The Decision: Lizzie's Story (11 page)

Yet here we were.

But nothing was forthcoming from Mike after that initial sense of silent alarm. He merely sat in front of me, staring to the side of my head, not making eye contact, as if mesmerised by a dirty scuff mark on the wall. In return I sat and stared back at him, waiting for him to respond. Behind the counter, the girl wiped the sideboards in lazy circles, pretending not to watch us.

“Say something, then.” I said at last.

“What do you want me to say?” He replied.

Fury coursed in my veins. I could not believe it. This was happening to
me
, yet he didn’t even have the wherewithal or consideration to ask how I felt? Even the anger I had expected from him would have been better than such a response. But I swallowed down my resentment and said, instead, as measuredly as I could:

“What do we do?”

Another blank expression from Mike. For one terrible moment, I thought he was going to say, “No, you mean what do
you
do?” and then leave. Instead he sat before me, motionless. He wasn’t going to bolt for the door. Yet I was all the more confused by this strange non-reaction from him: how was I supposed to take it? I
sighed and tried to rearrange the question in such a way to gain a response, wondering why on earth it had to be so difficult.

“What do you want to do?” I tried again, wincing already.

“Whatever you want to do.” Mike said flatly.

Despair turned to joy turned to confusion inside me in an instant. Was Mike saying he would stand by me regardless of my decision? I couldn’t be sure. Were there conditions attached? Would I be forced to choose at some point, the baby or him? Mike was petulant at the best of times and I didn’t know if I could deal with his demands as well as the weight of the decision on the pregnancy itself. Did I want this baby? Even I wasn’t sure. Resentment bloomed again in my chest: he was putting everything on me! It wasn’t fair. This was huge: the biggest thing either of us had ever had to face. I had fulfilled my part of the deal, I had told him right away. Now he was reneging on his, saying simply everything would be fine if I just took all the responsibility. But how could I know what was the “right” answer, if he would not tell me his own feelings on the matter?

“I don’t know what I want to do.” I said, hoping this would prompt him into saying what he wanted.

But instead Mike caught the eye of the girl behind the counter and said, “Cappuccino, please. And…?” He looked to me pointedly, expecting me to order. When I didn’t, he shot me one of his derisive looks and then smiled to the girl sweetly, just as quick. “… That’s it. Cheers.” He said.

The high pitched whizz of the cappuccino frother filled the silence between us for a few moments, before Mike’s order was placed in front of him with as much care as my water. Froth went over the side, onto the table. Mike was usually the type to complain or even demand another, but instead today he opened sugar packet after
sugar packet, dumping the contents in his drink. Then he stirred it. Round and round and round, more froth spilling over the lip of the cup.

“Will you just stop?” I hissed.

Mike let the spoon fall abruptly from his hand, clanging the ceramic cup and saucer. “What do you want from me?” He demanded.

A bitter laugh caught in my throat. Was he serious? “How about some emotional support?” I asked.

He actually shrugged. “All a bit late now.”

“What is?” I said, my voice raising at last. The girl had stopped pretending she wasn’t listening now and avidly regarding us like a show on TV, making no secret of it, but I didn’t care. “I didn’t do this by myself, you know. For God’s sake Mike, I’m from a family of
six kids
. What did you expect?”

As soon as I uttered those words, I knew their truth. I was from a big family, I must be every bit as fertile as my mother. Why hadn’t it ever occurred to me, before? But then sex had been just a game between Mike and I. We had never thought it could have real consequences. There had even been times when we’d seen children in the park and exclaimed over how cute they were and how nice it would be to have our own, yet none of it had seemed real. We had been playing a part: in our naïve minds we had thought becoming “grown ups” was merely a question of having sex. But now we were faced with the reality that not only it was a state of mind, but being too. And neither of us had reached that point yet. But maddeningly, Mike still sat in front of me, that blank expression etched into his features. He had no clue what to do and there was a part of him that apparently reckoned he had no need to come up with a plan. So I did what I always did: I tried to fix the situation, even though it was going to pieces in front of my eyes.

“Okay… okay. Let’s think about this logically.” I heard myself say, though my voice seemed to belong to someone else. “If we had the baby, we could still go to university… I’ll get my results, go through clearing, we can go to the same one instead. We can find a flat, live together… You, me and the baby. Maybe I can do my course part time?”

