The Other Child (6 page)

She does not want to go and see the OB/GYN, a tiny Chinese-American woman with a shining bob and a clipped, emotionless voice who makes her think of emergencies and surgical instruments.

‘An’s the best – she has a wait list years long,’ Greg had said, when he got her on the patient list. ‘People sign up with her the day they get pregnant. If something goes wrong, An’s the one I’d want opening up your uterus.’

‘Jesus, Greg! Nobody’s going to be opening my uterus.’ It shocked her how he could switch like this to seeing her body as an object that might malfunction.

‘Come on,’ he says now. ‘Come and sit back down.’

‘What about the throwing up?’ She follows him to the sofa. ‘I was pretty sick.’

‘That’s probably unrelated. It might be just a virus. You’re being exposed to a whole range of viruses here, probably for the first time, so you’re likely to get sick more than usual at first, until you build up immunity.’ He tucks a pillow under her back.

‘Do you think I’m miscarrying, Greg? I need you to tell me the truth.’

‘Blood spotting happens, even in the second trimester. It’s probably nothing, really. We’ll get you checked out, just to be one hundred per cent sure. You should lie down now, put your feet up for the rest of the day. You look pale.’ He smooths a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Everything’s going to be OK.’

‘But I have to go and pick up Joe in half an hour. When’s your flight to Chicago?’

‘If I’m going to catch it, and make the dinner tonight, I’ll have to go in about’ – he grimaces – ‘ten minutes.’

She does not want him to get on a plane, not even to receive an important prize. She wants him to sit down on the sofa with her, put his arms around her and stay.

‘The moment the plenary is done tomorrow I’m going to turn around and fly straight home,’ he says. ‘I can be back here by mid-afternoon.’

‘I’ll be fine, honestly.’ She feels herself retreat inside, curl back into herself. She stares at the parquet floor, at little nicks and scratches caused by all the feet and furniture that have passed through this house over the years. She thinks about the dramas and the hurts, the misunderstandings and betrayals that have taken place right here, on this floor.

‘I wish to God I could cancel.’ He squeezes her hand. ‘But it would be . . . It’s an annual national meeting; there’s a plenary session just for me to give a talk, then get the prize; there are several hundred people coming. It would be . . . almost unforgivable not to show up . . .’

‘You absolutely have to go.’

‘But I don’t want to. This is horrible. I want to stay here with you – you know that, don’t you? This is not what I want at all.’ He squeezes her hand again and she makes herself look up at him. His mouth is grim. ‘I hate this,’ he says.

‘It’s OK.’ She feels as if she is pushing herself up through layers of heavy earth. ‘You can’t possibly miss getting your prize. It’s just bad timing, that’s all. You have to go. I’ll be totally fine. Don’t worry, OK? You said yourself, it’s just spotting. The baby’s moving. And you’ll be back tomorrow.’

There is a long pause. He keeps his eyes fixed on her face. ‘No,’ he says, finally. ‘You know what? I can’t. I’m just not going to leave you here. Fuck it. Fuck the whole thing. I just can’t do this.’

‘But you have to go!’

‘No, I don’t. You’re more important. I can’t leave you on your own when you’re feeling like this.’ His face is set. ‘I’m not going.’

She takes his hand. ‘This is ridiculous, Greg; there is no way I’m letting you stay. There are hundreds of people expecting you, it’s a massive deal, and I’m fine. I just felt the baby move again, just now. I’ve got a stupid virus, that’s all. You’ll be away less than twenty-four hours. You’ll be back before we know it.’

He is shaking his head.

‘Greg,’ she says. ‘Really, honestly, this is silly. I’m not letting you stay.’

‘But—’

‘No. Go and do your talk, get your prize. Then come back as soon as you can.’

There is another long pause. Then he gives a slow nod. ‘I will turn around and come right back if . . . if anything . . . anything at all.’

‘I know you will.’

