Before You Go Page 21

  There’s a few seconds’ silence, then I can hear Ed moving towards me. He stops just behind me and I spin round, a question on my face. He’s frowning and I can see the hurt in his eyes.

  ‘Is that it, then?’ His voice is accusing, hurt. But I don’t know what else to tell him.

  ‘Is what it?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Zoe, you know exactly what I mean. You promised to give this a go, and you know how much it means to me. I don’t want to see you go through any more pain, but you can’t shut me out like this. I just want to know if there’s any point doing this, if there’s any hope at all.’

  I look down at the mug in my hand and spin it round mindlessly. Even though I’m not exactly sure what’s happened I can take a good guess. I’ve obviously agreed to give acupuncture a go before we try another round of IVF. And while this is good, from the evidence so far it doesn’t seem as though it’s making things any easier between the two of us. Just here, in this kitchen, in this moment, I can feel the distance between us opening up like a chasm. Ed clearly thinks the treatment will be the bridge that brings us back together, but I’m really not so sure. I’d love it to be, but I can see that things are not much different from the way they were before, when we went straight into another round of IVF. Are we already too far apart for things ever to be mended?

  I take a deep breath and step towards him.

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart,’ I say, wrapping my arms around his waist, and I feel his body soften beneath my touch. ‘It’s just so much to take in. Let’s see how it goes, shall we, and not get our hopes up too much?’ I glance up and see the set of his jaw. Then he looks down at me and I see the tears in his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers. ‘I didn’t mean to put you under any more pressure. I’m just so sick of it all . . .’ His voice breaks and he takes a deep breath. ‘I just want this over with and for us to have a baby and live happily ever after, and it seems so bloody unfair that we can’t have what we want.’ His arms tighten round me and we stand in the kitchen while the boiling kettle fills the room with steam and hold each other as though we’re never going to let go. And right then, I wish I never had to.

  It’s late when we go to bed that night, partly because we spent the evening talking, and partly because I’m worried about what will come next once I go to sleep – after all, waking up on a day I’d never actually experienced before was out of the routine I’d become used to.

  But there is a positive thing that’s come out of tonight, and that’s that Ed and I are actually, properly talking about things, and even what we’ll do if this never does work – and that is a huge improvement on how we were before. Before, we were like robots, getting on with our lives while all around us the whir of IVF just happened, taking away us, and who we were, and replacing us with baby machines.

  Tonight, though, we really talked.

  So when at last we drop into bed, exhausted, I fall asleep for the first time in ages feeling as though maybe, finally, things have started to change. Maybe this time I’ve done enough. I can only hope.

  16

  13 January 2012

  God, I’m uncomfortable. Something is digging into my back and my arm is bent at a strange angle beneath me. I stretch my legs out and they stop dead, hitting something hard at the end of the bed.

  I frown and open my eyes. It takes me a few seconds to work out where I am, but then it dawns on me and I want to cry. I’m in the lounge, on the couch. I have a spare duvet without a cover draped over me, and my head’s resting on one of the cushions instead of a pillow. The sofa’s not quite long enough for me so my feet have hit the arm at the other end, and the hard thing in my back is the wooden slat beneath the cushions jabbing into my spine.

  But what makes me want to cry isn’t the discomfort. It’s the fact that there can only be one reason I’m here and not in bed with Ed – and that’s that we’ve had another huge row.

  Sometimes it was me, and sometimes it was Ed on the sofa, but many times over these months we’d found ourselves waking up in different rooms. And every time it happened I felt the bond keeping us together loosen a little bit more, until by the end it was hardly there at all.

  I shiver in the cold blue light of the morning. I can hear the rumble of cars passing outside, and the clip-clop of high heels on the pavement, receding slowly into the distance. A car door bangs and an engine revs, and the usual muffled scrapes and bumps seep through the wall from next door, but other than that, the flat’s quiet.

  I stand and, with the duvet wrapped round me, I pad out into the hallway and down to the bathroom to start a bath running. My head feels fuzzy and my eyes sting, which is probably from lots of crying and not enough sleep.

