The Decision: Lizzie's Story (2 page)

So I felt like I’d won the lottery at Shona’s: I must have stayed in her shower for twenty whole minutes and no one shouted at me. Later, we drank the vodka and watched DVDs – she had a player and television in her room, too! – and chatted like we’d known each other forever. I was struck by how peaceful it was at her house. There was no shouting, no arguing, no slamming doors. And unexpectedly, inexplicably, I felt a little bit homesick for the noise. But my attention was diverted whilst we were watching some lame DVD about a time-travelling guy, when a drunk Shona suddenly opened up and shared her theory:

“I think some moments are meant to be,” Shona declared, “You can’t change them. Other stuff can only change around them.”

My brain fuzzy from alcohol, I didn’t realise she was sharing something she was serious about with me. Later I would come to know Shona didn’t do that much. Usually everything to her was either a joke or tedious, but back then I had known her just a few days. It would be years before I would have the full picture of what Shona was: sexually precocious, flippant, self loathing, all wrapped up in a desperate bid to get her parents to notice her.

“Like it’s written in the stars?” I giggled.

“No,” Shona said, put-out. “Nothing cheesy like that. I just think some moments happen and you can’t undo them. But from there, that starting point, anything could happen.”

It was a sobering thought. “But doesn’t that mean we’re not in control?” I enquired.

“We all have choices,” Shona said with surprising authority for an eleven year old school girl.

“But how does it work?” I said, genuinely confused. “If there are some things that we have to do and others we choose to do, how can that make sense?”

“Life doesn’t make sense.” Shona said.

“That sounds like a cop out to me.” I declared.

“Not a cop out.” Shona countered, “A paradox.”

“How do you know which are those moments?” I asked.

Finally the mysterious and grown up Shona was gone and the giggly, drunken little girl was back. “I don’t know, do I?” She’d snorted, “I suppose you just know.”

We’d carried on drinking and the next day I’d had my first ever hangover, waking in a pool of vomit. Shona’s mother had freaked out, sure I was dying and driven me to a hospital. In contrast, Shona was well used to alcohol and wore only the pasty pallor of the seasoned drinker. When the doctor had informed Shona’s mother I would be fine as long as I drank plenty of fluids – “only not the type of fluids she had last night” – Shona’s mother finally clicked and called my mother. Mum had arrived in her little beat-up car, parking outside Shona’s parents’ palatial townhouse and I’d nearly died of shame. Even more so when my incredibly pregnant Mum got out of the car and I saw she was still wearing her pyjamas. She hadn’t had the twins yet and she was huge; how she even fit behind the steering wheel was mind-boggling. Even
better, Amanda, Sal and Hannah were crammed in the back looking like woodland elves. I was sure they’d backcombed their hair just to show me up. But Shona’s Mother pretended not to notice my family in their states of disarray and as our mothers chatted idly, I wondered if Shona had ever shopped in charity shops for her stuff or had to make believe she actually wanted to be “different” to everyone else.

“Couldn’t Dad have picked me up?” I said dully as I got in the car.

“You know Dad’s not here at the moment.” Mum said, her lips pursed in disapproval. It was going to take me a long time to work my way back into her good books again.

“When’s he coming back?” I demanded.

“Don’t start, Lizzie.” Mum said, automatic.

Immediately my little sisters started chanting,
“Don’t start, Lizzie! Don’t start!”
Sal reached through the gap in the seats and pinched me. I reached back and tried to pinch her. Suddenly a fight broke out: Hannah was crying and Amanda’s shrieking that hideous laugh of hers whilst Sal’s telling me what a loser I am and how she wishes I was dead.

“Now look what you’ve started!” Mum hollered at me as the car sweeps past endless fields.

Oh God, Sal and Amanda. Their faces swam up in my mind and I felt a sense of dread pierce my heart. What were they going to say? Just three years between us eldest Carmichael girls, yet it might as well be three million. It was always one rule for Sal and Amanda, another for the rest of us. I could never quite work out if those two were Mum’s favourites or if she’d realised that by giving them a wide berth, her life became easier? Sal was fifteen now, ploughing through her GCSEs, but you’d think no girl had ever done exams before. Always, “be quiet, Sal’s studying”; “don’t
disturb your sister”; “Sal works very hard.” Sal The Genius. I didn’t remember Mum ever sounding the fanfare for my exams, but then I was doing “creative arts”. Nothing was ever said against them and I was always praised for my efforts, but it was clear there were inverted commas involved:
Yes, Lizzie is a good girl but she’s only doing the “creative arts”.
And as for Amanda… She did nothing at all, yet somehow managed to opt out of the blame for anything! She limped her way through a handful of GCSEs without even trying. She was now coasting her way through a beauty course at college, but “you know what Amanda’s like.” Yes, not a care in the world because no one puts anything on her. Ever.
Why can’t that be me?

