kill me. I wanted to remember that moment, exactly.

“He's so lovely,” Claire said, oblivious to the two huge paramedic guys that had walked into our bathroom.

“She's a girl,” I told her, and she looked even happier.

“Excellent,” she said. “Another Armstrong woman to conquer the world.”

“Have you got enough money?” I ask Caitlin, who nods.

“Well, I've got your credit card and the PIN, so yes,” she says.

“And you will look after my car?” I run my palm over the surface of the vehicle, which is painted my favorite color. It's hot and strong and bold. I can't remember what the name for it is, though. Something happened last night that changed things. I don't know exactly what it was, but I felt it when I woke up this morning: the blankness pressing down into my head. Perhaps it's the fog; perhaps it's the emboli. I picture them like bright little sparks, fireworks whizzing and banging. That would be a good name for the color of my car: emboli.

“I will try to look after your car,” Caitlin says. She looks uncertain—of course she does.

Earlier today I waited in, being guarded by Greg while
my mum took Caitlin to the hospital. I waited, looking out of the window, pinning myself to the moment when she would come back and tell me how things were. The only way I knew how to do it was to stay there, in exactly the same place, from the moment they left until the moment they got back—certain that if I moved, I'd lose the present moment. Greg kept trying to make me do stuff—drink tea or eat toast or go and sit with him in the kitchen—but that is because he doesn't know I have to pin myself to a point in time and make my mind stay there. I don't know how long it took, but I tried to open the front door the second I saw the car pull in. Only they do something to the door to stop me going out of it, so I can't open it anymore from the inside. I waited on the other side for them to open it, still making myself stay in that moment: making myself know what had happened.

Caitlin has always been such an open book—I have always known what she is thinking or feeling—but suddenly I couldn't tell. I couldn't tell as she walked past me and flopped onto the sofa in the living room. I looked at Mum.

“Eighteen weeks,” she said. “Mother and baby doing well.”

I don't know exactly what I felt so frightened of when I walked into that room; I only know I had the sense that whatever she was going to say was likely to terrify me.

“Caitlin?” I asked her, sitting down on the chair opposite.

“I love my baby,” she said, quite simply. “Like, with this force I had no idea was possible. It's almost like I want to fight someone, even though there is no one to fight. Oh, Mum. There's a picture. Do you want to see?”

She handed me a photo. They're much clearer now than they used to be, and I could see little arms and legs, and a profile that looks just like Caitlin's.

“Oh, Caitlin.” I wanted to hold her and hug her. “I'm so pleased.”

“Me too,” she said simply. “I'm pleased too, I think. But scared too.”

“You will be a wonderful mother.”

“Will you keep telling me that?” she said.

“If you keep telling me that you are pregnant,” I said, and she smiled.

It seemed wrong, then, to dispatch her back out into the world, on her own, to go and find her father. And yet she is going. I can't stop her now, even if I wanted to. Ever since whatever happened yesterday happened, she has had this sort of quiet determination about her—this kind of resolution. For the first time, I notice that she is being careful with me, treating me like I am ill. Yes, something changed last night. But if it was something that has helped Caitlin be this stronger, more certain and purposeful person, then I hope it can't have been that bad a thing.

“Call me when you get there,” I say. “And before you see him—and straight afterwards. Don't forget to tell him what I told you, okay? He'll be shocked at first, probably…. Perhaps we should write him a letter….”

“No,” Caitlin says. “This is the way it's happening. I'm going. And I will be back really soon, okay?”

I nod and kiss her—and then my mum, who has been watching us both, presses a wad of money into Caitlin's hand exactly the way she always used to do with a packet of sweets.

“Take care, poppet,” she says, and Caitlin bears the childish nickname sweetly, kissing my mother on the cheek. Esther cries as the car pulls out, and I want to cry too. Not just because Caitlin is going, but also because now I am alone, with my mother in charge.

“She'll be fine,” Mum says, as she guides me back into the house, her hands on my shoulders, as though I have forgotten how to walk in a straight line—which hasn't happened yet, I don't think. “She's stronger than she looks, that girl. I'm so proud of her.”

“Me too,” I say. “And of you—a great-grandma!”

“That's quite enough of that, my girl,” Mum says, and after we've walked back into the house, she locks the door behind me. “Or should I call you Granny now?”

I'm writing in the book when Esther brings me a storybook to read to her. I've read this book to her about a thousand times at least, and I was just writing in the memory book, the tip of the pen obediently following my thoughts—or at least I think it is. I believe it is. I think words and the pen moves, and produces patterns and swirls on the page that look familiar, and it's comforting to assume that they mean something. Caitlin is driving to meet her father—no doubt with that little crease between her brows that she always has when she is driving on the motorway—and I am trying not to think of her weaving in and out of the big trucks in my flimsy little heart-colored car. Esther's book is full of animal drawings—a big rabbit and a little rabbit. Or possibly hare, I'm not sure. But it doesn't matter, and I don't mind, as I haven't lost the name for either long-eared animal, and that is a small victory. Only there are words, too, and it's the words that I cannot decipher anymore. Decipher. That's a good word. I have the word “decipher” in my head, which is a long and complicated word that I know the meaning of, but this children's book, with its large, simple symbols printed underneath the picture of Hare or Rabbit, might as well be written in Greek.

