The Decision: Lizzie's Story (18 page)

“But I also had the worst of both worlds.” Mum continued, drawing up outside Mike’s, wrenching the hand brake and turning off the ignition.

“But you just said…?” I trailed off, confused.

“… Paradox.” Mum said.

That word again. I remembered the eleven year old Shona and her belief it was possible to have choices and yet still be destined to do certain things. Mrs. Jenkin-No-
S would have sat both of us down that night at Shona’s parents’ and probably insisted on a nip of vodka herself, all while looking through a dictionary: “To know a word is to be able to define a word” as she was fond of saying. But I could already define the word “paradox”: “A seemingly contradictory statement that is nonetheless true”. The word was derived from the Latin “pardoxum” or Greek, “paradoxon”, meaning “conflicting with expectation”. But even knowing the word didn’t make it easier to comprehend when it was applied to real life and real situations.

“It will be okay, won’t it Mum?” I said suddenly, desperately wanting her approval and support, like a child. Only I wasn’t a child any longer; I was having one of my own.

Mum smiled. “That I can promise.” She said.

But her words did not fill me with comfort, as I’d hoped they would. Really I wanted her to make the decision for me. But she couldn’t; only I could. So I broke the news to Mike. I explained everything: how neither of us had addressed the issue of the night he got thrown out the pub; how I’d not been able to face the doctor, nor had the twenty pounds necessary to buy the morning after pill. I left no stone unturned in the hope he would not blame me or start the accusations. And in the event, I needn’t have worried; Mike listened quietly with wide eyes, all too aware of my mother and his father in the next room.

After I had finished, he said simply, “What next, then?”

“I’m not sure.” I said, “I was hoping you would tell me how you felt.”

Mike shrugged. “Well obviously I’m not happy about it.”

I felt absurdly hurt. I had always imagined having a child one day, but I had never seen it played out in my mind like this. In my imagination’s version, the father of my child would be overjoyed and ridiculously impressed somehow with my
fertility, as if I had done something remarkably clever. But in the here and now, I couldn’t blame Mike for his misgivings; I had not exactly been thrilled either. I suppose it was his choice of words:
Obviously I’m not happy about it.
As if the news of my pregnancy was a mere irksome event, like visiting relatives he despised or having to write a particularly dull essay.

“Nor am I.” I said, trying to keep a lid on the burgeoning irritation in my stomach, which threatened to travel up my throat and burst out my mouth. Losing my temper now would help no one.

“So what are you going to do?” Mike enquired, bald as ever.

I felt the last candle of hope inside me extinguish. So, it was up to me. Not what were “we” going to do. Instead, it would be my decision and mine alone. And not because he respected my right to choose either, but because he’d just rather not deal with it. Typical Mike. In that moment, I felt something click in my head as I considered what my gut instinct was. Now was one of those times I could rely on it – I had to. I remembered my mother’s words in the car park, “You know what options are available. What you mean is, you can’t decide.”

“I’m keeping it.” I said. The words sounded almost unreal to my own ears, yet as soon as I uttered them aloud, I knew it was the right decision somehow. This was my choice. This was what I wanted and needed. I could figure out university and all the other life stuff later. It wasn’t going anywhere. Mike’s face remained impassive, like he was made of stone. There was no reaction from him whatsoever, yet his cold stare, meeting my gaze, never wavered. Guilt immediately pierced my heart. What if he didn’t want the child? Did I have the right to inflict one on him, regardless? But then of course, it could be said one had already been “inflicted” on me, by him: I was the one who would have to deal with the consequences, no matter what Mike chose to
do next. He didn’t have to stay. He could walk away whenever he wanted. I, however, would be the one whose life was truly affected.

“Are you okay with that?” I dared to ask, virtually holding my breath.

“I guess I’ll have to be.” He sighed.

What an anticlimax. Would anger have been better? I wondered this many times on the way home from Francis’ that day and in the months that followed. As with his reaction at the house, nothing much more was forthcoming from Mike as my pregnancy progressed. As planned, he went to university a few weeks after my announcement. “It’s better this way” my parents and Francis said, which I echoed, knowing they were right, yet not feeling it at all. I stayed at home, taking a job with Mr. Edwards at the local chemists and hiding my growing bump beneath long cardigans and under the counter from my employer. At least I could always pick up my Mum’s prescriptions for her.