I waited for Mike to agree or disagree. Instead he shifted in his chair and pushed his sugar-laded cappuccino away, undrunk. “I don’t think we should make any hasty decisions.” He said at last.

“Results come out in a few days!” I countered, “If I’m to get into your uni, we need to sort this right away… We don’t have any time to waste.” But Mike still said nothing, his expression still blank. There was an awkward silence. A cheated smile played on my lips as the realisation hit: “You don’t want to go to the same uni or live together, do you?” I accused.

“I never said that.” He said.

“No, you’re not saying anything.” I said, cold anger replacing my initial hot fury. Here was the real Mike: someone I could never rely on. “You want me to have an abortion?” I said, speaking the unspoken at last.

“It’s an option.” He replied.

For some reason, those words were like a dagger in my heart. Not because I was against abortion – I still wasn’t sure whether I wanted the baby myself – but because of Mike’s non-engagement with me. I had believed, erroneously, we would be able to discuss the situation and come to a conclusion on what to do together, as a couple. But it appeared Mike had no such thought on his mind. He wanted the situation dealt with by whatever means, which I was to decide alone. All so he could continue in his life without interruption and to Hell with me.
Well, to Hell with him.

I grabbed my bag and rose from my place. Without another word I stalked out of the tearooms. Mike followed me, demanded to know what was wrong. Was he really so dense? Before we could turn the corner on to the high street, the girl from Teddy’s had caught up with us and was badgering Mike for the money for the water and cappuccino. I didn’t stop, but continued onwards, leaving him and her in my wake as Mike threw a selection of change at her in irritation. Before long, I had lost him, for I was back in the throng of the demonstration and its tumultuous din, though it was dying off as it approached the town hall. Local council workers were waiting on the steps in readiness for the inevitable petition that would be presented to them by the tall woman with the megaphone. I wondered idly if the supermarket everyone was opposing was really such a bad thing. Whilst I could appreciate people’s concerns about big business squeezing the little guy, was it really so unwise to assume there couldn’t be room for both the big store and the marketplace? The supermarket could also mean more work for Winby’s townspeople. When so many people had to leave to search for work, it seemed strange for so many townspeople to actively go against work offered on their doorstep. They had even elected to interrupt their precious one day of trading, cancelling Wednesday’s market to make this stand! I was reminded of Shona’s talk of choices and paradoxes aged eleven and wondered, not for the first time, if we lived in the craziest place on Earth.

I wasn’t sure where I was going. All I knew was I couldn’t go home. I was so wound up, I would immediately spill my guts to Mum and before I knew it, she would be taking over. I needed to make this decision myself. Mike had made it clear he wasn’t going to help me, yet I couldn’t think straight. A part of me felt a sick dread in the pit of my stomach. I was consumed by the fervent wish I could somehow travel backwards in time and never even see Mike that fateful night I got pregnant. Yet a
strange, other part of me insisted I was strong. I could handle this, whatever I chose to do. And I did have a choice, didn’t I? I didn’t have to have this baby. But I didn’t have to get rid of it, either. All I had to do was decide what it was I wanted and how I would handle it. Two decisions… yet I could only choose one. Both seemed so huge.

My phone rang in my pocket and I knew without even looking at the LCD screen it would be Mike at the end of the line. Desperately wanting to believe he might regret his behaviour at Teddy’s, I put the phone to my ear and answered: “Hello.” I said coldly.

“Don’t do this.” He said.

“Do what?” I demanded.

“What you always do, Lizzie!” Mike wailed. He sounded like a child whose toys had been taken away from him. “Always, everything is my fault.”

“All I wanted was some support.” I said levelly. “And what did I get? Nothing! As usual. What’s the point, Mike?”

“You have my support.” Mike whined.

“You wouldn’t even say what you want!” I spat. “You wouldn’t so much as look me in the eye! And I’ve figured out why. You know what I’m like… You know I’ll walk away. Problem solved for you!”

“How can you say that?” Mike sounded as if he were on the verge of tears, yet the quaver in his voice disgusted me more: those tears were not for me or the pregnancy or even the argument we were having. They were for himself. I could picture him: there was no traffic noise from his end of the line and I realised why. He would be back at home already, having retreated to his attic bedroom, Little Big Man away from the scary world.

“So what is it you want?” I enquired.