‘I’ll have my phone switched on the whole time.’ He leans closer, kissing her on the forehead.

‘I’m going to be OK.’

‘OK.’ He sighs and glances at his watch. ‘Shit, Tess.’

‘Go.’

‘I have to change my clothes, then I’ll sort Joe out. I don’t want you walking down to the school today.’

‘I’ll do it—’

‘No. No. I’m doing it. You’re going to rest.’

‘All I have to do is call Sandra; she’s home on Fridays. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind picking him up; she’s very nice.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘I’m going to organize a babysitter for him tomorrow, then you can stay in bed.’

‘No, it’s OK. David’s coming tomorrow, remember?’

‘Oh – right, sure, I’d forgotten he was finally showing up.’ He leans over and kisses her on the lips. ‘Good timing, for once. OK, now, you go upstairs and you lie down. You rest. An’s office will call soon – she’ll probably be able to give you a quick scan later today if you can make it in.’ He holds her chin. ‘I love you. Everything’s going to be just fine. OK? I promise.’

He can’t promise, and they both know it, but she nods anyway. He thunders upstairs and she hears him opening and closing their chest of drawers.

*

When he has gone she picks up her phone and calls Nell.

‘Oh, Tess, you poor thing, that’s horrid – you must be really worried. Are you resting? Are your feet up? I wish I was there to look after you and make you some soup.’

‘Soup?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I wish you were here, too.’

‘Is Greg there?’

‘He was, he came home, but then he had to go again. He’s being awarded a big prize tomorrow morning, in Chicago; it’s a big honour. He had to leave this afternoon.’

‘No way! He’s flying to Chicago? He’s leaving you alone there?’

‘It’s not like that at all. He wanted to stay, but I actually made him go in the end. The prize is important and there are hundreds of surgeons coming just to see him get it – he has to give a speech, the media will be there, everything. He can’t not show up just because I threw up.’

‘And had a bleed.’

‘It really was just spotting and it’s stopped now. I just felt the baby wriggle again.’

‘OK, I know – the baby’s going to be fine, you’ll be fine. I just wish you weren’t on your own right now.’

‘I’m not, I’ll have Joe here in half an hour. And anyway, it’s me – I like being alone.’

‘Actually I remember I had some blood spotting early on with the twins – I’m googling it now. I think it’s quite common. There you go: blood spotting in the second trimester . . .’

‘Don’t google!’

There is a pause. ‘OK, yes, you’re right – bad idea. I’m shutting it down now.’

‘I’m a bit worried about caffeine. Caffeine causes miscarriage, doesn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘Greg made me this really strong latte this morning and it wasn’t long after that I started feeling sick. I don’t know if it was the caffeine, or maybe something was wrong with the milk – it was very milky. I don’t know. But my body knew it was the wrong thing to drink. I had to almost force it down. I should have left it.’

‘I’m pretty sure the caffeine effects are only if you drink more than twenty-five cups a day, or something, for several months. One latte – even the strength Greg makes them – isn’t going to make you miscarry. But I can google caffeine too if you want . . .’

‘No, please don’t.’ She remembers the bedside table. ‘Oh God. I carried a bedside table out of the car today.’

‘OK, listen, stop. All around the world pregnant women are lifting heavy things – toddlers, farming equipment, factory machinery. The female body is tough and resilient; we’re brilliantly designed. And if you were miscarrying, the blood wouldn’t stop, would it? It would be getting worse. Didn’t Greg say that? It would surely be getting worse, with cramps and things. And you wouldn’t be feeling the baby move.’

‘I know, you’re right; that’s what Greg said too. I’m probably going in for a scan later, just to be sure.’

‘Did Greg seem worried?’

‘I don’t know. He said he wasn’t, but I think he was really.’

‘If he thought you were miscarrying, even Greg wouldn’t bugger off to Chicago.’

Tess swallows a mouthful of the tea Greg had brought her before he left.

