Who We Were Before (13 page)

37

EDWARD, SATURDAY, 8.45 P.M.

I
’m out on the street again. I couldn’t stay in that coffin-sized hotel room more than ten minutes on my own. The second there’s silence, thoughts descend like stinging wasps: how Zoe shut me out; how she lied; how she’s been the one making all our decisions. I’ll sit at a café and have another pint, watch the street life filter by . . . anything’s better than staying inside alone.

I lower myself into a wicker chair at one of the many places lining the street, sipping my beer when the waiter brings it to me. I don’t usually drink this much, but there’s little else to pass the time here waiting for Fiona. Besides, I want to be relaxed and chilled out for her, not tightly wound from thoughts of my absent wife. I jiggle the change in my pocket, wondering if I need to get more euros from the cashpoint. As I slide the contents of my pocket into my hand and pick through them, I realise my wedding band isn’t there. I check the other pocket, but it’s not there either.

Shit.

I paw through the assortment of coins, keys and random Tic Tacs, but the ring is nowhere to be found. Have I really lost my wedding band? I stretch out my legs as the knowledge sinks in. I knew my marriage was over – removing the watch Zoe gave me signalled that decision – but this seems like a final judgment from above. A mix of nostalgia and sadness washes over me. However far we’ve drifted now, that ring was a reminder of what we had, of what we promised: love, forever. Now that reminder’s gone. It shouldn’t matter, but somehow it does.

My mind flips back to our wedding – the best day of my life right up until Milo was born. Part of me couldn’t believe it all: Zoe as my wife, and my very own child. I couldn’t get the wedding band on her finger fast enough. As she slipped on my ring, I gazed down and marvelled how, until the day I died and probably even after, that ring would still be on my finger.

Until death do us part.

Sounds about right – except it wasn’t my death, or Zoe’s.

My throat tightens and emotions push at my chest. I take a huge swig of the beer in front of me. I’ll talk to Zoe as soon as I get home, I decide, and tell her I’m moving out. I’m sure she won’t mind – she feels the distance as much as I do. Hell, she’s the one who created it. I’ll crash at my parents’ until I find somewhere to live. Maybe a flat, back in London again. I can’t wait to get out of that village, where the trees and flowers and quiet – things we moved there for in the first place – now feel like they’re suffocating me. Give me noise, give me shrieking sirens and late-night partiers.

Give me
life
.

38

EDWARD, NOVEMBER 2010

I
’ve seen this scene in films so many times, but I never thought it would happen to me. Today is our very first ultrasound, when we get to see the little baby growing inside my wife.

My wife.
I can’t say that enough. I love how it rolls off my tongue, and I take every opportunity to throw it into conversation. Zoe rolls her eyes and laughs, telling me ‘I do still have a name!’ but I can see by the glow in her eyes that she likes it too – despite all her protests. Marriage has elevated our relationship, giving us a new status.

And the next step? Parents. I shake my head as Zoe climbs onto the examining table, remembering her words on what feels like ages ago.
Us as parents? Can you imagine?
And now, here we are, just six months away from having a baby. I can’t wait. I bought Zoe a huge stack of pregnancy books and although I’d never admit it to my mates – most of whom are still down the pub each night sinking pints – I’ve read most of them too.

I know it’s a lot for Zoe to handle. After all, it’s her body ballooning out, her womb cradling the baby, and her milk that will feed it. She’s the one this child will call out for when it’s ill, when it awakens in the middle of the night, and when it scrapes its knee. She’ll be its
mother
, the ultimate figure in any child’s life, the ultimate comforter and protector. No father can compete with that sacred bond, although I certainly intend to be a very close second.

‘All right, can you lie down, please?’ The sonographer picks up her
instrument, and Zoe scoots down, the paper beneath her crinkling.

‘I’ll just lift your shirt, and spread this gel on your stomach . . .’

I clasp my wife’s hand, my eyes tracing the contours of her tummy
as if I’ll be able to see what’s in there. Zoe squeezes my fingers, and I can tell by the look on her face that she’s still worried. I spent most of last night trying to quell her doubts.

‘What if there’s something wrong with it? What if they go to check the heartbeat, and it’s not beating any more? What if . . .’ She shook her head, her usually animated face pinched and pale.

