Before You Go Page 19

  My eyes scroll down the calendar: ‘Dinner with the girls’; ‘Ed work Christmas do’; ‘Mum and Dad’ – my handwriting. Then they stop on 10 December. There’s one word here, no exclamation marks, no notes, no nothing. Just: ‘Results’. And then I know. That must be today. That must be why I’m here. It’s the day for the results of our first fertility treatment.

  That means it’s a whole year since our lives became about nothing more than reproduction. As agreed, we’d been to see our GP. He’d asked us lots of personal questions, and we’d been referred for tests. But none of them had told us anything. There didn’t seem to be any reason why I wasn’t pregnant. And yet I still wasn’t.

  We were given one chance at fertility treatment. One, before we had to pay for it ourselves. And despite not wanting to pin my hopes on it, I’d been sure that it would work. After all, why shouldn’t it?

  The treatment was harder than I’d imagined.

  ‘I think we should try something called Intrauterine Insemination, or IUI,’ the specialist had told us.

  So we were placed on a waiting list and a few months later the call had come. It was our turn.

  From the beginning the whole thing felt as though it was happening to someone else. From Ed giving his sperm sample to me being inseminated with it, to the hormone drugs, the cramps and the waiting. None of it had seemed real, not that first time.

  And now here we are, back to the day when we found out whether it had all been worthwhile.

  Despite myself, despite what I know, I can’t help wondering whether it might all be different this time; whether this might be the reason I’m back here. I almost fall off the stool at the thought.

  The kettle reaches a crescendo and, with a shaking hand, I stand and reach for a mug from the shelf and stick a teabag inside before pouring the boiling water over it. I’m on autopilot, swirling the teabag with a spoon, getting the milk from the fridge, pouring in a generous glug, replacing the milk. As I close the fridge door I nearly jump out of my skin. Ed’s standing there, bleary-eyed, behind the fridge door.

  ‘Jesus, Ed, you nearly gave me a heart attack!’

  ‘Sorry.’ He rubs his eyes. ‘What are you doing up?’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep. I could ask you the same.’

  ‘I just . . . well, you know, the sofa isn’t very comfortable . . .’ There’s an awkward silence which I can’t fill because I don’t even know exactly why he’s on the sofa. I wait for him to speak again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean any of the things I said last night. I just . . .’ He rubs his hand over his face as if to clear it. ‘Well, I just lost my temper.’ He holds his arms out as an invitation and I don’t hesitate. I don’t really care what he said last night, or what I said. The fact is it doesn’t matter, not any more.

  ‘It’s OK.’

  He pulls away, peers down at me. ‘So does that mean I can come back in, then?’

  I pause, pretend to think. ‘I suppose so.’

  Ed grins. ‘Good.’

  ‘The only thing is, I’m really not tired.’ I sit at the table and take a sip of my tea. ‘I might just stay here.’

  Ed pauses for a minute, looking hurt. ‘In that case, I’ll stay with you.’ He switches the kettle back on, pours himself a cup of tea and sits down on the stool next to me.

  ‘So, are you ready for today?’

  I sip my tea. ‘Yes, I think so. Are you?’

  Ed nods. ‘I know you’ve got your hopes up, Zo, but there was one thing I meant last night. If it doesn’t happen this time, please don’t be too disappointed. The doctor told us, there’s no guarantee – it’s only our first go.’

  ‘I know. But let’s just see.’

  ‘Yes, let’s wait and see.’ His voice is soft.

  I stare down at my tea. I can feel Ed looking at me but I can’t meet his eyes in case I start to cry. Instead I slide off my stool and tighten the belt on my dressing gown.

  ‘I’m going for a bath.’

  ‘I might go and get a bit more sleep.’

  ‘OK.’ There’s no way I’ll sleep now. My mind is too full of what ifs. Maybe a bath will clear it a bit.

  An hour later, wrapped in a towel on the sofa, I sit staring at the black square of window onto the street. It’s only 5.30 and still dark outside, unusually quiet, the only sounds the distant rumble of trains and the squelch of tyres from the odd car driving down the wet road. My diary sits on the table, and I turn to today’s date. Results, 3 p.m., Whittington. I’ve underlined the word Results, used exclamation marks too. The excitement, the hope, is heartbreaking.