Back in the toilets, the acrid stench of urine, stagnant water and old air freshener came rushing in: my time was up. I had to go and face everyone sometime. Resolute, I stood up, grabbing my bag. I undid the lock and walked out of the cubicle towards the sinks. For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to throw the tester in the overflowing bin with all the manky hand towels. Instead I undid my college bag and slipped it inside. I looked in the mirror and saw for the first time how puffy and red my eyes were. I’d been crying and hadn’t even known. My eyeshadow had smeared on the left hand side of my cheek where I’d carelessly wiped it. I grab another rough hand towel and wet it, rubbing as hard as I can. The sparkles stayed, but the worst of the smear was gone. It would do. Looking at the aluminium mirror, my face was little more than a blur. I had to peer right in to make out my features, but when I did, I was struck by how young I looked, then realised I was. Just one short week away from eighteen, days away from my A level results. The eve of my adult life, yet here I was:
Baby Mama
.

How could this have happened? I wasn’t a stupid girl. I knew sex could mean babies, but it was an issue I had never felt I would need to deal with. I had been sure
the kind of girls who had babies young were the ones you saw on chat shows, rowing with their equally young partners about the baby’s paternity. They were the type of girls with too much make up and a ton of gold-plated jewellery and sweat pants. There would be a cigarette hanging from their lips, ash falling on the pram as they wheeled it past windows with displays of goods they could never afford.
Weren’t they?
Suddenly I realised: no. The “type” was anyone who had sex – male or female, age irrelevant –
and included me
. Why wouldn’t it?

A strange sort of calm settled over me. I couldn’t put this off any longer. I had to do something. I had to go home, tell my parents, tell Mike, even my sisters. Perhaps the eleven year old Shona was right? Perhaps this was one of those moments I couldn’t change. Perhaps this had always been part of my plan. Whether that meant pre-destined or part of the unconscious choices I had made, it didn’t actually matter: it would be there, no matter what I chose to do.

But what next?

SAL

My mobile rang.

The noise pierced the silence inside the toilets and I was filled with a sense of urgency. I simply to answer. A lot of the time I let my phone go to voicemail. I never had any credit, so it formed the perfect excuse, especially when explaining to Mum why I hadn’t come back on time or not done what she’d asked: “Sorry, I didn’t get your message.” Yet now I felt totally unable to let the phone ring. I normally kept my phone in my pocket, but not today. It was at the bottom of my bag.
Of course.

I scrabbled about in vain, then chucked the bag on the counter next to the sinks. The light of the LCD reflected off a pencil tin, a book, yet still I was unable to locate it. Then, just as my hand touched the plastic case of the completely non-state of the art phone, it did the inevitable and stopped ringing. I uttered a curse under my breath, grabbing it up anyway, looking at the screen. “MISSED CALL – SAL”. Confusion swirled through my head. What was Sal calling me for? She never called or texted me! She went out of her way to not even speak to me, unless it was to insult me. Whether it was the fact I apparently looked like a tart in a new dress I had saved for, the B that “could have been an A” or just the usual idea I was a complete loser, Sal had all manners of ways of making me feel like crap day in, day out.

But the phone rang in my hand again and there was Sal’s name, flashing. I hesitated. As desperate as I was for some human contact, I was not sure I wanted that first voice to be Sal’s. I could already imagine the curl of her sneering upper lip, the look of contempt on her face as she contemplated me: her big sister, the idiot who got herself knocked up. Inside me, despair turned to anger. Shouldn’t Sal have been looking up to me all these years, instead of seeking to put me down every chance she got… Wasn’t that how little sisters were supposed to work? Why couldn’t I have a
normal life! After three or four more rings, I bit the bullet and pressed the green button, pressing the phone to my ear at last.

