The Two Week Wait (39 page)

Poof! Poof! Poof!
she breathes out as the pain moves to her back. Eventually it subsides and she replies, ‘It’s OK, honestly.’

‘How often are your contractions?’

‘Pretty often.’

‘You’ve not been timing them?’

‘Yes, I have, hang on . . . ’ She grimaces. This is getting worse. She thought that was it. ‘Every three or four minutes . . . ’ Thank Christ, it’s diminishing.
She’s vaguely conscious passers-by are staring at her – everywhere seems very busy today – oh yes, it’s the Festival . . .

‘Why didn’t you call me earlier?’ Adam picks up her rucksack.

‘I didn’t want to bother you until I was into it properly,’ says Lou. ‘And I knew you were on alert.’

‘You ridiculous woman!’ scolds Adam. ‘Here, lean on me.’

She grips onto his arm as a support so she can edge to a sitting position on the front doorstep. ‘I know, well, I didn’t realize it was going to move on so fast—’

‘What about your waters?’

‘They broke this morning.’

‘You should have rung me then!’

‘I know, but I don’t know, I just thought lots of women have these false labours, especially the first time—’

‘And to think you were the one who told
me
we didn’t need to do everything on our own!’

‘I know, but—’ Nonetheless she feels resistant. WE’RE NOT A NORMAL COUPLE! she wants to scream. But right now she can’t speak; she just goes
‘ARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!’ as she feels another contraction build to its peak. Over the road, a woman pushing a man in a wheelchair jumps in alarm, assesses what’s happening and
leans forward to explain to her charge.

‘Breathe,’ Adam reminds her.

‘I called the midwife at the same time as you,’ says Lou, when she can get her voice back once more.

‘Good.’

‘And she said not to come in until the contractions were three in ten minutes.’

‘But they are.’

‘Yes, now they are,’ she snaps. ‘But they weren’t when I called. That’s why I’m waiting here on the bloody pavement. For you.’

*  *  *

Adam is standing in the porch outside the Royal Sussex eating a sandwich. The midwife has suggested he take a break from the birthing room for a bit, while Lou has a bath to
ease her discomfort, and Lou has asked him to call various people and bring them up to speed. She chucked him her mobile and told him to ‘for God’s sake use this!’ when he’d
asked for the necessary numbers. She’s been yelling at him a lot over the last five hours.

He leans against a pillar and attempts to take stock. Even though he’s been preparing himself for months, he can’t quite believe it’s actually happening at last. Up on level 13
of the tower block a new life is coming into the world – and he will be partly responsible for the growth, development, education of this whole little being. It brings up a whole host of
emotions: honour at being allowed to be there, excitement, pride and incredulity.

Support, support, support
, he reminds himself. That’s what your role is today.

On that basis, who’s the first person to call? It should probably be Lou’s mother.

*  *  *

I want to just go home and have a cup of tea, thinks Lou as Adam steps back into the room. Ugh – I can smell food on him. But there’s only one way this baby’s
going to go and that’s out of me, so I have to go through with this.

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!’ she bellows as another contraction sears through her. The pain is so intense, so visceral, she feels she’s going to die.
I’m going to tell everyone labour is absolute agony, she vows.

‘I sound like bloody Sharapova,’ she gasps. Was it yesterday she was watching tennis in the French Open on telly?

‘She’s come on a fair bit since you left,’ the midwife says to Adam.

‘So I see,’ says Adam.

‘We’ve given her some gas and air,’ she says.

It’s very weird, thinks Lou, I can hear all these people talking, but they don’t feel quite real. She can hear someone singing a hymn, though it must be her imagination.
Onward
Christian soldiers . . .
What a peculiar choice. She hasn’t been to church in years.
Marching as to war . . . Christ, the royal whats-it, leads against the . . .
Where on earth has
this come from? She doesn’t believe in God. She must be high.

Like a mighty army . . .
It’s my mother, thinks Lou. She used to sing this all the bloody time . . .

Then . . . at long, long last
. . .

‘He’s coming . . . he’s coming . . . ’ says the midwife.

‘SSSSSSSSHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!’ screeches Lou, in one last yell of defiance.

‘I can see the head!’ says Adam.

‘Now pant!’ says the midwife. ‘I’m just checking the cord isn’t compromised . . . ’

I couldn’t care what you’re doing, thinks Lou.
I’m
giving birth to a bus.

‘It’s got red hair!’ Adam shrieks.