Silence on the other end of the phone. My lip curled in a sneer and I wondered fleetingly if I bore any resemblance to Sal; it wasn’t a pose I affected often, unlike her. After what seemed like aeons of Mike’s silence – about thirty seconds - I said:

“… And there’s my answer.”

I hung up and then turned the phone on silent - for some reason I could never turn it off totally – and slipped the handset back in my coat pocket. I could not rely on Mike; at least I knew that now. I just wished he’d have the guts to actually say it, but then he had always been an emotional coward. He had learnt from the best: Francis could give nothing away, not even a hug. Occasionally when Mike left for mine or for college, Francis would give Mike a strange, cursory pat on the shoulder with those yellowed fingers of his, not even his whole palm, as if Mike were some kind of pet. Mike would not even register the unusual show of affection. Each time I had seen it happen, I had felt sorry for them both. Even Sal would hug me sometimes, though usually at birthday or Christmas, most often in return for a present, but at least it was something.

I found myself on Roslin Road, the street down on the seafront which housed most of the town’s small hotels and B&Bs, including the one my father was currently a kitchen porter at, The Belle View. Orange shop fronts and old, tattered awnings gave them all a sad, ancient look more akin to old people’s homes than luxurious places to stay. A forest of VACANCIES signs were in the windows: this summer had not been good to hoteliers, despite it being high season. I wandered up the steps of The Belle View and into reception without running into anyone: the small counter was deserted and beyond the internal window I could see an old man, Pablo, asleep in his chair, his feet resting on a forest of paperwork. Pablo was from Barcelona and had travelled over to England in the seventies, a tale he’d tell anyone after a few whiskies.
He hated Britain and its “crazy people”, but apparently he hated Spain more, though for reasons he would never disclose, no matter how drunk he got. My Dad and the others in the kitchens called Pablo “Manuel” after the character in Fawlty Towers behind his back, though unlike Manuel, Pablo actually owned The Belle View and was razor sharp. When he wasn’t asleep on the job, of course.

A Polish cleaner eyed me suspiciously as I passed her vacuuming the deserted guest lounge, but let me past towards the labyrinthine stairs that led down to the kitchens. A transistor radio was playing full blast, some kind of match was on. My Dad was never into football, but had played rugby in his youth for the county, his one great achievement. Every time he’d been drinking, he’d roll out the stories of his mad times with friends he hadn’t seen now in over twenty years. Like when they’d gone on tour and stolen a sheep right out of the field and taken it on the coach with them for forty miles. Or the time the whole team had gone down to the beach to drink beer and got cut off by the tide, so they’d had to climb the headland, got stuck halfway up and then had to be rescued by the coastguard by helicopter. Or the time Dad had fallen in a scrum aged just fifteen and actually broken three vertebrae in his back, yet played on regardless and even helped gain them the cup that year. I’d heard all of them so often, yet each time the stories gained in colour and more details were added, so I never tired of them, as familiar as they were.

I heard the crash of broken crockery and an explosion of cursing as I approached the swing door to the kitchen: Dad was definitely on duty. One of the clumsiest men to walk the earth, he also had a terrible habit of talking to himself as he worked, even when there were other people in the room with him. Today it sounded as if he was on his own. I slipped inside the small kitchen. He had his back to me and was sweeping broken pieces of ceramic up haphazardly, propelling them with the
broom across the floor like hockey pucks into a cardboard box, congratulating himself every time he scored. The kitchen was impossibly small and was dominated by a massive, single hob with two ovens underneath. The Belle View did only bar snacks in the afternoon and at night, so it was for the morning breakfasts. Next to the ovens was a large sink, two large coffee and tea urns awkwardly jammed next to it on the other side. The rest of the kitchen was aluminium racks held plates and cups, piled in huge Pisa-style stacks, threatening to topple over if you walked too close. The Belle View had been one of the few hotels that had re-employed my Dad after a single season, so I knew the hygiene there had to be poor: look underneath those racks and you’d find thick piles of dust hair and food, even the occasional mouse. Once I had witnessed a chef called Wes drop a rasher of bacon off the hob and chase it underneath one such rack. He then fished it out and rinsed it under the tap, slamming it back on the hob for a few moments before shoving it on an outgoing to plate to the dining room. Naturally I had refused any offers of food out of that kitchen ever since. Dad still ate there most days though and had never even had so much as a stomach upset.