‘Come on, nearly there. You can do it. Keep pushing, Gabby, one last time.’
Gabby leans her head back in exhaustion, summoning all her strength to push the baby out, certain that if it doesn’t come out with this push, it’s not coming out at all.
With a long grunt, Gabby pushes hard, feeling the release as the slick of life leaves her body, slithering into the waiting hands.
‘Congratulations!’ The doctor smiles. ‘You have a beautiful baby boy.’
The baby is placed gently in Gabby’s arms as tears of wonder roll down her face.
‘A boy!’ she whispers, her face lit with a beatific smile. ‘He’s perfect!’ Despite the tiniest of features being scrunched up, he is still the most beautiful baby she has ever seen, more beautiful perhaps because he was so unexpected. Whatever misgivings she may have had, whatever regrets, she knows she wouldn’t change this moment for anything.
The surge of love is instant and all-consuming. She will do anything for this baby; this baby will make everything okay; this baby is the only thing that matters in the world.
A nurse catches Elliott’s eye. ‘Congratulations, Dr Cartwright,’ she says with a big smile. ‘Or perhaps I should say “Dad”.’ Elliott smiles awkwardly, nodding in acknowledgement. How can he tell her, tell anyone here, that he is not the father? How can he admit that he is overwhelmed by the miracle of birth, by the fact of this new life now squalling in Gabby’s arms, but that it has nothing to do with him?
He wasn’t able to leave. He tried, many times, but on each occasion a nurse or a doctor would come in and address him as ‘Dad’, or give him instructions – not to let Gabby have too many ice chips – or simply speak to him as if he was supposed to be there, and he didn’t know how to just walk away.
The truth is that he doesn’t feel angry at Gabby any more. Not since his relationship with Trish began. He feels, mostly, sad. Sad for her, for her predicament, for what she has done to her life. He, after all, is in a relationship, and can, at times, see it becoming serious. This has less to do with Trish, and more – everything, in fact – to do with Elliott liking being married, needing the security, the routine, the comfort of having someone to come home to.
Here at the hospital, with Gabby, he feels at once connected, and curiously detached. She is the mother of his children, the woman he knows better than anyone in the world, but there is a barrier between them now that can never be removed.
In the hospital, being treated like the father of this
baby, Elliott feels like an imposter. Few of his colleagues, and certainly not the staff of different departments, know he is separated from his wife. Why would they think he is not the father?
As for who the baby looks like? Well, the baby is fair, and long and thin – so unlike the dark, chubby girls when they were born. But the baby looks like … a baby. Elliott has never been able to see familial likenesses in newborns. When both Olivia and Alanna were born everyone said they looked exactly like Elliott, but he could never see it. Now, when he looks at Olivia, he sees only Gabby. Alanna looks like her maternal grandmother. Clearly Gabby’s genes are stronger than his.
The baby is four weeks early, but six pounds, and healthy. Back in the room he is placed in a crib next to Gabby’s bed, and the girls, who had been waiting there on their own, are now crowing over their new brother.
‘Look how tiny his fingers are!’ Olivia grins as she places her finger against his and he wraps his minuscule fist around it, squeezing tight. ‘Oh, Mom! He loves me!’
‘Look at his teeny nose!’ Alanna, not to be outdone by her sister, reaches down to brush his other hand, for him to wrap her finger too. ‘He’s perfect!’ she whispers in awe. ‘Can we hold him?’
Elliott is about to say they can hold him later, but it is not his place to say that. This has nothing to do with him. It is time for him to leave.
‘Congratulations,’ he says, and he walks to the side of the bed, leaning down to kiss Gabby’s cheek. She tears her eyes away from the baby to look up at him.
‘What am I supposed to do with a boy?’ she says. ‘I have no idea what boys are like.’
Elliott smiles. ‘You’ll have to fill the house with Tonka trucks and Lego. It will be a disaster area.’