‘Would he?’ Nell’s voice has a slight echo.

‘Of course he wouldn’t. It’s not like that. It’s just, I know it’s silly, but I can’t help wondering if he might be slightly relieved if I did lose this baby.’

‘Oh, Tess, has he still not come round? I thought he had.’

‘I don’t know. He isn’t saying anything obviously negative, but I honestly don’t know how he feels because we’ve barely talked about it – or anything else really – since we got here.’

‘Has he ever actually explained to you why he was so adamant about not wanting a child?’

‘He doesn’t have time to cope with a newborn.’

‘But plenty of people work long hours and have babies. Anyway, presumably you’d be the one at home with the newborn, not him. Surgeons do have children, don’t they? I have to say I don’t really buy that as an argument.’

‘No, nor do I. I’m sure it goes deeper than that.’

‘Could it be to do with his job? I mean, I suppose he’s seeing the worst-case scenarios every day. Maybe he’s scared something might go wrong with the baby. He’s sort of seen the dark side of parenthood, hasn’t he?’

‘Maybe, but he sees the good side too – the love, the recovery.’

‘I think you should talk to him, Tess, properly, before this baby’s born. It’s really not good to think that your husband might be relieved if you miscarried.’

‘I know, but it’s pretty much impossible to talk to him at the moment. He’s at the hospital all the time or he’s travelling, and even when he is here, he’s exhausted. Sometimes I feel almost like Joe and I have moved to this place on our own. To be honest, this whole thing sometimes feels a bit insane.’

‘I know. But it’s not though, is it? You had lots of really good reasons for doing this, apart from loving Greg and wanting to be with him, obviously. Joe’s nearer David there, you’re having an adventure; I mean, who knows what it might do for your photography – and it’s an amazing thing for Greg’s career. Don’t lose sight of all that. I wish I could come and live in Boston, I’m telling you; it’s incredibly dull here, nothing ever changes. I’d leap at the chance to live in America for a few years.’

‘I know, I’m lucky, I know. We just have to adjust, that’s all.’

‘It was always going to be tough at first.’

‘Greg’s doing his best, he really is. I’m just feeling a bit sorry for myself right now. And I’m sure he’ll fall in love with our baby the moment he holds it—’

‘Holy crap!’ Nell gives a wild laugh.

‘What?’

‘No. You do not want to know.’

‘
What?
’

‘Well, OK, so I was listening to you, I promise, but I was also googling caffeine and milky drinks and miscarriage at the same time, and I found this news story about a married obstetrician who slipped drugs into his pregnant mistress’s tea to make her miscarry his unborn child. Good grief.’

‘Nell,’ she howls. ‘Stop googling, for Christ’s sake!’

‘No. It’s OK. It all turned out all right in the end – well, kind of. The mistress spotted this yellow powder at the bottom of her tea mug and realized he was drugging her. It says here she put the tea mug in a plastic bag and took it to the police. It was all OK in the end – she gave birth to a healthy boy and the doctor went to prison.’

She hears the mail thud onto the porch and goes to the door. As she opens it, she sees Helena’s silver Prius pulling up by the fence. The passenger window glides down and a hand waves. Tess pushes back her hair and tightens her cardigan over her belly, wishing she had at least put on some mascara or brushed her hair. The sickness has passed overnight, but she still feels peaky. The ultrasound showed that the baby was fine and she’d heard its heartbeat, a distant, rapid swoosh and thud, like tiny footsteps running across snow. Over the phone from Chicago, Greg had sounded relieved, but not surprised. Everything was going to be fine.

She gets to the window of Helena’s Prius.

‘Hey, Tess.’ Helena is leaning on the passenger seat, her wrist laden with beaded leather bracelets. ‘How’s it going?’ She is in dark jeans, subtle lipstick; her skin looks luminous.

‘OK, thanks.’ Tess tucks her hair behind her ears.