  As I walk back I see the bedroom door is slightly ajar, so I push it open quietly and peer round, watching Ed sleeping peacefully. I turn to leave but he stirs and looks up at me and I gasp at the look on his face. He looks so sad.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, my voice quiet.

  He grunts something and turns away. I feel as though I’ve been punched in the gut. He hates me. I grab the door frame to steady myself. I don’t know what to do next so I stand there for a few more seconds, hoping he’ll turn round and speak to me again. But he doesn’t, so I walk shakily back towards the bathroom, turn the taps off and climb into the scalding hot bath.

  As I lie there I listen, waiting to see whether Ed will come and find me, to talk to me, shout at me, anything. But the minutes tick past and I hear him pulling things from drawers, running the water in the kitchen and walking past the bathroom door several times. I’m about to call his name but then I hear the sound of the front door slamming, and I’ve lost my chance. He’s gone without saying goodbye.

  Things must be bad. Tears slip down my face and mingle with the bath water, my breath coming in painful, heaving sobs. I don’t want to be reminded of the dark times.

  When I get myself under control the bath is cool and I’m shivering. I step out of the water quickly and wrap myself in a towel and wander through to the kitchen. The absence of Ed hangs heavy over the flat. I’m about to turn away when I notice something on the table. It’s a piece of white paper, tucked under a used coffee cup. It’s folded in half and my name is written on the outside. I unfold it and see Ed’s handwriting scrawled across the page.

  I can’t talk to you today, it’s too hard. I’ll come back about 5, when you’ve gone.

  Just remember, I still love you.

  Ed

  That’s it. But his note has brought back to me with terrible, blinding clarity where and when I am. This is January 2012, and it’s the day I move out. The day we realized that our marriage was broken, and we didn’t know how to mend it.

  It had been coming for a while. The arguments, the tension, the nights sleeping separately, unable to face each other. Finally, things had reached a head.

  ‘I think we need some time apart.’

  ‘What?’ I’d been reading the paper and Ed had just stood next to me and let the words come out, without preamble.

  He sat opposite me at the table and stared down at it, unable to meet my eyes. His hands were clenched in front of him, his knuckles white. ‘I think we need some time apart, get our heads straight. We can’t keep doing this. It’s making me – us – totally miserable.’

  I stared at him, at his gentle hands, at the frown creasing his forehead, his soft, full lips, and I felt my heart break in two.

  ‘You want us to split up?’ My voice cracked on the last words and Ed finally looked up at me.

  ‘No, Zoe, that’s not what I’m saying. I love you, but I can’t keep having these rows. Sometimes – it feels as though you hate me, and I’m not sure I can cope with it any more. I think we need some time – just – away.’ He paused. ‘I don’t mind moving out for a bit. Or – or you could go and stay with your mum and dad for a while . . .’

  ‘Wow. You’ve actually given this some proper thought, haven’t you? Talk about a stab in the back.’

 
; ‘Oh, come on, Zoe, for God’s sake. Are you really happy?’ His tone was hard, brittle.

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked. Are you happy at the moment? With this – ’ he gestured between us – ‘with us?’

  I shook my head miserably. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, then.’ He sat back in his chair and looked at me expectantly. ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘Me? I don’t suggest anything, Ed. It seems to be you who’s doing all the suggesting.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, Zoe.’

  ‘I’m not being like anything.’ My face was hot and my shoulders hunched. I was terrified of losing him but I felt furious that he was trying to dismiss me. That he thought being apart was the best way to pull ourselves closer together. But then again, nothing else seemed to be working. My shoulders collapsed and I let out a big whoosh of air. ‘You’re right. I know you are. It’s just – hearing those words. I feel like I’ll never be happy again, Ed.’

  ‘We can be. We can. We just need to do this right.’

  I sat and thought for a minute. I couldn’t go and stay with Jane; she didn’t have enough room. Ed could go and stay with his mum, but it felt as though he was always running away to her and, much as I loved Susan, I didn’t want to admit to her how badly the pair of us had fucked up. Becky had two kids; there was no room there, and I wasn’t sure being with two young children would help.