‘Oh God,’ she groans. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. No more pink tutus and fairy castles.’ They share a smile of remembrance.
‘I have to go,’ he says gently.
‘Thank you for staying with me. For being here. It means the world to me.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Elliott says automatically. ‘Have you thought of a name for him?’
‘Henry. Henry William Cartwright.’
Elliott starts. Hearing the baby with his last name is strange. He hadn’t thought about what the baby would be called, but realizes now that he had subconsciously assumed the baby would have his father’s surname. Not Elliott’s.
‘Isn’t his last name something else?’
Gabby shakes her head. ‘It’s the same as mine.’
Elliott can’t find the words for an argument. He suspects he is being petty, or would be accused of being churlish if he voiced his discomfort. It is true; Cartwright is Gabby’s last name, but not by birth. He isn’t sure she has the right to convey it to another, but doesn’t know how to voice that, doesn’t know if he
wants to be the kind of man who is so ungracious, so ungenerous.
He kisses his daughters, then leaves the room and takes the elevator downstairs. His mobile phone starts buzzing as soon as he switches it on. Texts and texts and missed calls from Trish. He should call her, but he doesn’t know how to explain that he was present at the birth of his soon-to-be-ex-wife’s baby.
As understanding as Trish has been, as encouraging as she has been for him to be present in his daughters’ lives, as willing as she is to accept that with the daughters comes his soon-to-be-ex, this is not something he can easily explain.
Nor can he easily explain that Gabby is still his soon-to-be-ex-wife, that he hasn’t yet summoned the courage to speak to a divorce lawyer. In an email Trish sent him last week, she’d attached an article she had ‘stumbled upon’ online, recommending the ten best divorce lawyers in Connecticut.
He thanked her, and, when pushed, agreed to start making calls, but he hasn’t. He is filled with dread at the thought of the whole process, of the expense of it, of having to paint Gabby as the wicked witch – because he knows the lawyers will encourage him to think of her that way and that it behoves them to stir up the acrimony and bad feeling.
He knows he can’t put it off for ever, but he hasn’t been able to stomach the stress of making it official.
He sits in his car, in his reserved spot in the car park
of the hospital, and wonders what to do. Finally he calls Trish to let her know what has happened. He doesn’t add that he was present at the birth, but explains that he will be taking the girls back to his house with him for the night because he doesn’t want to leave them on their own.
The following morning Elliott knows he can’t procrastinate any longer. He scrolls through his emails and finds the one with Trish’s attachment, rereading the article carefully. He picks the lawyer referred to as ‘The Divorce Lawyers’ Lawyer: the lawyer the others choose to steer them safely through their own divorces.’ He likes that they refer to him as clean, quick, thorough. They say he is ‘no-nonsense’ and gets the job done ‘painlessly’.
On the phone with the receptionist he is asked for his children’s names and dates of birth, then left on hold while the receptionist checks a computer. She comes back saying they are fine to set up an appointment, and he realizes only afterwards that she had gone to check if Gabby has already been to see them.
The appointment is made and he ends the call, but feels none of the relief Trish said he would feel once he had taken the first step towards the second part of his life.
How
does
he feel?
Guilty.
The girls have been in a buzz of excitement for days. First, the baby has come home, and it is like having their very own breathing, crying, living doll. They fight over who gets to change him, who gets to hold him, who gets to dress him.
Gabby knows this won’t continue, that they will be bored of doing everything for their brother once this becomes routine, and has wondered whether, while it lasts, she might be able to let them take over the night duty so she can catch up on sleep, but as tempting as it is in theory, she would never let the girls have that much responsibility. Apart from anything else the girls also need to have a full night’s sleep now that they are back at school.
Secondly, her mother is flying in. This afternoon. Gabby has arranged a car service to pick her up from JFK, and the girls are both thrilled that Grasha will be here by the time they get home.