And, good God – it feels the size of a fucking elephant – but that’s it, the head is out.

After that, the rest of the body is comparatively quick. It almost seems to slither from her, until out the legs finally slip.

For a few moments, Lou is so relieved and exhausted she almost forgets to breathe, and she can’t speak at all.

It’s over.

‘Congratulations,’ says the midwife. Immediately she lifts the baby, and after a swift wipe puts the infant, still covered in blood, on Lou’s chest. Not that Lou cares how
sticky the experience is.

Her baby boy is here.

The door of the ward bursts open, saloon-bar style. It’s Molly and Luke, too excited not to race ahead of Karen and Anna.

Oh-oh, I’m not sure I’ve the stamina for this, thinks Lou. But then Molly is at her side, head barely high as the hospital bed, brandishing flowers. They appear to have been picked
at the allotment: the leaves are a touch slug-eaten, the petals are crushed and they’re wrapped in silver foil.

‘For you.’ Molly thrusts the posy at her, arms rigid.

‘Thank you,’ Lou says. The baby is at her breast; after an initial struggle, she’s just managed to feed him.

‘Hold on a minute, poppet,’ says Karen, reaching the bed too. ‘Sorry,’ she says to Lou. ‘Molly, can’t you see, Lou isn’t able to take those right
now?’

‘Oh,’ says Molly.

‘She’s got the baby just there,’ Karen explains. ‘Oh, Lou, he’s gorgeous!’

From Molly’s perspective he is probably not easily visible, wrapped in a blanket.

‘Can I see him?’ says Molly.

Karen lifts her daughter up a little, Lou carefully edges down the cover, and turns the baby, gently, to reveal his face. His skin is all red and blotchy, his brow is damp, yet Lou is overcome
with love. Nothing has prepared her for this: if she could bottle the joy she is feeling, she’d overdose on it every morning.

‘He’s got
lots
of hair!’ says Molly, impressed.

‘It’s really dark,’ says Luke.

‘I can see red in it,’ says Karen. ‘Though it’s likely to fall out.’

Molly looks worried.

‘It’ll grow back,’ Lou assures her. ‘That’s what happens with newborns.’

‘You had very dark hair when you were a baby,’ says Karen. ‘And look at you now.’

Molly tosses her blonde curls; she’s aware of her assets already.

‘You must be wrung out,’ says Karen. ‘Well done, you.’

‘Now he’s here, it’s all been worth it.’

‘He’s beautiful,’ says Anna, peering, too.

‘Thank you,’ says Lou. She couldn’t agree more: there’s never been such a beautiful boy in the whole wide world, ever.

‘Look at his tiny fingers,’ says Anna, as if Lou hasn’t noticed them already. ‘They’re so small and perfect. And those nails – wow, they’re paper-thin,
aren’t they?’ She inhales. ‘Ah . . . He even smells new.’

Just then Adam arrives with two cups of tea: he’s been to get one for him and one for Lou. Anna turns to him. ‘Congratulations.’

Adam beams; he seems almost as euphoric as Lou is. ‘Did you want me to get you some?’ he asks. ‘The machine’s down the corridor.’

‘No, don’t worry,’ says Karen. ‘We won’t stay long – I need to give these two their supper. But they were desperate to see the baby.’

‘Has he got a name yet?’ asks Anna.

‘We think so,’ says Adam. ‘We’re going to live with it for a few days, before we let everyone know.’

Lou suppresses an urge to laugh. They’re both heartily sick of everyone putting in their twopenn’orth.

‘I met you at Christmas,’ says Molly. She frowns. ‘Are you Lou’s boyfriend?’

Karen shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve tried to explain.’

‘No . . . ’ says Adam, unfazed. ‘But I am the baby’s daddy.’

Molly frowns, perplexed.

‘I blame Disney.’ Karen drops her voice. ‘She’s determined to find a prince for everyone. I’ll have another go at helping her understand.’

‘It’s OK,’ says Adam.

‘You know, I think he looks a bit like you,’ says Anna. ‘He has a similar hairline.’

Adam appears as if he might burst with pride and Lou smiles to herself. They’ve had a few visitors today: her mother, Adam’s parents, Howie. Each one has commented on the perfection
of the baby’s fingers and his resemblance to Adam.

She’s not even sure they’re right about this last observation; she can’t quite see it. To her their baby just looks like himself, but no matter. She imagines that the globe
over there are babies being born today, with people commenting just like this. It’s just such a terrible shame her egg recipient wasn’t one of them.

