If You Knew Her Page 17

  If Charlotte is shocked by the number, she doesn’t show it. She just nods her head evenly.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Alice.’

  I nod. ‘We’ve had all the tests, of course; it’s a chromosomal abnormality. There’s nothing they can do. I’m thirty-eight. I had the last miscarriage last summer. I promised my husband we’d start thinking about alternative ways we could be parents. He thinks we’ve both had enough of trying to have our own. He was right, of course, and then just five days ago, I found out I was pregnant again.’

  Charlotte doesn’t move her eyes off my face. ‘It reminds me of that saying, you know: you get what you want when you stop trying.’

  She looks away from me for a moment. I can tell she’s thinking about Cassie, about her decision not to tell Jack about their baby.

  She nods. ‘I can understand why you’ve decided not to tell your husband yet. How are you feeling?’

  Suddenly my precious news seems to hang around us, too fragile in the stuffy air of this bland, windowless room. I can’t protect it any more; I feel the need to move, shift the space, lift the weight of what I just told her.

  I stand suddenly. I feel Charlotte’s eyes on my back as I start busily gathering up the mugs from the meeting, putting them in the sink too hard. They chime against each other cheerlessly.

  The thrill of telling Charlotte has passed. I’ll try and think of it as auspicious later but now I don’t want to talk about my pregnancy any more, not here where I’m more used to people dying than being born. Not yet, when David still doesn’t know. I turn the tap on hard, the stream of water rattles against the stainless steel sink.

  ‘I’m just keeping myself balanced and cautiously positive. We’ll see. Anyway …’ I remember one of my gynaecologists littered his sentences with phrases like ‘cautiously optimistic’ as I lay like a trussed turkey, my legs in stirrups on his table. My ‘anyway’ hangs in the air. I turn the tap off and start washing up our mugs.

  Charlotte senses the change in me. She stands as well and glances at her watch. ‘Oh goodness, it’s almost eleven. I’ll just go and see Cas and then I’m meeting a friend to take Maisie for a walk.’ Charlotte gathers up her coat and bag.

  ‘You’re still looking after her?’ I ask, glad of the shift in conversation.

  ‘Maisie, yes, she’s with me at the moment. Jack’s got enough on and, to be honest, I think he finds it too hard to see her. She reminds him of Jonny, of everything that’s happened …’

  Charlotte shifts her bag up to her shoulder. She comes towards me, squeezes my forearm in brief recognition of the moment we just shared, and she says she’ll see me tomorrow, before she leaves.

  As the door clicks shut behind her I pull my dripping hands out of the sink, appalled with myself for not asking Charlotte to keep the news of my pregnancy to herself. I think about going after her, but then I remember her steady, calm eyes on me, the warmth of her hand on my back and I don’t think I need to worry. She won’t tell anyone.

  There’s a pile of paperwork waiting for me at reception. I should start leafing through it, but first I decide to go and see Cassie.

  I’m careful to draw the curtain around us as I sit in her visitor’s chair. Two weeks in this suspended place and her face is a colourless mask, her lips are slightly parted as if she fell asleep in the middle of an unfinished sentence. I’ve washed her hair three times now, but just a couple of days after the last wash, it already looks wilted. The cuts have healed on her arms, but her skin, now a light concrete colour, is dry and scaly. I’ll moisturise it later. Her hands are tight fists. I’ve curled her fingers around hand supports; even though I cut her fingernails the other day, there’s still a risk she could hurt herself. She has extra inflatable supports under her arms and legs to ease pressure points and avoid thrombosis; her bed has become a mini bouncy castle. The baby, now fourteen weeks old, is just visible under the sheets, a sweet molehill.

  I move close towards Cassie’s head and look at the colourful display, like a dream of her former life, suspended just above her head. Either Charlotte or Jack have printed off the black-and-white photo of Cassie decorating the Christmas tree I saw on Facebook. It’s stuck at the bottom of her display, resting just above Cassie’s head like a halo. Cassie looks younger in the photo, her smile wide but slightly held.