‘Wonderful! So, listen, Josh and I were wondering . . .’ Helena pauses, smiles, opening her eyes a little wider. ‘Could you park your Volvo somewhere else? Maybe in your garage? It’s just that when you leave it out front like this, backing out of our driveway can be a little tricky.’

She tries to keep the smile going.

‘OK, great! Well, I have to go now – I’m on my way to the airport – but you have a great day, OK?’ The window slides back up and Helena pulls away, skirting the Volvo in an exaggerated arc.

Overhead, the branches of the oak tree knock together, a hollow, lonely sound. Tess looks at the Volvo. The street is three times as wide as her road in England – you could get an articulated lorry past it. When she goes to the supermarket, this is the fastest way to unload the shopping – the alternative is to carry heavy bags up the basement steps. Helena’s request is nonsense really, purely territorial, designed to make her feel like an outsider. It is as if Helena wants to make her as uncomfortable as possible. She leaves the Volvo where it is and goes back into the house.

*

She experiences a surge of relief when she opens the door an hour later to find David filling the porch, tanned and battered-looking, in the leather jacket he’d owned since they were together. His messed-up curls are receding now, silvery at the sides, and there is the smile she used to find irresistible, his bottom jaw jutting slightly sideways. She hugs him tightly and if he is surprised by her affection, he doesn’t show it.

After some overexcited wrestling with his dad, Joe thunders upstairs to pack up some toys. She makes David an espresso and, as they sit at the breakfast bar with the doors to the deck open, he talks about his new job defending human rights campaigners in conflict zones. She doesn’t ask too many questions. Over the years she has realized that it is best to avoid the specifics of the perilous situations David puts himself in. Nor does she ask why it has taken him a month to get to Boston; it would only sound querulous and Joe is delighted that he is here – she must not spoil that. They have always managed to be kind to each other in front of Joe, and that feels especially important now, with all the disruption Joe is going through.

‘If you don’t mind me saying so, Tess, you look knackered.’ He takes a gulp of espresso. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Everything’s fine, thanks.’

He glances at her belly. ‘Are you as sick with this one as you were with Joe?’

‘I really wasn’t that sick with Joe.’ It feels too intimate to talk to David about the pregnancy. She doesn’t want him to have a connection to her body anymore.

‘You just look a bit pallid and pasty, sort of Bride of Frankenstein, in your own blonde, beautiful way.’

‘Thanks.’ She scrapes her hair off her face and ties it at the base of her neck with a band from her wrist. ‘I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’

‘Why?’

It really isn’t his fault. How would David know what it feels like to be five months pregnant in a new country with a dispossessed child, to make a blinding leap across the Atlantic after someone who is away so much that at times he feels almost imaginary? David travels with a passport, a holdall, and a multi-pocket gilet stuffed with gadgets and dollars. He spends his time being tear-gassed and shot at. He is blacklisted in China and banned from Bahrain, and will – nominally – be living in a fully furnished apartment somewhere in Brooklyn with a stack of takeaway menus, a fridge containing microbrewery beer, and not a single cushion.

David puts down his empty cup. ‘Nice coffee.’

‘Gourmet beans. Greg’s a bit of a coffee snob.’

‘Is he around?’ He looks behind him, as if Greg might pop out of one of the kitchen cabinets making jazz hands.

‘No.’ Their eyes meet, and she suddenly feels disloyal, as if she is siding with David against Greg. ‘He’s away right now. He’s receiving an award – I’m about to watch it streaming live from Chicago. He’ll be back this afternoon.’

‘Blimey, Tess, that man travels almost as much as I do.’ She hears the tension in his voice. He has had so little time to get used to Greg. He handled the announcement of the marriage and move with equanimity because it meant that he would be on the same continent as Joe. He has been civil to Greg whenever they’ve met, but they have nothing in common and it can’t be easy to see another man step into Joe’s life like this. It helps that David is an optimist, unfazed by change, that he thrives on the unexpected and believes, unfailingly, that everything will work out for the best. Despite his flaws, she is lucky that David is Joe’s father and not someone more conventional or sensible – or someone with more time on their hands.