  ‘I’ll ring Mum and Dad, see if I can stay with them for a bit.’

  ‘Are you sure? What about work?’

  ‘I’ll sort something out. They’ll probably let me do some from home for a couple of weeks.’

  Ed leaned over and reached his hands out to grab mine. I stiffened as he did. ‘Thank you, Zoe. It will all be OK, I know it will.’

  And now here I was, back on the day when I’d been moving out. I drop the piece of paper on the floor and stand there, rigid, my heart hammering. I don’t want to relive this day; it was terrible the first time round. But worse than that, much worse: if it’s January 2012, that means it’s only seventeen months until Ed dies.

  I’m running out of time.

  I don’t know what to do. Should I just leave without trying to change anything, knowing that we’ll sort it out in the end? Or should I try to do something, anything, to make it different, better?

  I sit at the table and pull my phone out of my dressing-gown pocket. There’s no missed call. I make a decision. I’m going to call him.

  I dial the familiar number and wait for the connection, running my thumbnail mindlessly along the scratches on the wooden table. Ed’s phone starts to ring and my heart rate picks up speed. I don’t know what I’m going to say if he answers, but I can’t do nothing. The ringing sound goes on and on, and then Ed’s voice, mechanical and tinny, comes on the line.

  Sorry I can’t take your call at the moment, please leave a message after the beep.

  ‘Ed, it’s me. Zoe. I – I love you. I’ll ring you later, OK?’ My voice sounds pleading, desperate, but I don’t care. I am. I don’t want to waste a day without Ed. I need to see him.

  I end the call and stand. Ed’s note is on the floor where I dropped it, and I stoop to pick it up. I open it and reread it, over and over again. The words sound so cold, so uncaring, that my heart hardens slightly as I read them. Maybe I do want to see him today, but what if I try to change too much and then never get a day with him again? At least this way I know we sort things out in the end – and then there’s at least a possibility that I’ll wake up to another day with him.

  I’m going to have to go.

  I walk back to the bedroom, where I get dressed and start shoving clothes into a suitcase I find under the bed. Ready to go, I wheel it out to the front door, go back to pick up my handbag with my mobile and purse, then turn to leave. But at the front door I pause. Should I write Ed a note?

  I grab a piece of paper from the notebook Ed has clearly used and scribble a few words.

  I love you. Remember our promise. Please don’t give up on me. Zoe x

  Adding a kiss at the end, I fold it in half, write Ed’s name on the outside, and leave it in the same place I’d found my note. Then I pick up my suitcase and leave for the walk to the Tube station, and the start of what, before, was a terrible day.

  I hardly remember the journey, but before I know it the train’s pulling into Doncaster station and I’m stepping onto the platform. A man behind me helps me lift my suitcase down and I want to cry at the small kindness. I let my hair fall across my eyes to hide my tears.

  I walk along the platform, down the stairs and back up, out into the sunlight, and suddenly there’s Mum walking towards me, a look of concern on her face.

  She stops in front of me and I drop the handle of my suitcase and we hug in the middle of the station concourse.

  ‘Oh Mum,’ I say, hardly able to get the words out through my tears.

  ‘Ssshhh,’ she says, rubbing my back like she used to when I was little. She holds me a few minutes longer then pulls away and peers at my face. She pushes my hair away and tucks it behind my ear tenderly and wipes a tear away with her thumb.

  ‘Right, let’s get you home.’

  I nod and pick up my suitcase and follow her to the car. As we drive along the motorway, rain gently patters the windscreen and the rhythm of the wipers sends me into a daze. Mum doesn’t ask me anything, and I’m grateful for the silence.

  We pull up outside the familiar house and for the first time since I woke this morning I feel a smile touch my face. As we pull into the driveway Dad’s out of the front door and waiting by the car, desperate to help.

  I climb out of the passenger seat.

  ‘Hi, Dad.’