  I look at them both, Cassie in hospital and Cassie in the photo. She looks like two different people. I think of Jonny’s face when he came onto the ward. He had the nauseated, helpless look of someone who knows someone they love is in trouble. I look at the small hump of Cassie’s tummy again and think about all the whispering on the ward. Perhaps Cassie wasn’t protecting Jack from the possibility of another miscarriage; maybe she was hiding something else from him.

  I hear him again; ‘She was scared.’

  The memory of Jack howling when he found out she was pregnant echoes round my head. I stand back, away from her suddenly, stung by the realisation that I’ve been pulled into the lies myself. I feel vertiginous, unsure of the world suddenly, because the Cassie I thought I knew has disappeared, and the woman before me, this sleeping woman whose fate seems somehow inextricably aligned with my own, is a stranger to me and I know that to feel safe, for our babies to be safe, I have to know her. I have to find out who she really is.

  14

  Frank

  It’s official! Lizzie has a new boyfriend! She told me as she gave me a bed bath this morning, her voice sliding high and low like a xylophone with joy. My eyes have been getting itchier over the last couple of weeks. I lie here like a plate of spoiling meat, willing Lizzie to pause, to notice my sore eyes, and perhaps get something cool to soothe them, but she didn’t look at me for long enough. She was too busy telling me about her new boyfriend, about Alex. It happened in the late January Ikea sales. Apparently, Lizzie likes to take prospective boyfriends to Ikea as a stress test. She told me about him as she soaped my starved skin. I’d listen to her all day, listen to whatever she wants to say, so long as she keeps wiping my skin with exquisite warm water.

  Once I’m dry and tucked back up, I’m busy congratulating Lizzie (and Alex for passing the Ikea test) and thanking her for not cringing during my bath when, without warning, my vision goes black for a second. My burning eyes sing in relief, and then, as if nothing happened, Lizzie reappears, blurry but undeniably Lizzie, with the folder still open before her.

  She looks up and smiles at me. ‘Hi, Mr Ashcroft,’ she says before she turns her head back to her folder.

  What the fuck just happened?

  My eyes start to burn again; I imagine tiny flames inside my pupil and then, without any force – my ten-tonne eyelids suddenly light as air – my vision goes black again as my lids slide down to meet each other.

  Lizzie doesn’t even look up.

  Lizzie, I blinked! I think I fucking blinked!

  I can feel the flames in my eyes starting to lick again, and I think it’s my moment as Lizzie replaces my folder. I try and make myself ready, remember the rush of relief, the black, but, as Lizzie comes towards me with some damp cotton, my eyelids freeze.

  Come on, Frank, do it now!

  But it’s no good. I’ve fucked it. I’ve lost the sweet subtle point between trying and not trying and it’s as if my eyelids are glued open again. She pads my eyes with damp cotton as normal. For once I wish she’d shut up and just concentrate on me as she says in a voice gently taut with excitement, ‘Well, Mr Ashcroft, there’s some more wonderful news today. Alice said I could let you know that it’s a girl, Mr Ashcroft! Isn’t that wonderful? Cassie and Jack’s baby is a little girl!’

  I try not to care. This was supposed to be my moment, but I can’t help it; a vision of Lucy naked and newly born comes to me and then without warning my eyelids slide down, slow, amphibian. I have a moment of thick, blissful darkness before my eyes pop open to a view of the blank magnolia ceiling where Lizzie’s head was less than two seconds earlier.

  Goddamn it, Lizzie, look at
me!

  But she’s off doing something else now, fiddling around with my bedside unit, her voice leaping octaves as she tells me about her auntie.

  ‘She had loads of miscarriages, the baby just wouldn’t stay until she had a little girl. My mum said all those babies she lost were probably little boys until she became pregnant with Sacha. Little girls are tougher,’ she says, finally turning towards me, with a smile, proud to be a member of the fairer, tougher sex.

  Here we go!

  But I see her head turn away just before I blink again, and she says, ‘Cheerio, Mr Ashcroft.’ The sound of her walking away is like a pin bursting my bubble.

  I blink a few more times throughout the day, but without anyone to see, to confirm this is happening, I stop myself from getting too excited. It could be my imagination playing tricks.