“Hello.” I said listlessly.

“Finally!” Sal said. “Forgotten how to answer a phone, have you?”

And there was good old familiar Sal, grating on everybody, just by being herself. “I was busy.” I said measuredly, gritting my teeth.

“Join the club.” Sal said, competing with me as always. “I need some note cards for my revision.”

“So?” I said pathetically, knowing full well what she was asking.

“Mum said you would still probably be in town.” Sal replied. Her secret weapon:
Mum said, Mum said…
Whatever Sal wanted: whether it was note cards for her revision, to say whatever she liked or to eat dinner in her room while the rest of us had to sit at the table, Sal could somehow magically rely on Mum to back her up, even indirectly.

“I don’t have any money.” I said meanly, even though I could feel the clank of loose change in my jacket pocket.
I need it for the bus,
I justified to myself.

“Are you alright?” Sal said suddenly.

I almost gasped, I was that surprised. I honestly couldn’t remember a time Sal had asked me that question. Always, if I ever felt ill? I was a hypochondriac. If I ever felt sad? I was an idiot. Sal believed all creative people liked to be miserable for the sake of their art, making us all by virtue a bunch of losers. She had exhibited no interest in my work or my subsequent university choice on the same basis. Whenever I tried to talk about my excitement about going, she cut the conversation dead. As far as she was concerned, I would be messing about for three years. So perhaps it was
that sense of shock at her actually seeming to care for once, that prompted me to blurt out:

“I’m pregnant.”

There was silence on the other end of the line and for one terrible moment I thought she’d gone to get Mum. My breath caught in my throat and I felt sick. I didn’t want it to come out like this, not over the phone.
Why had I just done that?
“Are you still there?” I said, with trepidation.

“I’m thinking.” Sal replied tersely.

“What’s there to think about?” My voice cracked; not for the first time that morning, I found myself on the brink of hysteria. “It’s not you it’s happening to, it’s me!” As soon as I said the words, I regretted them. I’d raised my voice. This would give Sal carte blanche to say what she liked, which meant she was sure to rain down the pain in her usual devastating style.

But for once, Sal didn’t. “Where are you?” She said.

“In the marketplace.” I gulped.

“I’m going to get the bus now.” Sal said. “I’ll meet you there, I’ll be as quick as I can.”

And with that, she rang off.

I stood there, staring at the handset. Had that just happened? Had my little sister – the one who was always at great pains to tell me how much she hated me – just said she was going to lend me her support? Was she really on her way? For the first time that day, a kind of hope pierced my heart. Perhaps I had been wrong all these years… Maybe Sal loved me after all.

I wandered out of the toilets at last and as I predicted, real life hit me full on. The sun was high in the sky, it must have been early afternoon, peak time at Winby
market. The hustle and bustle seemed larger than usual, faces looming in on me; the shouts of the traders mingled with the haggling of the customers. The waft of raw meat from the butcher’s stall, fillets packed in ice at the fishmonger’s. Two pitches full of brightly-coloured hippy clothes and bags. An old woman touted for business from her trestle table full of junk: flowerpots, tarnished silver jewellery, old books that smelt mouldy. A Mum timidly pushed her homemade wares: jam, cards and other trinkets, a small child sitting contentedly next to her in his pushchair. I stopped next to the Mum’s stall to look at the child. A little boy of perhaps two years old, he was shaded from the sun, sucking his thumb and clutching a ragged teddy. This boy had been on the market his whole life. He had a little lunch box with robots on and a collection of books and jigsaw puzzles in the tray underneath his pushchair. From the handle bars a nappy bag hung, no doubt filled with whatever else he needed. In-between serving customers, his Mum would give him her attention: squeezing his cheeks, stroking his arm or talking to him. The child would respond with a huge smile, meant just for her.

Watching the two of them together, the turmoil in my mind stopped racing for a few minutes. That Mum had to be just like me: she was creative, but she hadn’t let having a baby stop her. She had followed her dream, making her cards and jam and trinkets and taken baby too. Why couldn’t I do the same? Perhaps I could follow the same path as the Mum in the market. Or perhaps, just perhaps, I could go to university anyway and take my baby with me? Seeing the scene before me made the burgeoning hope inside my heart over Sal grow into something more: I could, surely?