  ‘Hello, love. Want me to take your bags?’

  I nod and as he busies himself dragging my suitcase from the boot I step inside and take a deep breath. The pictures of me and Becky along the wall, the little table with a phone and a green, rubbery plant on, a shelf with keys hanging from it and a few ornaments of cats, birds, a rabbit; it’s all so familiar I feel a huge weight lift from my shoulders just standing there.

  I’m safe.

  I walk into the kitchen and find Mum rummaging in a cupboard.

  ‘I’ve got some of those teabags you like,’ she says, reaching too high and almost toppling over. ‘But I think your dad has put them right up here.’ She admits defeat and slumps down.

  ‘I’ll get them.’ I walk to the cupboard and reach up, feeling around for a box of teabags. I find them and pull them out: a box of the decaf I used to love but don’t have the heart to tell her I don’t really drink any more. I pass them to her.

  ‘Zoe.’ She stops. I know she’s desperate to ask what’s wrong.

  ‘Mum, let’s have a cup of tea and I’ll tell you all about it.’

  ‘OK, love.’ She finishes making the tea and brings it over to the table, carefully putting a coaster down first. It seems a bit pointless, with the number of stains and scratches this ancient table already has, but I accept the drink gratefully.

  Mum sits opposite me and sips her tea carefully, waiting. I stare beyond her, out of the patio window and into the already-darkening sky, wondering where on earth to start. The truth is, I haven’t spoken to Mum as much recently as I should have done. Like Jane and Becky and anyone else I cared about, I’d shut her and Dad out when the bad times started, not wanting them to see my pain.

  But this is the perfect chance to change all that. I think about the first time I was here; I’d refused to talk to either of them, hardly told them anything. I knew Mum was desperate to help but I just couldn’t bring myself to admit I’d failed.

  This time, though, was going to be different. This time, I was going to tell her everything, let her help me. I needed her.

  At the sound of footsteps I turn and see Dad picking up his mug and moving towards the table. Mum looks at him and shakes her head, almost imperceptibly, a warning to stay away. His eyes flit from me to Mum and back again. />
  ‘Oh, right. I’m just getting my drink . . .’ He holds the cup up as if to prove it and some tea sloshes over the side and splashes onto the lino floor. Mum rolls her eyes but before she can grab a cloth Dad’s wiped the spill with his slipper.

  ‘Oh John.’

  Dad shrugs. ‘I’ll just be off to watch the snooker, then.’ And with a look of relief he scuttles out, closing the door firmly behind him.

  I turn back to Mum, who’s looking cross.

  ‘He never changes, does he?’ I say.

  ‘He gets worse, love.’

  There’s a beat of silence, but I know I can’t leave her waiting any longer. I take a deep breath and start.

  ‘I can’t have a baby and Ed hates me for it.’ I hadn’t expected those words to come out and they surprise even me. Was that really what I thought, that Ed blamed me for all this?

  But Mum takes it all in her stride. ‘Oh love, of course he doesn’t hate you. Why do you even think that?’

  And so I tell her everything; everything I hadn’t been able to tell her last time, that I’d bottled up for years until it became too much.

  I tell her about not being sure I wanted a baby but Ed wanting the perfect family; I tell her about how I’d become obsessed with having one since I started trying and realized I couldn’t; I talk about the IVF, the physical pain and the terrible waiting game, knowing our future was out of my hands. About the pain of seeing other people with babies, of feeling robbed, of hating them, or not them exactly but the idea of them, for being able to have what I so desperately wanted and couldn’t have; about the endless hope and heartbreak, desperation and disappointment, the rows, the blame, the silences and, of course, the final row.

  When I stop talking I feel about a stone lighter. Mum’s looking at me across the table. Her mug is empty now, mine still half full of cold tea. I look down at it and see the reflection of the kitchen light in the murky brown liquid.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve been through all this by yourself,’ Mum says at last, her voice barely more than a whisper, and I snap my head back up at her words. ‘Why on earth have you kept it to yourself?’