This may not be a good idea, but it’s too late to do anything about it now. Gabby has always got into trouble when she has expected more from her parents than they have been able to give. Each time it happens
she berates herself for behaving like a child, but still the disappointment comes.
Even now, knowing what she knows, she harbours a hope that her mother will actually be of help with the baby. It’s not that she has to do much, but it would be wonderful if her mother helped drive Alanna to her practices, or took the baby for a couple of hours during the day so that Gabby could shower or nap.
She has been exhausted these past two weeks since the baby was born. A tiredness unlike any she experienced with the girls. A tiredness doubtless born of age, and lack of partner.
I had no idea, she thinks. But this wasn’t something she wanted. Or planned. A baby on her own, at her age. Yet, clutching tiny Henry to her breast as he suckles on her nipple, she loves him. Despite the circumstances in which he came to be, she feels a fierce, binding love quite unlike the love she remembers feeling for her daughters. The girls were always shared between herself and Elliott, but this little boy is hers alone, and there is something different about having a son. She had always dismissed the old wives’ tale that every father needs a daughter, every mother needs a son, but the love she feels for him is so all-consuming, she wonders if they are right.
Gabby places Henry in the bassinet at the end of her bed and tiptoes out of the room. He is fed, full, happy. Perhaps, if she is lucky, she will get a couple of hours
to herself before he wakes up, shrieking in fury that he is on his own.
She dumps a pile of baby clothes and burp cloths in the washing machine before heading downstairs to make some tea, just as a town car pulls into the driveway.
Gabby watches through the window as the driver opens the rear door, and there is her mother, draped in asymmetrical oatmeal fabrics, her neck swathed in cashmere, her feet clad in beige suede slippers that will, Gabby is certain, have cost a small fortune. She is dressed as haute hippy by way of north-west London. Her hair, currently a dark shade of auburn, is clasped back in a clip. She looks chic. Comfortable. She has always seemed to Gabby to be beautiful, but now, ageing, she has an elegance that eluded her when young. The lines on her face only add to her grace, and Gabby smiles as she watches her mother extend her arms to give the driver a warm hug, knowing she will have extracted his life story during the drive here from the airport.
In the driveway, Natasha’s face lights up when she sees Gabby, her arms extending yet again to hug her, before she holds her out at arm’s length, inspecting her delightedly from head to toe.
‘You don’t look like you just had a baby. You look fabulous! How did you get your figure back so quickly?’
‘Oh, Mum,’ Gabby tuts, ‘I’m still a stone overweight. But separating from your husband while you’re pregnant does wonders for keeping the weight gain down. I highly recommend it.’ She shoots her mother an ironic
grin as she reaches for her suitcase. ‘The girls are at school and the baby’s asleep. I just put the kettle on. Do you want some tea?’
‘I’ll do it,’ her mother says, taking the suitcase out of Gabby’s hand and going inside. ‘You go upstairs and have a rest. I’m here to take the strain off you, not have you running after me making me cups of tea. I’ll make the tea. Milk, one sweetener, yes?’
A wave of relief washes over Gabby. ‘Perfect,’ she says as she goes upstairs.
‘A boy!’ her mother keeps whispering, looking from the bassinet to Gabby, who is lying in bed with – oh the bliss! – a stack of trashy magazines by her side. ‘Look how different he is! How lean! And, my goodness, so long! Is his father tall?’
Leading up to the birth, Gabby had deliberately pushed aside all thoughts of Matt. She used to shudder with disdain when she pictured him, remembering how he had caused her life to fall apart. But he has unknowingly redeemed himself by giving her this beautiful child, so now she finds herself softening, looking at Henry’s face and seeing Matt’s features.
Wondering if she ought to let him know.
‘His father is tall, yes,’ Gabby says, hesitating for a second before reaching for her MacBook. ‘Do you want to see a picture?’
‘I would,’ her mother says, nodding. ‘Because he certainly doesn’t look anything like our side of the family.’