  Congratulations from the nurses trickle after Jack like a waterfall as he arrives for a visit. I wonder if he’s secretly a little disappointed; if he, like me, had been imagining kicking a football and playing with trucks and now the assumption of all that pink, the thought of bloody pretend tea parties, feels a bit lame, and not the story he’d pictured.

  If I could I would tell him not to worry. Lucy had the best left foot of her whole year and there’s no love quite like that between father and daughter. I have a good view this evening. I watch him stroke Cassie’s hair, a habit he’s developed, before he places a hand on her stomach that is now undeniably a baby bump.

  Looking towards her face, he says, ‘My little girl.’ He moves his hand round and round.

  I’m not sure if he’s talking to Cassie or the baby before he sits back in the chair, places his rucksack on his knees and pulls out a small pile of colourful envelopes. He starts opening them one by one, glancing at the front briefly before showing them to Cassie and reading them out loud. I hear them all.

  Some of them are formal, like they don’t know Cassie well – ‘With best wishes for a swift recovery, Alan and Cathy Jones’ – and others are more emotive: ‘I wish I could visit, Cas. You’re in my thoughts every moment. Sending you all my love.’ Jack’s not very good at reading out loud; he reads each card in the same monotone. He looks up at Cassie, every now and then, to say things about their friends: ‘That’s sweet of Beth’; and ‘Typical Sam, eh?’ A colourful paper pyre soon litters the area around his feet. He gathers the envelopes unceremoniously into a chaotic bundle before shoving them back in his bag.

  He gives Cassie – and me – the daily update on his new life. He tells us it looks as though Jensen and Son are going to win the bid for the Brighton pub conversion Jack’s been working on when he’s not here at Kate’s. He leans forward and strokes Cassie’s hair back again, away from her forehead.

  ‘Mum says Maisie’s still sleeping with your scarf, love. She misses you. She’s eating better though. Mum said she had half a can of dog food last night, so that’s a good sign that she’s calming down, isn’t it?’

  I hear Alice walk towards him. She pauses just outside Cassie’s area, behind Jack. She’s looking at him and biting her bottom lip. She’s nervous. It makes me nervous. My eyes burn and I blink again.

  Over here Alice! Look!

  Jack doesn’t turn towards her footsteps; he can’t hear her like I can.

  ‘Hi, Jack. A little girl! Congratulations!’

  He stands as Alice approaches him and he opens his arms to her, smiling. He looks delighted as he pulls Alice into an awkward bear hug. She releases him before he lets her go.

  ‘It’s wonderful news; the father/daughter relationship is really special.’

  Jack beams at her and she returns his smile, but it’s not the smile of the Alice I know. Jack doesn’t notice; he doesn’t know her like I do. She’s holding onto her smile. It looks effortful; she’s lost her natural way with him.

  ‘I was secretly hoping it was a little girl, to be honest. Cassie and I already picked a girl’s name.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  Jack bends down close to Alice and says quietly, ‘We both always loved Freya. So she’s going to be Freya Charlotte April Jensen.’

  ‘Beautiful,’ Alice says.

  She looks like she’s about to say goodbye when Jack says, ‘Actually, Alice, I’m glad I saw you. Can I have a minute?’

  Alice reapplies her smile. ‘Of course, shall we go to the family room?’

  Jack ignores her question, but he lowers his voice and turns his back towards Cassie, so he’s facing me, before he starts talking.

  ‘I don’t want to worry you unnecessarily, but I thought you should know that a guy called Marcus Garrett may try and visit Cassie.’

  Alice keeps her eyes fixed on Jack’s face. She nods.

  ‘He married April, Cassie’s mum, just six months before April died.’

  ‘OK, so he’s Cassie’s stepdad?’

  ‘She never called him her stepdad.’ Jack shrugs. ‘She’s always found him difficult, but he completely broke down after April died and, to be honest, two and a half years later, he still acts like April died yesterday. He always made Cassie feel so guilty for moving on, for being happy.’

  ‘So he knows she’s here?’

  Jack nods. ‘One of Cassie’s friends told him, apparently. The thing is, I’ve asked him not to visit, but Mum thought she saw him in the hospital café the other day. I just don’t want him knowing about the baby. I think it could send him over the edge again.’

