‘Here, you can have it then,’ Jade said and gave it back to her.
Maddie was annoyed at Jade’s reaction, but let it go. She hovered, wondering if Jade would offer her a cup of tea, but nothing was forthcoming.
‘Right, well, I’ll leave you to it, but any time you want a break, you know where I am. Did you have a peaceful few hours?’ Maddie tried to see behind her for evidence of having had people over, but Jade was blocking her view.
‘Yeah, it’s turning out to be an easy day for me – he’s off to his dad’s again later. Well, I think you’ve deserved a cup of tea and a sit-down. Wow, look at the time.’ She made a play of looking at her watch. ‘Almost snack time for you, big boy. Thanks, Mads. See you soon, yeah?’ Maddie waved goodbye to Ben as Jade bustled her out of the door.
Once back in her own flat, Maddie airdropped the photo of herself and Ben to her laptop and printed it off. Then she stuck it to her fridge along with Ben’s drawing, where she would see it every day.
THEN
Positive.
There’s that little, telling line.
But I’ve been here before.
No, think happy thoughts.
The pregnancy test is positive. This time it will stick.
I sit on the edge of the bath, marvelling at the little white stick in my hand. Greg had said one more try and then we were done.
That one more try had resulted in a miracle.
Slow down, Maddie.
I force myself to take a few steadying breaths. My stomach is gurgling with joy, flipping over and crashing in on itself as I let myself consider what this means. The gurgling is surprisingly close to nausea, but I’m enjoying it anyway.
We’ve been here before, Maddie.
Yes, we have. Countless miscarriages; countless disappointments. And I can name each and every one of them.
Ok, I must be only a couple of weeks pregnant, so I need to not move for the next while, just get us past the twelve-week mark and maybe we’ll be ok. I put my hand on my stomach, but I can’t feel anything. Nothing is different yet. That’s one of the hardest things. It never feels like there is something in there this early.
But you can always tell when it’s coming out.
No, don’t think about that. Positivity breeds positivity.
Deep breaths. Slow movements.
Greg. I need to tell him.
I step gingerly from the bathroom and grab my phone from where I’d flung it on the bed along with the empty test box and sheet of instructions. I certainly didn’t need those. I’d done enough of these tests over the years to be able to write them myself. The money I’d spent on the tests alone didn’t bear thinking about.
I dial Greg’s number, but it goes straight to voicemail. I look at my watch. I was sure he said he was going to be in the office all day today. He should be there by now.
Frowning, I dial again. Still voicemail. I leave a message asking him to call me back urgently.
Now I’m fidgety. I was hoping to talk to him, share the news, hear the joy in his voice.
We’re like strangers, he and I. We hardly talk. He works long hours and seems to find any excuse he can to get out of the house now. As far away from me as possible.
But then, I don’t really ask too many questions about his day, his life. As far as I’m concerned, if he isn’t in the house, then I don’t have to feel the disappointment simmering from his pores, the pity when he looks at me, his frustration that I don’t want to go out, have a drink, see our friends anymore. All the strange diets and health regimes while I try and find a fix for my broken body. Gluten-free; dairy-free; vegan. None of them have worked. I’m in the best shape of my life and it has made no difference.
He can’t understand why I behave like I do – and I can’t explain it to him.
All I can focus on is what I don’t have in front of me. How many times has he said to me, ‘Look at what we have, Maddie. Look at our lives. I love you. We have a beautiful home, a successful business. That should be enough.’
But it isn’t. All the holidays and fancy restaurants can’t fill the emptiness I have inside me, a chasm of longing.
I’ve tried explaining to him that I don’t want to socialise with our friends anymore because I can’t hear any more of their stories about family life, how brilliant little Annie is at dancing, how Connor is top goal scorer for the football team. Even the stuff they moan about – no lie-ins, constant whining, tantrums – sounds charming to me.
But worse than this is the fact that they don’t tell us these stories anymore. They start, then they get that look on their faces, their eyes dart towards me and they stop, sometimes mid-sentence, before completely changing the subject to something inane, like the weather or the demise of British politics.
Greg says he hasn’t noticed, but I know he has. He can’t help but notice that the invitations to dinner parties have dried up. Thank goodness he has lots of work functions to attend, because he’d go stir-crazy stuck here with me every night.
I try his number again, but get the same response, so I head back to bed, still fully dressed, and lie with my legs propped up on a pile of pillows, a cup of jasmine tea at my elbow and daytime television on to distract me from letting my thoughts run wild with images of what our lives could be like if we had a little Evie or Casper or Lottie to keep us busy in nine months’ time.
When my phone does ring an hour later, the television has not distracted me in the slightest and I have ended up making a new list on my phone of possible names, ones I haven’t already used.
‘Hello? Greg?’
‘Hey, Mads. You ok?’ His voice is flat.
‘Yes. I’m good. Really good.’
‘Oh?’ His interest has been piqued.
‘I’m pregnant… again.’
There is a pause. ‘Ok…’
‘Did you hear me?’
‘Yes, I heard you.’ He doesn’t sound as thrilled as I thought he would. He sounds… tired.
‘You’re happy, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, of course. It’s just… Well, we’ve been here before. I don’t want to you to get your hopes up again.’
Suddenly I’m angry. Why shouldn’t I get my hopes up? Why shouldn’t I be excited? How dare he?
‘Fuck you, Greg!’
‘Excuse me?’
‘How dare you!’ I know I’m screaming at him, but I can’t stop myself. ‘Why can you not just be happy for me? For us? After everything we’ve gone through, you know how much this means to me. Is a little bit of excitement too much to ask?’
‘I’m sorry, Mads, I just—’
‘You know what, I’m not going to let your negativity ruin this for me.’
I hang up and fling myself back onto the pillows.
Breathe, Maddie. Stress is bad for the baby.
I focus on my inhalations and exhalations, letting my pulse slow again, then start searching up new ideas for the nursery on Pinterest.
8
The shoebox sat on the kitchen counter like a bomb.
Maddie sat on the bar stool, her hands resting flat on the countertop.
This flimsy cardboard box held what felt like a lifetime of pain, crushed dreams and broken splinters of promise. It had the ability to completely eviscerate her and yet she kept it.