Mike would call and regale me with tales of Freshers’ Week and parties and my cheeks would burn with envy. With every phone call he’d say a hurried “I love you” and ring off, leaving me doubting the validity of his words and if he even believed them, either. Was it something he just said, because he felt he had to? And was the same true for me? Shona too trotted off to university and to my hurt and dismay, dropped me like a stone. Promised phone calls never materialised; visits never came. Our relationship was instead acted out on Facebook walls and via texts as she told me how much she missed me and how I should come and see her, but with so little money and a baby to save for, this was impossible for me. As time progressed and my stomach grew, I started to doubt her posts’ sincerity in any case.

I tried to move on, but it was difficult to find new friends: it was as if all the teenagers around our way had vanished. Perhaps most had? Going to university was
the perfect escape route. I knew no other girl even close to my age having a baby. I went to a couple of antenatal classes in town, but discovered the only Mums-To-Be there were old – thirties and forties even – and more than a bit weird. The nurse or midwife (or whatever she was) patronised us, asking to us to hold plastic dolls during “circle time” and getting us to tell everyone our hopes for when the baby came and how we feel our lives might change. I stifled a laugh as I heard various woman’s proclamations for their future children and how they felt their lives could only improve: had they never heard of varicose veins or postnatal depression? Had they ever considered their children might be twenty four carat brats or their husbands might leave them? By the time the midwife-whatever got to me, it was the end of the session and I felt relief. I had absolutely no idea how my life would change for the better! Um, I would have a baby? That bit I was almost looking forward to, once I got over the feeling of trepidation. But the lack of money terrified me; babies were expensive. And what was my future now? I had no idea how my life would work with a child in tow; it was as if my whole life had a massive question mark hanging over it.

At home, tensions were high between all the girls as usual. Amanda had more or less failed her qualification in health and beauty: she’d barely turned up for class at all – even though it had been just two days a week - and had been hiding letters down the side of her bed from Mum. Mum had gone nuclear and grounded Amanda for about seventeen years, though Amanda still managed to go to Open Mic night at the pub in town every Tuesday; first waiting for Mum to go to bed, then hiking the miles necessary there and back. I’d hear her clamber into bed at three in the morning, smelling of Pirnod and giggling. In direct contrast, Sal had received glittering results for her GCSEs – as predicted – and was now at the local college doing maths and all the sciences at A Level. As far as she was concerned, it was now official she was
better than the rest of us, but especially me. Sal kept referring to me as the “breeding sister”, which I had to take on the chin and count to ten or become embroiled in full-on warfare. Hannah had begun her GCSEs and kept changing her options every five minutes, driving Mum mad with numerous calls to the school principal. As for the twins… They were just the twins. They discovered a mewling bag in a brook near the house and inside, were seven kittens, much to Mum’s chagrin. She told the twins they couldn’t keep them and they promised to put a card up in the local post office, but the card never materialised and before long all seven of the kittens were cats and sleeping under Mum’s bed with her own favourite feline, Monty.

My pregnancy progressed as it should. Being young and having a mother as experienced as mine, it couldn’t really gone any other way, without extreme bad luck. Never a big eater before, I discovered I was ravenous most of the time, with salt and vinegar crisps, orange juice, chocolate and even chunks of ice carved out of the freezer on my constant hit list. Before long, I looked as if I had swallowed a beach ball. I put weight on rapidly on my stomach and legs; my small frame felt suddenly huge with child. To my dismay, my belly soon looked like a road map of red lines as stretchmarks took their toll. I had them under my arms and on my thighs too. I became convinced I was massive, which was not helped by Mike when he came to visit at weekends and during university holidays.

“You can hardly even tell you’re pregnant from this angle.” He attempted helpfully as I stood, with my back to him once.

“Thanks a lot.” I said sarcastically.

“It was supposed to be a compliment!” He countered hotly, eyes flashing.