Gabby
goes to Google and types in his name, finding a picture of him at a tech conference. She turns the screen around. Her mother fishes inside the folds of her cardigan for her reading glasses before peering at the photo.
‘My God, he’s a hunk!’ She sounds astonished, and picks up the Mac to hold it closer. ‘And a child. Good Lord, darling. How old is he?’
‘Older than he looks,’ Gabby says. ‘Thirty-three.’
‘Well, that’s a relief. I was worried someone might call the police on you. He’s so handsome, isn’t he? No wonder you weren’t able to resist.’
‘It wasn’t really like that,’ Gabby says. ‘We became friends. It was all on email. I suppose I was still harbouring resentment at Elliott, because of the vasectomy. Here was this, as you see, gorgeous young man who seemed to find me irresistible. It was less about him, and more about how he made me feel.’
Her mother gives a small laugh. ‘It so often is,’ she says. ‘Especially at your age.’
‘Why my age?’
‘Because you are entering the afternoon of life, and all is different. There is a wonderful quote by Jung. Let me see if I can remember it correctly.’
Her mother takes off her glasses as she thinks, then she shakes her head. ‘No, I can’t remember it well enough to quote it, but the gist of it is that if you think of life as a day, the morning – your youth – is full of truths and idealism. By the afternoon – your age – you
assume these same truths will hold good. But Jung says you shouldn’t, because by the evening – old age – you will realize that everything has been reversed. What was true in your youth turns out to be a lie, what was great has become little. Everything changes as the day goes on. You, my darling, are in the afternoon of life.’
She looks at Gabby with a loving smile. ‘Marriage is hard, my dear girl. You and Elliott always had a charmed life, but even those with charmed lives hit the bumps in the road from time to time.’
‘What about you and Dad? You never seemed to hit bumps in the road. You’ve been happy for ever. You managed to enter into the afternoon of your life pretty unscathed.’
Her mother smiles again. ‘That’s how it appeared, yes.’
‘What does that mean?’
Another smile. ‘It means that when I was forty-six I fell in love.’
‘With someone other than Dad, you mean?’ Gabby is part-fascinated, part-horrified, not at all sure she wants to hear the story, but also knowing she cannot live without hearing it.
Natasha laughs. ‘Oh yes. Someone other than Dad.’
‘So? What happened? You had an affair?’
‘I had …’ She tails off, thinking. ‘An awakening. An earthquake. A seismic shift in who I thought I was.’
‘Mum? I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
Her
mother raises her eyes and looks at her. This time her smile is sad. ‘Remember Joanie?’
Gabby does remember Joanie. One of the waifs and strays her mother collected, Joanie had recently divorced her husband, and was, Gabby recalls, something of an emotional wreck. She became part of their family for a while, for longer than the others. She moved in with them; she was her mother’s new project, her mother’s new best friend.
She recovered quickly. Those first few weeks of sobbing at the kitchen table gave way to peals of laughter. She made Gabby’s mother laugh more than Gabby had ever heard. Gabby would come home from school and find them cooking together, both of them giggling at something unspoken. Joanie made her mother seem younger, happier, softer.
One morning she was gone. There was no goodbye, no warning, just a stripped bed and empty wardrobe. Natasha refused to answer any questions Gabby had, stonewalling her and asking her not to mention her name. It was clear to Gabby there had been a betrayal, but she knew not to ask.
Gabby frowns. What did Joanie have to do with anything?
‘I fell in love with Joanie,’ her mother says simply, and Gabby’s eyes open wide in shock.
‘You had an affair with
Joanie
?’ But that’s not what she’s thinking. My mother is a
lesbian
? How is this pos
sible? How is it possible that I do not know my mother at all?
‘I did. Oh don’t look so shocked. I didn’t plan to have an affair with anyone, and I certainly never thought I’d fall in love with a woman, of all things, but there it is. Joanie was utterly compelling. I wasn’t just in love with her, I was obsessed.’