  Jack pauses, looks down the ward and bends his head lower, closer to Alice’s ear.

  ‘He turned up at ours completely out of the blue on the last anniversary of April’s death. He really upset Cas, implied it was Cas’s fault he cancelled a memorial weekend for April, all sorts of shit.’ Jack pauses and looks at Alice as if to ensure he has her full attention. ‘There was an argument. I tried to defend Cas, get her to stand up to Marcus, but she got a bit pissed off with me, to be honest.’ Jack clears his throat and frowns. ‘Cas miscarried after he drove off.’

  Alice is nodding her head slowly, and, encouraged, Jack keeps talking.

  ‘I know you said she might be able to hear us, and I don’t want to risk her getting upset if she hears Marcus. I really, really can’t let that happen.’

  Alice keeps nodding her head. She pats Jack’s arm.

  ‘It’s all right, Jack. It’s OK. We don’t let anyone visit her without your permission anyway, as we agreed, but if you give this Marcus’s full name to reception we can be especially careful, OK?’

  I blink again. The movement catches Alice’s attention and she looks over towards my bed, looks me in the eye, but she just missed it.

  So close that time.

  ‘Thanks, Alice. I don’t mean to sound cold. I just, you know, I just want to make sure Cas … Cas and Freya are safe. It kind of feels like the only thing I can do.’

  Alice nods again. ‘Of course, of course, Jack.’

  There’s movement at the end of the ward. Jack and Alice both turn towards it. I can just see two doctors and a small herd of student doctors cluster like sheep for afternoon rounds.

  Alice looks at the watch on her chest and says, ‘I guess that’s our cue.’

  ‘Thanks, Alice. I appreciate it. And you like the name?’

  ‘Very pretty.’ But Alice is back to biting her lip. As Jack starts to walk away, she says, ‘Oh, Jack?’

  He turns back to Alice. ‘Yes?’

  Alice looks lost, disorientated for a second, as though surprised to hear herself asking for Jack’s attention again.

  ‘You did pick up the envelope Brooks left for you?’ she asks after a pause.

  Jack looks slightly relieved, as though he anticipated bad news. He smiles at Alice. ‘Yes, I picked it up over a week ago. It wasn’t anything too important.’ He gives her a little wave and walks away.

  Alice watches him leave. She goes back to biting her bottom lip again, pulling at the skin with her teeth, her eyes slightly narrowed.

  I recognise that look; I’ve seen it on Ange’s face too
many times. It’s the focused, slightly pressurised look of someone who thinks they’ve just been lied to.

  Paula’s on shift again tonight. I know it’s around 3 a.m., because Paula’s a woman of habit. She carefully positions her second snack to give some relief to the final part of her night shift. It sounds and smells like popcorn this morning. I hear the door slowly open just as the first kernels start to pop; it makes for a strange soundtrack. My heart clutches and I know it’s him; he’s back.

  Paula has left me with my chin to my chest, so I see more of him tonight as he limps towards Cassie like an injured shadow. Her curtain sways as he moves to the side of her bed, where Alice stood just a few hours before. I think about Jack warning Alice about Cassie’s stepdad, Marcus, how worried Jack was that he’d get onto the ward. It’s him. It must be him.

  He stands grimly over her bed. He doesn’t move for a few minutes until I start to see him shake, his shoulders pumping up and down.

  He’s laughing. He’s fucking laughing, the sick bastard.

  Jack made him sound a bit weird, but he never said he was a complete fucking mad man. I can do nothing but stare as he moves closer to her, and lowers himself slowly down into her visitor’s chair.

  My skin senses the air tighten around me, like the air itself is being slowly sucked away. I squirm within myself as he props his elbows onto the edge of her bed and he presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets as his head starts shaking back and forth, back and forth. His shoulders rise up and down and I hear him suck in a damp-sounding chesty breath, and I realise he’s not laughing, he’s sobbing.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.’

  At first I think I’ve finally lost it, that my brain has short-circuited but the longer I watch and the more I hear those words, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry’ the more convinced I am that this is real, that the night visitor isn’t Marcus at all, and it can’t be Jonny, because whoever it is begging for Cassie’s forgiveness is a woman.