  I close the pages again. It’s going to be a long day. I need to do something to fill it.

  Quietly, without waking Ed, I get dressed in my favourite skinny jeans, and several warm tops, slide my feet into my boots then wrap my thick parka round me with a scarf, gloves and bobble hat, grab my bag and keys and softly open the door. The cold air takes my breath away and I breathe it in deeply, letting it fill my lungs, then breathe out in a quick puff and watch the steam rise and disappear into the air. I pull the door shut behind me and shove my hands into my pockets. There’s a slight frost on the ground which makes my boots crunch against the concrete, and I listen to the rhythm of my footsteps as I march down the road quickly, trying to keep myself warm. I don’t really have a destination in mind, but I just need to get out of the house and into the fresh air. I need to feel alive.

  I walk down well-known streets, turning randomly until the houses are no longer familiar. My body’s warm under my layers and I pull my gloves off to let the air cool my hands.

  It’s still dark but there’s a soft glow behind the buildings, giving a hint of the day to come. As I pass a café with its windows steamed up I realize I’m starving, so I pull my hat off and undo my coat and duck inside. It’s a typical greasy spoon; the mumble of voices, the sizzle of bacon, the smell of greasy eggs fill the room, and it’s just what I need. No one notices me and I order fried egg on toast and a mug of tea and take a seat at one of the tables. The café is hot and steamy and I watch people, the early risers, shift workers, night workers and people on their way home from a night out, all together in one place.

  My eggs arrive and I wolf them down then sit and nurse my tea for a bit, waiting for it to cool. And then and only then do I allow my mind to wander.

  I think about Becky, and her two beautiful children – Gracie, who now, in 2013, is six, and Alfie, who’s four and who looks just like his daddy. I love those children to bits but it hurts every time I see them, reminding me of what I can’t have. And so I keep my distance.

  A conversation comes back to me, from around this time the first time round. Becky’s number had come up on my phone and for a change I’d answered it. But it was three-year-old Gracie’s voice I’d heard rather than my sister’s.

  ‘Purleeeeeease come and play, Aunty Zoe, I miss you! I’ve got all my dolls for you.’

  A lump formed in my throat so I could hardly speak. Becky had tricked me and I was cross, but I couldn’t be cross with my niece.

  ‘I’ll come soon, Gracie, I promise.’ My voice had been barely more than a whisper.

  ‘But you always say that. Can you come now, please, please, please?’

  ‘I’m sorry, not right now, sweetheart. But soon, I promise. Can I talk to Mummy now?’

  ‘OK. Bye, Aunty Zoe, I love you!’

  ‘Bye.’ There’d been a few moments of silence, then Becky’s voice.

  ‘Sorry, but I thought you might listen to Gracie more than you listen to me. You haven’t been to see us in ages. Is everything OK?’

  I couldn’t stay angry at Becky: she was right. I had been neglecting them.

  ‘Yeah, everything’s fine. I just—’ I stopped, not wanting to say too much. Nobody wanted to hear me moaning on and on. It wasn’t interesting to anyone else; it was my own little drama – mine and Ed’s.

  But Becky saw straight through me.

  ‘Zoe, you do know ever
ything will be all right, don’t you? Doctors can do amazing things these days. You’ll see. Nothing would be right with the universe if you weren’t allowed to be a mum.’

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to speak but it felt as though my vocal cords had been tied together.

  ‘Are you crying? Please don’t cry. I didn’t want to make you cry. We just miss you. Please can we see you soon?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. I miss you all too. It’s just – it’s just hard, Becs, that’s all.’ I didn’t want to say any more.

  ‘I know. Really, I do. Listen, Alfie’s just done a massive poo, I need to go and sort him out before I pass out from the smell. But I’ll see you soon, promise?’

  ‘Yes, you will.’

  I’d hung up vowing to stick to my promise. But I hadn’t managed it. I’d still stayed away far too much and by 2013 it was even worse. I did the same to Mum and Dad, and Jane too. They all tried to help me, to talk to me about things, but I shut them out, stopped answering their calls, stopped going to see them.

