‘No, you didn’t just feel like it,’ says Nick, piercing me with his gaze.
I tilt my head, trying to gauge what he means. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘Uh-uh. I know what you’re doing.’ He fiddles with the beer cap.
‘Well it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?’ I motion to the photos on the floor.
‘You’ve decided, haven’t you? So that’s it?’
‘What? No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘It’s complicated. I’m trying to find a way to…’ What I want to say is that my session with Imogen has left me feeling more confused than ever. I can’t properly explain why I’ve decided to drag out all our old photos but it seemed like the right thing for me to do. Yes, my first instinct is telling me that I want to keep this baby, but I can’t fully decide until I make myself think about all the things at stake. My life. Nick’s life. Our life together.
‘I knew it. Once you get something in your head…’ He picks at a piece of lint on the sofa.
‘Hey, what I was going to say is that I went and saw Imogen.’
‘Oh? And? Were the photos her suggestion then?’ he asks, gesturing to the floor.
‘You know she mostly sits there and listens.’
‘I think you’re doing this because you still feel guilty about Max and you’re more scared about having an abortion than losing your life. It wasn’t your fault.’ His eyes land on one of the pictures in front of his left shoe, the one of us in a hot air balloon in the Yarra Valley. Silence lingers in the air until he eventually picks up where he left off. ‘There is nothing you could have done to prevent what happened with Max, and I know you were making really great progress in getting past all of that, but I think this has brought up a lot of stuff for you.’
‘Mothers do things to protect their children all the time. They make decisions based on what’s best for their kids. Look at Emily! She’s travelling to the other side of the world because in the sea of a billion guys out there, she’s trying to find the father of her unborn child.’
‘Are you serious? You’re comparing our situation to Annoying Emily?’
‘That’s not what I’m doing. You’re missing the entire point.’ I push my thumb through the hole I’ve made in my sleeve to the satisfying sound of thread breaking away from the fabric.
‘Well, you’re the one who brought her up.’
‘Oh my God, I can’t believe we’re arguing about Annoying Emily.’ I get up from the sofa and pick up Piper’s water bowl to refill it in the kitchen. Nick follows me.
‘Our problems have nothing to do with Annoying Emily; they have everything to do with your life.’
I finish filling the bowl and flick off the tap.
‘You know what?’ continues Nick, his voice rising. ‘Annoying Emily isn’t annoying. You’re the one who’s annoying.’
‘We’re yelling and babies in the womb can hear!’
‘Not until eighteen weeks they can’t.’
‘See? Annoying!’ I tip the water from Piper’s bowl down the sink, set it on the bench with a clang and storm to the bedroom.
‘Paige, wait!’ says Nick, trailing behind me.
I slam the door behind me and flop onto the bed. I wait for Nick to knock, to let himself in, to comfort me, make things better – easier. But there is no knock. Instead, I hear the tinkling of keys and the front door opening and closing, right before the car motor tells me my husband has driven away. Who’d have thought that becoming parents would potentially cost not only a life but what it means to be us.
Thirty-Five
Nick
Paige and I are in the cereal aisle the following morning, doing our weekly grocery shop. She picks up a box of Weet-Bix and tosses it into the trolley. I take it out and replace it with a box of Crunchy Honey Weet-Bix Bites.
‘Bites?’ she asks, eyeing the box with suspicion. I don’t blame her for questioning what is, in fairness, strange behaviour on my part. I’m a creature of habit when it comes to my breakfast choices. It’s either Weet-Bix, cold toast or an apple, with no room for negotiation.
I shrug. ‘I want the Bites.’
‘But you don’t like them. I bought them for you when they first came out. You said they’re too sweet. You—’
‘I want the Bites,’ I reply curtly, avoiding eye contact. My mood is not helped by the fact I’m running on less sleep than usual.
‘But you don’t like the Bites,’ she mutters under her breath.
‘I think I can make my own decisions about my breakfast cereal choices, Paige.’
She inhales deeply, grips the trolley handles and moves forward, choosing to ignore me. We make our way to the toiletries aisle. She picks up a can of hairspray, two bulk packs of toilet paper and three tubes of toothpaste. I do not know why we need that many tubes of toothpaste. I also don’t know why she’s stockpiling toilet paper and hairspray. Not only do I not understand Paige’s shopping habits, I don’t know how to do a multitude of other things. For example, I have no idea who our cars are insured with. I don’t know what products to use to clean an oven. I am hopeless at changing bed sheets and have never negotiated a better rate for our mortgage repayments.
‘Do we need all of those?’ I ask.
‘Uh, yeah. We’re almost out of toothpaste.’
‘But you have three tubes.’
‘And? Since when have you taken this kind of interest in my grocery shopping choices?’
‘Do we really need them all? There are only two of us,’ I counter.
Paige’s body stiffens. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘I don’t understand why you need to buy three tubes of toothpaste when one will do. It’s not like we live in a remote area 200 kilometres from the nearest supermarket.’
‘That’s not the point. I always stock up. So if we run out we have extras. We’ve been living together for years. You already know I do this. Why is this an issue all of a sudden?’
‘In case of an emergency?’
‘Well, yeah. Kind of. Why are we even standing in aisle six discussing this?’
‘That’s not how I’d do it,’ I say, reaching for a stick of deodorant. I toss it from one hand to the other while I think about this. I am potentially going to be the one having to work all of this stuff out and more. On my own.
‘Hold on. What do you mean by that?’ Paige manoeuvres the trolley forward so a woman can pass by.
I reach for two more sticks of deodorant and throw them in the trolley. ‘Actually, while we’re at it, let’s make it five or six,’ I say, sweeping several cans into the trolley at once.
‘Nick,’ Paige whispers, reaching for my arm. ‘What the hell is going on with you?’
I turn to face her. ‘I’d run out of toothpaste and toilet paper and deodorant.’
‘But how is that a problem?’ she says, searching my eyes. I blink – once, twice, three times. I don’t want to do it alone. ‘It’s not your problem and it won’t be your problem,’ I tell her, this time reaching for the shaving cream. ‘It’ll be my problem.’