‘Are you ready, Joey?’ She gets up and calls through the archway. ‘Don’t forget to do your teeth, OK?’

The phone is ringing. She glances over at it. The stack of paperwork that is usually in the wire tray – bills, leaflets and Greg’s unopened mail – has been lifted onto the marble countertop and placed by the phone. She is sure that the previous evening, when she tidied the kitchen before she went to bed, it was in the tray. She tries to think whether she touched it this morning, but she can’t remember. Maybe Joe was looking for something.

‘You want me to get that for you?’ David raises his eyebrows at the phone.

‘Oh? No, no, don’t bother. Nobody’s ever there. Greg thinks it’s an automated marketing thing. I keep forgetting to call the phone company and sort it out.’ The answerphone kicks in, there is the pause, then the flat burr as the call cuts out.

‘You can dial star, six, nine to find out who’s calling.’

‘I know. I tried that but it just says number unavailable.’

David looks around the kitchen. ‘It’s all very
American Beaut
y here, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’

‘Well, it’s spookily quiet. Like Armageddon’s happened and nobody’s told us.’

‘People work long hours here, that’s all.’

‘It’s Saturday, Tess.’

‘Well they’re at their children’s sports games then. They take kids’ sport really seriously here – it’s great, actually; they have proper facilities, semi-professional coaches.’

‘What they have,’ David says, ‘is money.’ He looks around at the marble countertops, the Bosch appliances, and runs a hand over his chin. ‘You’ve come up in the world, Ms Harding. Remember Camberwell?’

They catch each other’s eye and smile, and for a moment they are back there – idealistic twenty-somethings eating baked beans in a freezing bedsit. She looks away first.

‘I know it’s posh here, but the people are nice, the school seems good and it’s very handy for Greg to get to the hospital.’

‘But it’s not really you, is it?’ he says. ‘Suburban life in a mock Tudor?’

‘It’s an experience, David. It’s also very pleasant and safe here. This is the fifth safest place to live in the whole of the country – it used to be the first, but someone got shot a few years ago on the border between this suburb and the next, so it was knocked down the league table a bit.’

‘Yeah, well, safety’s overrated.’

‘Not when you have a child.’

‘I thought the police shoot-out with the marathon bombers happened just—’

‘That was the next suburb along, David.’

He leans back, sticks his legs out and crosses them at the ankle, his eyes lively.

‘What time do you have to get going?’ She gets off her stool.

He holds up both hands. ‘It’s OK, calm down. I’m just winding you up. I’m sure it’s delightful here, and outrageously safe.’

‘The biggest crime here last week was someone calling the police to report a severed foot inside a sock, bobbing in the lake.’

David grimaces. ‘That doesn’t sound particularly minor.’

‘When the police fished the sock out there was no foot inside it.’

‘Are you working at the moment, Tess,’ he laughs, ‘or are you spending long days poring over the local paper’s crime pages?’

She stops laughing. ‘I’m finishing a book project actually.’

‘Good.’ He doesn’t ask for details. ‘Because you’d go mad here if you weren’t taking pictures.’

She raises her eyebrows. He has never taken her photography seriously, despite the fact that it has largely fed and clothed his son for nine years. Perhaps if she’d been a war photographer or had pictures of Peruvian hill tribes published in the
National Geographic
, he’d have respected her work more. But her career can never rival the hands-on, dirty, dangerous work that David does. Her photographs don’t save lives.

Joe comes into the kitchen carrying a backpack stuffed with Lego and remote-controlled helicopters.

‘Well done, love.’ She smiles at him, suddenly not wanting him to go with David. ‘You’re all packed up.’

‘How’s school going, big man?’ David ruffles Joe’s hair. Her anxiety fades. When he is physically with Joe, David is an excellent father. He might be financially unreliable and hard to pin down, but he loves his son, and is good at showing it.