‘It’ll be okay,’ I said, over and over, pulling her into my arms. I’m
not sure how I know everything will be fine, but I just do. I know this child, this surprise baby, is somehow meant to be. It’s brought the two of us together, and it’ll continue to do that as a family.

The screen comes to life as the sonographer moves the probe up and down Zoe’s stomach, and Zoe grimaces. She was so afraid the sonographer wouldn’t be able to see anything that she downed litres upon litres of water, and she was desperate for the loo half an hour ago. I can’t even imagine how she’s feeling now.

‘All right. There’s your baby.’

Zoe lifts her head and I lean forward to stare at the screen. There in front of us, curled up like a frankfurter with tiny appendages, is our child. My heart starts pounding and I squeeze Zoe’s fingers. Even though it looks more like a tadpole than anything human, a wave of pride sweeps over me.

‘Is it okay?’ Zoe’s tone is anxious.

‘Everything looks on track so far,’ the sonographer says. ‘I’ll just take a few measurements.’ She deftly moves the probe and does a few clicks, then smiles over at us.

‘Do you want to know the sex?’

‘You know already?’ I ask, raising my eyebrows. ‘I thought you couldn’t tell until much later on.’

‘Well, sometimes. But I’m quite sure now.’

I meet Zoe’s eyes. ‘Do we want to know?’

She nods. ‘Hell, yes!’

‘It’s a boy,’ the sonographer says.

‘A boy! We’re going to have a boy!’ A huge, goofy grin lifts my lips,
and Zoe grins back at me too. I’d be happy with whatever gender, but secretly I was hoping for a little boy. Someone to kick around
the ball with, to take to games when he’s older, to have that special
father-son bond as he grows. If I was excited before, now I’m bursting.

This child is the most important thing in my world – in
our
world – and I’m going to make his life the happiest, the most fulfilling it can be. That’s my promise to him, and I’ll have to fall down dead before I break it.

39

ZOE, SATURDAY, 9.15 P.M.

I
spin in a circle in the busy street, half-tempted to shout Edward’s name and see if he magically emerges. I’ve followed John’s directions to the letter, and I’ve been wandering around what should be the centre of the Marais for what feels like forever. But I still have no idea where to go – of course I don’t. How stupid to think I’d be able to stroll through the blocks and find him.

Even though I’ve no idea where Edward is physically, emotionally I feel closer to him than I have in ages. Yes, there’s still plenty sep
arating us, and I know you can’t breach years of silence with just
a
few words, but . . . Milo is gone, but his memory still links us.
Shutting out Edward means shutting out a lot of good memories with
my son, memories with the family I once had. I can see that now.

Right, time to hunt down a phone box and make a collect call. Surely this time he’ll answer. First, though, I need a second to catch my breath. I was on a mission to get here as quickly as possible, as if by erasing the blocks between us, I could tear down the walls. I’m so bloody tired my body is practically vibrating. I can feel a headache brewing, gathering momentum in my temples and pressing its thumbs on my eye sockets.

I lean against a shopfront, then sink down onto the stone step. The streets here are bustling, and the night is alive around me. The murmur of voices and the honking of horns remind me of London, of all those times I’d drink in the city’s electricity – just pounding the pavement and revelling in the possibility that the night could take you
anywhere
. Underground clubs, midnight sing-a-longs at the cinema, fringe theatre in the back of beyond: London was my playground, and I loved everything about it. I loved showing Edward all it had to offer too. God, that girl – that couple – seems so far away now.

The quirk of London’s scene feels far away too. It’s a beautiful evening featuring all those Parisian clichés I loved to hate: laughter from diners at countless cafés floats on the warm air, people stroll by holding hands, and street lights glow like torches against the starry sky. I shake my head, remembering how I told Edward not to even consider Paris for our honeymoon – no way would we succumb to that kind of stereotypical romance.

I want to turn back time now and tell that girl to be softer, maybe. To not resist so much, to wring every second of enjoyment from being a wife and mother . . . while it lasts, even if it does mean sacrificing nights out and embracing a few stereotypes. Funnily enough, this gorgeous street scene is exactly what I would have loved when Milo was young, back before a dingy pub was the highlight of my day. I wasn’t the girl who’d stay out until dawn any longer. Time changed me; parenthood changed me. Grief has changed me, too, but right now, I can’t help coveting that huge plate of oysters on the table across from me, the way the man lightly touches his partner’s arm then smiles like she’s his world.