‘Mum, I’m not sure I want to know all this.’
‘Oh, darling, I’m not going to give you any gory details. The point is, I fell in love with her, at an age not dissimilar to yours now, and part of it, so much of it, was me desperately trying to run away from the dreadful spectre of middle age. Joanie was much younger than me, and she made me laugh more than anyone had in years. And she made me feel young. Alive.’
This time Gabby nods silently. She knows what her mother’s talking about.
‘I was happily married, but this was something I couldn’t resist. I told myself it didn’t count, being a woman, but of course it did.’
‘Did Dad know?’
‘He knew I was infatuated with her, but he didn’t think, of course he didn’t, that it was anything more than a strong friendship. He didn’t know until afterwards, when I was so floored by grief I couldn’t get out of bed. Even then, I’m not sure he knew for certain.’
‘And he never confronted you, or said he was leaving?’
‘The
thing is that I love your father. I have always loved your father. Of all the gifts he has given me, this was the greatest. I think he understood that I needed to have one final fling before settling into the afternoon of life. To be honest, I think the fact that it was a woman probably made things easier. I’m not sure he would have been so quietly circumspect had Joanie been Johnny.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I still can’t quite get over my mother revealing her secret lesbian tendencies. I’m a bit freaked-out right now.’
‘Get over it,’ Natasha says matter-of-factly. ‘And stop thinking about the sex stuff. I fell in love with a person who happened to be a woman, end of story.’
‘So, do you regret it?’
‘I regret causing pain to your father. When it ended and he was so sweet and solicitous to me, as I lay there sobbing in my pillows for weeks, I felt awful. You know your father. He went very quiet. Well, he’s always quiet, but for those weeks he barely said anything at all, and I regretted that. But I think he understood. We never spoke of her again.’
‘Do you know what happened to her?’
‘She left me for a young man she’d met at the bookstore. I know they split up after a couple of years and I lost track of her after that. I get cards from her sometimes, on my birthday. She never says anything other than wishing me a happy birthday, and I tend to put them in the bin. It was … a moment of madness. I’m lucky your father is the sort of man he is.’
‘The
sort of man Elliott is not.’
‘I think Elliott might have handled things in much the same way had this little bundle of joy not come along. It’s very difficult for men to handle betrayal when they are forced to look at the evidence every day. It is, for them, a daily reminder that they somehow fell short, they weren’t able to make their wives happy, or happy enough.’
‘Do you really think that’s true?’
‘I do. But how about the father of delicious Henry? What does he have to say about all of this?’
Gabby turns her computer around so she can see the screen: Matt in his golden loveliness, smiling into her bedroom. ‘He doesn’t know.’
Natasha is shocked. ‘But you must tell him.’
‘Mum. Please. I’ve made a decision. This is my baby, and I don’t want him to feel obligated to be involved, or feel pressurized, or think I’m coming after him for money, or anything else. I made a decision, as soon as I found out, that he would never know.’
‘But what if he wants to be involved? What if he wants a child?’
‘Even worse!’ sputters Gabby. ‘The last thing I could handle right now is a custody battle. And he has money. Enough to pay for the best lawyers in the world. It would be a disaster. Anyway, I haven’t spoken to him in … nine months. It was one night. Nothing. I need to move on.’
‘Then what will you tell Henry about his father?’
‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.’
‘I
can’t tell you what to do, but I urge you to reconsider. Henry has a right to know his father, and his father has a right, certainly, to know about Henry. The biggest mistake any of us can make is to keep secrets. They always come out in the end, and it is the ones that people make most effort to hide that cause the greatest problems. I truly believe that what is called for here is absolute clarity. You need to give his father the opportunity to step up. If he doesn’t, you will always know you have done the right thing.’
Gabby just stares at her mother. Everything she has told herself, every argument she has used to convince herself she is doing the best thing, now falls flat. Her mother is right.