  I feel ashamed. This time, if I get the chance, I won’t make the same mistake again.

  I look up and see that it’s already light outside. I can’t see the sky but there’s a low grey-blue light hanging over the buildings, and the people walking past are bundled up tightly. It’s time for me to head home. I leave a fiver on the table and pick up my coat and leave. I don’t know where I am but if I keep walking I’ll find a Tube station eventually. I pull my phone from my bag and send a message to Ed.

  On my way home. See you soon. X

  Then I turn my phone off and start to walk.

  On the way home I made a decision. I wasn’t going straight home: Ed would probably have left for work anyway, I realized, and I didn’t want to be alone. Instead, I sent him another message to let him know where I was and I went to see Jane. I couldn’t see what I could do to change the outcome of today – it was pretty much out of my hands. But I had an overwhelming urge to do this, to see my best friend, the friend I’d neglected so much recently.

  Which is why I now find myself shivering and stamping my feet on Jane’s doorstep, waiting for her to let me in.

  Finally, Jane’s fuzzy voice comes over the intercom, indecipherable, then there’s a loud buzz and I push the door open and make my way up the stairs. Jane’s door is ajar and I go through and find her stooping over her coffee machine, swearing, while it emits strange choking sounds. She hears me come in and looks round, her face flushed.

  ‘Fucking thing is buggered,’ she says, yanking her hand backwards and pulling out a piece of the machine and smacking it on the counter, hard.

  ‘I don’t think that’s going to help.’

  She grins. ‘Won’t make it any worse.’ She wipes her hands on a towel and walks towards me, arms outstretched, to envelop me in a tight, warm hug. I hug her back and we stand like that for a few moments until Jane pulls away. Her hands still grip my upper arms.

  ‘So, stranger, where have you been?’

  I hang my head in shame. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so shit. I don’t really have an excuse.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. I didn’t mean it like that. I know you’ve been having a rough time. I know it sounds soppy, but I’ve missed you.’

  ‘I’ve missed you too.’ I blink back the tears that threaten to escape down my cheeks.

  ‘Right,’ Jane says, turning back towards the broken coffee machine. ‘Coffee’s off the menu. How about tea?’

  ‘Tea sounds perfect,’ I say, and as she roots through the cupboard looking for teabags I take milk from the fridge and cups from the mug tree. It’s almost as familiar to me as my own house.

  Tea made, we go through to her living room and I tuck my feet underneath me on the sofa. I catch sight of the clock above her TV and am shocked to see it’s still only 8.30 a.m. I’ve been up for hours.

  ‘So how come you’re not at work today?’ I ask.

  ‘I called and told them I was going to be late.’

  ‘What, because of me?’

  She shrugs. ‘Course. You sounded like you needed me, and you haven’t sounded like that for a long time.’

  ‘God, now I feel terrible.’

  ‘Well, don’t. I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t want to. And anyway, I give them enough of my time; they owe me.’ She takes a sip of her tea. ‘So, what’s going on?’

  I sigh. I don’t really know where to start.

  What I want to tell her is this: that Ed is dead, and that, for some bizarre, impossible-to-explain reason, I’m reliving my life, and desperately trying to do things differently so that he doesn’t die; that I’ll never forgive myself for our marriage having become hollow and about nothing more than making a baby; that I get an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach every time I think about never becoming a mum; that I feel sick at the thought that, even after all of this, I might still not be able to stop Ed dying.

  But I can’t tell her any of this.

  So instead I tell her about how the fertility treatment makes me feel as though my body is being used for some kind of medical experiment; how the hormones race round me and I’m consumed by hot flushes; how I burst into tears at anything and blame Ed for everything; how I feel as though my life has become about nothing more than creating another life. About how I haven’t spoken to anyone about it, and I feel as though I’m going to explode.

  By the time I’ve finished my face is wet with tears and I’m surprised by what a relief it feels even to say this, after all this time. Jane looks shocked, her eyes wide.

  ‘Fuck, what a nightmare.’