*  *  *

The phone rings in the kitchen. The only person who regularly dials Cath and Rich’s landline is Judy, although it’s unusually late in the day for her to call.

‘I gather your brother has offered you half the money to try the IVF again, darling,’ she says without preamble. ‘Your Dad and I have discussed it. We’ve got a few
savings, so we can give you the rest if it would help.’

At once Cath’s spirits lift, then fall as she considers the implications. ‘I don’t know, Mum . . . It’s so kind, but . . . ’

‘Well, think about it.’

‘I have been thinking about it already. Ever since I spoke to Mike.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s only, I’m not sure I can go through it all again.’

‘No need to decide now. We’d need to give the bank a bit of notice anyway. I just didn’t want you to have to rule it out because you couldn’t afford it.’

‘Gosh, thanks, Mum, it really is very generous of you.’

Cath puts down the receiver. ‘They’ve offered to pay for it,’ she says to Rich. He’s been at her shoulder throughout.

‘That’s good, love,’ he says. But his voice sounds flat, steamrollered.

‘We’d have to use a different donor, I guess . . . ’ She strives to be positive, yet it feels forced. Something in her heart died with the baby-that-nearly-was.

‘Maybe we’d have more luck with someone else,’ he says, but Cath isn’t convinced he believes it. ‘We could always consider going to Spain or something –
it’s cheaper there.’

‘Mm . . . I don’t know, a half Spanish baby . . . it wouldn’t look as much like us. It’s just I felt a real connection with that donor . . . ’ She thinks of her
mirror woman, wherever she is, although now the woman has a child they are no longer a reflection of one another. Cath sways, knocked by the acknowledgement, leans against the sink unit to steady
herself. ‘You know, I am glad it worked for her, really I am.’

Rich takes her into his arms. ‘Me too.’

‘We helped her, didn’t we?’

‘We did.’

‘And without us, her baby might not have happened.’

‘No.’

Though of course Cath knows it might well have: a different couple would doubtless have paid for their donor’s IVF in return for her eggs. But it wouldn’t have been that exact baby,
created at that exact moment.

Cath and Rich stand together a moment, holding one another. Then Cath pulls away so she can articulate what’s on her mind. ‘I truly don’t know if I can go through everything
for a third time. It’s so gruelling, building up my hopes, only to have them dashed. I’m strong, but not that strong.’

‘They might not be dashed, this time . . . ’

‘I know, though the odds are they will. There’s a 35 per cent success rate on a third attempt; that’s what it says on the net.’

‘That might not be true for you, though. Those statistics are for everyone.’

‘I don’t see why they wouldn’t be.’ She checks his expression. ‘What do you think?’

‘I’m not sure . . . Though I do agree; it’s such a lot to go through, yet again. But you know me, you need to give me a while.’ Then he adds, pre-empting her concern,
‘I’m doing OK, honestly.’

‘You’re sure?’

He nods, ‘I’m sure.’ Then he says carefully, ‘I do know that I want you back, love.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You go somewhere else when you get down . . . You disappear, away from me.’

‘Mm.’ She knows he’s right. When she’s in that deep, dark place, she disappears from everyone; it’s all she can do not to disappear from herself. At times she felt
that she was losing her personality, slipping away from her essence, completely. To be back up, gasping for air, to have caught herself again, feels like it took every ounce of strength she had.
She almost drowned, this last time. But sometimes she forgets: if it’s hellish for her when she is in despair, it must also be hellish for Rich, watching from the sidelines, unable to throw
her a lifebelt. And he has his own grief too: it’s his baby they were making.

Recognizing this only underlines how risky it would be to undertake a third round. They must think it through, properly, and she mustn’t rush Rich; it would be easy to bounce him into a
decision and she’s learnt that his slower, more measured way of working things through is equally – sometimes more – valid.

‘Let’s sleep on it,’ she says.

*  *  *

Thank goodness, thinks Lou. She’d hoped for a tranquil day to start her baby’s life; it was not to be. She’s so exhausted and emotional, she has absolutely no
energy left. But at last the visitors have gone, and Adam too.

It’s just the two of them.

She should probably follow the example of the woman in the bed next to her and get some rest – it’s gone 10 p.m. – but she can’t stop looking at her baby. He’s so
small, so dependent and vulnerable, she can’t bear to turn away.