My tummy growls and my hand slides down and across the scar on my stomach, the one physical reminder that I gave birth. For months after Milo’s accident, I couldn’t look at the faint white line on my stomach. I’d tug my clothes on as fast as I could, afraid I’d melt if I caught sight of it. But now . . . my fingers touch my skin. Now, I’m glad I have it: proof that my son existed, proof that my body
did
nurture him and bring him life – even if I brought him death too.

40

ZOE, APRIL 2011

‘Z
oe!’

Edward’s voice jerks me awake, and I sit up in bed. ‘Ugh,’ I say, touching the damp covers beneath me. It feels like I’m sleeping on one giant wet spot. ‘Did you spill something?’

Edward laughs. ‘No. I think that’s coming from you.’

‘From me? No,’ I say drowsily, lying down again. ‘I didn’t bring a drink to bed. Not this time, anyway.’ Edward’s always complaining about my collection of empty mugs and glasses on the bedside table.

‘Zoe, wake up.’ Edward’s shaking my arm. ‘I think your waters have broken.’

My pulse starts racing almost instantly. Of course that’s what it is – how could I not have known? Just one of the many things it took me ages to clue into over the past nine months. Thank God for Kate and her encyclopaedic – if often a little
too
much – knowledge of pregnancy.

‘Oh, shit.’ I sit up in bed again and gingerly get to my feet, plucking my wet pyjamas from my skin. I guess those contractions I’ve been feeling since this morning weren’t Braxton-Hicks, after all.

Edward’s got my hospital bag and is tugging on his trousers. ‘Come on, get dressed. Let’s head over to the hospital now.’

I shake my head and laugh. ‘Relax! There’s no need to go until I have stronger contractions. At the moment, they just feel like period pains. If we go now, they’ll send us home again and tell us to come back later.’

Edward shakes his head. ‘I don’t care. Come on.’

I shrug, knowing it’s useless to argue with him when he has that stubborn look on his face. Besides, part of me wants to get to the hospital as quickly as possible to make sure there’s plenty of time for that epidural. Memories of Kate’s face and her screams of pain enter my mind for the countless time, and I shudder. There is
no way
I’m going for a natural birth.

At the hospital, I lie back on the examining table, trying to breathe through the pain gathering momentum in my abdomen.

‘Is everything okay?’ I ask, as the midwife prods my nether regions, then attaches a monitor around my belly. Instantly I hear my baby’s galloping heartbeat, and excitement goes through me. I can’t wait to meet him!

The midwife stares at the numbers flashing up on the screen, her brow furrowing. ‘Just let me grab the doctor, and I’ll be right back.’

Edward and I stare at each other, and he squeezes my hand. ‘What do you think that means?’ I ask him. ‘She wouldn’t have to get the doctor if everything was fine, right?’

‘Let’s just wait and see what the doctor says,’ Edward says in a firm tone, but I can tell by the way his jaw tightens that he’s worried too.

After what feels like forever, a harried-looking consultant arrives. She takes one look at the monitor and the printout, then glances down at me. ‘Your baby is in distress for some reason – the heart rate is dropping. We need to deliver it as soon as possible. I’m going to ask the nurses to prep you for a Caesarean.’

My mouth drops open. ‘
A Caesarean?
’ I’d expected the whole birth thing to take a long time – at least a day, if not more. That didn’t bother me. It was like I needed the time and the process to transition from being me to being a mother. The thought of it all happening in one fell swoop is jarring.

But none of that matters when it comes to keeping our child alive. I glance up at Edward, and he’s nodding.

‘We’ll do whatever we need to, to have a healthy baby,’ he says, echoing my exact thought. It strikes me how lucky we are that we
did
come to the hospital early, that I didn’t try to fight Edward and stay at home like they told us to. Guilt sweeps over me that, if I’d had my way, I might have put my baby at risk . . . even if I didn’t know then what I know now. Why wasn’t I the super-protective one?

As I’m wheeled into the delivery room and the bright light blinds me, I screw my eyes shut and make a silent vow that from now on, I’ll do everything in my power to keep my child safe.