  It’s so Jane, and so not what I would have said, that I laugh. The hysteria builds inside me and I can’t stop, and soon I’m wiping tears of laughter rather than sadness from my face and holding my aching jaw. Jane starts to laugh too and for a few minutes neither of us can speak. It takes a while but slowly we begin to calm down. I try to speak.

  ‘I – ’ gulp – ‘I’m sorry, it’s just . . .’

  ‘I know.’ Jane manages to get herself under control. ‘And sorry, I didn’t mean to sound blunt. But Zo, I don’t really know what else to say. It does sound like a bloody nightmare.’

  I nod, finally able to breathe again as the laughter subsides. ‘It is. But the thing is, what am I going to do about it?’

  She shrugs. ‘Fuck knows.’

  ‘God.’

  I wish there was someone to come and tell me what to do: to tell me whether I was doing this thing right, whether I was doing enough to change things or whether I was just wasting my time even trying. Whether, if I just told Ed I wanted to stop all this right now, it would stop us falling apart, and things would be much better.

  Or whether refusing to keep trying for a baby after everything we’d already been through would tear us apart anyway. What a decision to have to make.

  ‘I do still want a baby. I do. I want Ed to have the baby he wants, and I want it too. I just don’t know if I can go through all this and still end up not being a mother, and our marriage in tatters.’ A sob rises in my chest and I choke it back down.

  ‘You don’t know it’s going to ruin things between you, Zo. It might still be OK.’

  ‘It already is ruined, Jane. I just want to fix it.’

  ‘Oh sweetheart, I know.’ She puts her arm round my shoulders. ‘And I know it doesn’t make you feel any better, but there are other people going through it as well. Just because you see people with children all the time, it doesn’t mean they’ve had it easy. Listen, there’s a woman at work, she was going through IVF for years. We all knew every time she was going through a new cycle because she hardly spoke to anyone, and was really sad and teary, so we knew to leave her alone. It went on for a long time and most people wondered why she didn’t just give up. But she didn’t, and now she has twins. I’m not saying that it’s going to take you years, but I just mean – well, other people have problems too, and maybe you should find some people to talk to about it, people who have been thr
ough it themselves. It might help.’

  I study my nails and chew roughly on the ends.

  ‘Maybe. But I really don’t think other people’s stories of woe will make me feel any better. I just want to do something, to try and change things myself. Take action.’

  ‘Like what?

  ‘That’s just it. I don’t know.’

  Jane sits for a minute, thinking. ‘Have you tried acupuncture, or, I don’t know, reflexology or something?’

  I stare at her. ‘Seriously? The most cynical woman in the world is suggesting alternative therapies?’

  She shrugs, looking sheepish. ‘Yeah, well, just because I think something’s a load of old bollocks, doesn’t mean it actually is. What the hell do I know?’

  I think about it. I didn’t try anything like that last time. But last time I didn’t get pregnant. Maybe Jane’s right, even though she doesn’t believe it herself. Maybe it is worth a go.

  ‘Good point. Maybe you’re right.’

  ‘Well, let’s face it, Zo, it can’t make you feel any worse. I mean, look at you.’ Jane gestures towards me, a snivelling wreck on her sofa.

  I smile weakly. ‘I know. And thanks, Jane. I needed this.’

  ‘Any time, Zoe. Really. I’m always here.’

  I’m so grateful for her friendship. I don’t know why I ever thought it would be easier to do this without her.

  I take a deep breath. ‘Anyway, that’s enough about me. What’s the score with you? How’s . . .’ I trail off, realizing I can’t remember who she’s with, if anyone, at the moment.

  Jane grins. ‘Joe is no more. I can’t be arsed with someone who spends all his time in the gym and would rather go for a run than a pint. Great six-pack, but man, he was boring.’

  I smile, relieved to be talking about something else.

  ‘So, anyone else interesting?’

  Jane signed up for online dating some time around now. I hope I’ve got the timing right.

  ‘Weeeell, I did have a thought,’ she says, a sly smile on her face.

  ‘What are you up to, young lady?’

  ‘Listen. I’ve had no luck choosing someone from the website myself, so I thought I might find someone better if you chose for me.’