That was the nature of most of our exchanges these days. There was always a disagreement bubbling under between us, just ready to come to the fore. A cruel
streak had surfaced in Mike I hadn’t noticed before too: there were lots of subtle put-downs and the occasional outright jibe. When we were alone he’d pinch me or twist my arm then insist he had never done so. Sometimes – and usually when the rest of the family were out - he even pinned me down and yelled in my face, insisting I wasn’t listening to him. Everything I said or did he called into question, making me doubt myself. When I asked him why he was doing it, he denied all knowledge. Angry and confused, I caused arguments of my own, playing directly to his belief everything was my fault and I was an unreasonable human being. In direct contrast, Mike cosied up to my sisters, courting them with pleasantries and compliments, the exact opposite of what he was giving me. Whenever he and I argued, he’d appeal to Hannah in particular, who - still just a little girl in so many ways and so eager to please - would always confirm:
yes, it was me, not him
. Impressionable as ever, Hannah even took to waiting on Mike hand and foot, bringing him tea and biscuits and laughing at his poor jokes. Sal enjoyed seeing my relationship under the microscope and did the best she could to stir. Inexperienced in matters of the heart, she was completely unaware of the strain of it put on me. Worse still, there were hushed voices and the smell of marijuana from the old disused chicken house most weekends Mike was down. Even with a baby on the horizon he could not give up his habit and now he was including Amanda and Hannah in on it, as our oblivious Mum slept. I felt torn with both guilt and jealousy.

At least the spectre of Francis’ influence decreased: Mike was with us most of the time he wasn’t at university and before the baby arrived, we barely saw the old man as he was confined to the end of the phone instead. I soon wished Mike were the same. It was so bizarre: I’d spend weeks just waiting to see him, yet when he was there, I’d wish he would leave again. Sometimes, usually very early in the morning as
I listened to Mike snore softly next me, I wondered if we were just acting out the parts we felt we ought to undertake. However negatively I felt about him, I didn’t want to get rid of Mike and deny him the chance of knowing his own child, but equally he probably didn’t want to be the one who broke up with me. Neither of us wanted to be the bad guy. So we waded on through the mire of our feelings for each other, called it “love” and pretended all was fine. Paradoxically, I couldn’t imagine a future without Mike in it, either. I wanted the little house, I wanted more children, I wanted my own career. Could I have any of those things without him? Looking at my parents, I felt my own question twist even tighter: could I have those things even
with
Mike? Nothing seemed certain. I just wanted someone, anyone, to help me formulate a plan – or better still, figure it all out for me and let me know what I would be doing a year from now.

Perhaps I would feel better once the baby arrived, I reasoned. I didn’t have to wait as long as I thought I would either, for the baby came a whole month early. There was chaos and panic as my waters broke at home. A weekend, Mike was there and watching, silently bemused as Mum tried to calm me, telling me thirty six weeks’ gestation is fine for some babies. But I refused to be pacified, shrieking at her, demanding to know how she would know when her babies were always late! Dad looked after the girls and Mum drove Mike and I to the hospital. Mike was both scared and sulking, for I’d already told him some weeks before that I wanted Mum present at the birth as well. He had attempted to dissuade me many times already, telling me he “should be enough for me”, yet deep down I knew I could not rely on him. What if he fainted or ran out, unable to handle it? What if he said stupid things or stressed me out? I knew I needed someone present I could count on – like Mum - no matter how many tantrums Mike pulled in advance.

At the hospital a midwife reassured me my mother was right; not all early babies were in danger and that actually, thirty seven weeks is considered “on time” so in reality, my baby was officially only one week early in real terms. I felt my stress levels decrease and the pain of labour went down a little as I stopped panicking, though it was still more excruciating than I had ever contemplated. Mum coaxed me to breathe through it, showing me how and holding my hand as Mike stood by on the sidelines, hands deep in his pockets. I had wondered if I would feel sorry for him beforehand, but now I was so busy I had no time for anything else but concentrating on the birth. Even Mum seemed far away somehow, even though I had had no drugs. It was just me and the baby. I had not asked if I was carrying a boy or a girl; I’d wanted the surprise. Mike had felt sure the child would be a boy and had even picked out a name: Tommy. Not wanting more arguments, I’d simply decided I would see the child for who he or she was and name it on the day. Now I couldn’t wait to see the little one’s face and it kept me going through the pain. About three hours in, I suddenly realised: despite all the uncertainty, the trepidation, my worries for the future, I wanted this child and I couldn’t wait to be a mother.