I know the words are there, and I know what they do. I've
read this book a thousand times or more to Esther, but I cannot remember what takes place between the big rabbit (or possibly hare) and the little rabbit (possibly hare).

I panic, anxious that this will be the moment Esther finds me out: the moment when she looks at me anew, withdraws from me, and joins the ranks of people who prefer not to engage me in conversation anymore.

“Come on, Mummy,” Esther says, wriggling impatiently. “Do the voices, like you usually do. The really high one and the low one, 'member?”

The pitch of her voice soars and then falls; she knows exactly how it should sound.

I look at the picture of the big rabbit and the little hare, and I try to invent something about a magical rabbit who turned his best friend into a midget, and then…threw him at a plate in the sky. Esther laughs, but she is not satisfied; she is even a little bit cross.

“That is not the story, is it, Mummy?” she admonishes me. “Read me the proper story, with the voices, like normal! I like things to be like normal, Mummy.”

It's those last words that crush me: Esther craving normal. Until now, Esther has been the only one who's assumed that everything is like normal, that I am just like I've always been, but for the first time she is seeing that it's not. I am failing her.

“Will you read it to me?” I ask her, even though she is only three and a half, and she doesn't know how to read beyond sounding out a few letters. This is one thing we have in common.

“Of course I will,” Esther says confidently. “There is Big Rabbit and Little One…the mummy and the baby…and the baby wants some new Lego, the Doctor Who kind, so when
Mummy Rabbit says, ‘Ooh, I love you, Little Rabbit,' the baby rabbit says can I have some Doctor Who Lego, please, specially with a TARDIS…”

As she goes on, seemingly happy to turn the story into a shopping list, I rest my chin on the top of her head and think about the things that we won't be able to do soon, or will never do. Will I be with Esther on her first day of school? Probably not. Or if I am, I might think she is Caitlin, and wonder why her black hair is yellow, now. I won't see her in her first school play, or take her shopping when she becomes more interested in clothes than toys—during those rare few years when she might have listened to my opinion on what she wears and how she does her hair. I won't see her pass her exams, or get into uni; I won't see her wear a cap and gown, become a fighter pilot, or a ninja, or Doctor Who, which is her ultimate ambition. Not a companion—she doesn't want to be a companion—she wants to be the Doctor. All of these things will be lost to me. Lives will play out behind my back, and I won't know a thing about them—that's assuming my brain hasn't forgotten to tell my lungs to breathe by then, and I'm not already dead. Dead might be preferable: if there is heaven, and ghosts, I could watch over her, watch over all of them. I could be a guardian angel, except I still know that guardian angels are party poopers. And anyway, I don't believe in God, which I think would stop me even getting through the application process, although I am fairly sure I could talk him round in the interview. “What about equal ops, God?” I'd say.

Stop thinking. Stop this crazy roller coaster of thinking and listen; listen to Esther telling you that she wants the Hot Wheels Super Racer Shooter track, and make yourself be here in this moment, with your daughter, breathing in the milky scent of her hair, feeling her body so relaxed against you. Be in this moment.

“We should bake a cake,” I say. Esther stops talking and twists around in her chair, the book sliding to the floor with a plop.

“Ooh, yes,” she says excitedly. “Let's bake a cake! What do we need? We need flour!” She hops off my knee, dragging a chair over to the cupboards, and climbs up onto the worktop without hesitation in a bid to find flour. I go to the kitchen door and listen. Mum is Hoovering again. Mum decided that I can't be trusted with cookers, flames, or gas, so if she knew we were making a cake, she'd come in here and supervise me, and then it wouldn't be me making a cake with Esther, it would be Mum.

Closing the door softly, I think perhaps we have long enough to at least put some things in a bowl and mix them around before Mum discovers us.

“Is this flour?” Esther asks me, producing a pink packet of something powdery, thrusting it under my nose for inspection. I inhale, and it reminds me of fairgrounds.

“Yes,” I say, although I am not certain. “It might be.”

“Do we weigh it?” she says happily. “On the scales?”

Climbing down from the chair, she fetches a small bowl from the cupboard.

“No,” I say. “Weighing is for losers. We are going to live life on the edge.”

“You fire the oven,” she tells me. “You have to do that because you are a grown-up and ovens get hot, hot, hot!”

I turn around and stare at the appliance. I remember choosing it because it was big and showy, and looked like it belonged to a woman who knew how to cook, but I never knew how to cook, not even when I knew about flour. I have only ever cooked Esther's lasagna, which requires very little skill, and now even that has gone. So I look at the cooker, and while I remember that I picked it out because it looked like a cook's cooker,
I now wonder what all of the things do. I reach for something protruding out of the front and turn it around. Nothing happens, so I assume that I haven't done any damage, and at least Esther thinks I've done something.

“We need eggies,” Esther says, going to the fridge and pulling out an array of things onto the floor, with a variety of splats and plops, until she finds a soggy cardboard box, right at the back, that is egg-shaped. She puts it on the table. It is full of smooth, beautiful-looking objects that look like they fit just perfectly in the palm of my hand. I love the eggs, because I know what they are, and because I have not forgotten them, and now they seem more perfect and more beautiful to me than they ever have before.