‘Made any new mates since we talked?’ David keeps his hand on Joe’s head.

‘Two.’ She watches Joe inflate. This is the first time he has admitted to any successful social interaction. She tries not to look surprised.

‘Which one do you like best?’

‘Maybe Forrest, he’s OK. He’s into football – soccer.’

‘Ah yes, it’s soccer now, isn’t it?’ David sits, legs apart, on the stool, as if this is his kitchen, his house. ‘Vital to learn the lingo. Blend in with the enemy.’

‘OK. So. What’s the plan?’ Tess takes David’s coffee cup to the sink.

‘Guess what? I got us Red Sox tickets.’ David produces them from his inside pocket. Joe’s face lights up. After so much anxiety, the sight of his smile makes her almost dizzy with relief. She realizes she has not actually seen Joe smile properly since they crossed the threshold of this house.

She considers taking David’s arm, pulling him aside and warning him that Joe is more fragile than he seems – that he sobs at bedtime and begs her to take him home, that he daren’t speak in class because of his accent and can’t remember the pledge of allegiance, that nobody sits next to him at lunch. Her chest tightens at the thought of Joe, small, alone and sad at the end of a long canteen table.

‘Right.’ David slaps his thighs. ‘So, listen, Tess, I’ll have him back here around midday tomorrow. My flight’s at two. Sorry – a bit earlier than I said. I have to catch the red-eye to Amsterdam.’

She comes out to the porch and watches David’s hire car pull away with Joe waving through the passenger window, even smaller, suddenly, his face excited but uncertain, too, about leaving her, vulnerable, even with his dad. She has a sudden image of her mother’s pallid face pressed against a car window, the pleading eyes and palms flat against the glass, as she mouthed, ‘Take me home!’ And then they are gone and the street is empty again.

She drops her hand and birdsong fills the air, a subtly aggressive, dominating sound. She feels the back of her neck prickle and suddenly she is sure that if she turns she will see someone standing in the shrubs between this house and Helena’s. She forces herself to look. The garden is empty. She pulls out her phone and calls Nell. It goes straight to voicemail. She leaves a brief message as she walks back down the path and steps into the shadows of the porch.

She watches Greg receive his award, standing on a Chicago podium in a dark suit. He is authoritative, deep-voiced, witty, self-assured – a persona that she has glimpsed but never fully seen in action. She feels her heart fill up and suddenly wishes she was there, clapping with all those hundreds of doctors, showing him how proud she is of what he has achieved.

She is just getting into the shower when she hears a dull thud downstairs by the front door. It is less distinct than a knock, more like the palm of a hand slamming onto the mahogany panel.

She washes quickly, towels her hair, wraps herself in a bathrobe and goes downstairs. Before she opens the door she pauses, barefoot, on the cool white tiles, and listens, but all she can hear are the water pipes gurgling and the repetitive,
ha-ha
birdsong. She opens the door a crack. The porch is empty, but something by her feet catches her eye, a thin envelope on the doormat. It is grubby, a little crumpled, addressed to Dr Greg Gallo in tight, scratchy-looking handwriting.

She picks it up, steps back inside and rips it open, unfolding a single sheet of paper.

It is unsigned.

She steps onto the porch again, holding her bathrobe shut, scanning the bright street. Nobody is there.

She goes back inside and double-locks the front door. Then she walks quickly through to the dining room and peers out. A woman with white curly hair, a floral shirt and a small dog is walking briskly past.

She goes back across the hall and into the living room, looking through the side window, past the swing set towards the corner of the street and the square brick house opposite. She has seen the family getting in and out of their people carrier: parents and three small children, all of them red-haired. But their driveway is empty today.

She goes into the kitchen, half expecting to find a face pressed against the French windows. But the deck is empty too. A leaf flutters down like a tiny gold butterfly.