Page 22 of The First Time I Saw You
I have a theory: the test results in the A and E department could have been mixed up with anyone’s, and as for the scan, these things are filmed all the time – what’s not to say that what was on the screen was just a recording of some other unfortunate soul? And the pains that may or not be my uterus growing are probably, actually, just nasty period pains. What I need is proof that hasn’t been tampered with by anyone else.
Purposely, I ignore the pink stain that is creeping across the two clear plastic windows and instead wash my face and hands. From time to time, I glance suspiciously across to the window ledge at the test until I can’t put it off any longer. Replacing the towel on the radiator, I take a step towards the window ledge. I watch my hand pick it up and turn it over. I’m met with two very strong, very clear pink lines.
I am pregnant.
It feels like I’m drowning in this knowledge. I repeat it over and over in my mind, but it can’t seem to anchor. I can’t seem to keep hold of it, as if the word is being pulled by an uncontrollable tide: finally, it sinks, finds ground. There is a baby inside me, right now.
I look down at my stomach and give it a little poke.
‘Hello.’
It doesn’t reply . . . but somehow, I know it’s listening.
A small smile plays at the corner of my mouth as I realise why it is that the coffee Helen has placed in front of me has turned my stomach. I ask Helen for tea instead and she looks at me quizzically; my hand is resting on my stomach.
Looking around at the chaos that fills the kitchen, I stare at the painted handprints that are stuck to the grubby fridge; the smears on the stainless-steel kettle and the plastic plates and beakers that are sitting haphazardly on the draining board: a vast contrast to the sleek lines that shine from my own kitchen. I never feel unsettled here, though, never feel the need to spray anti-bacterial spray over everything, leaving everywhere faultless and perfect, because it is perfect: perfectly Helen.
She gulps down coffee that is clearly still too hot, glancing at the clock intermittently as though it will be sucked into a black hole at any minute; her daughters Caitlin and Jessica (ages three and five respectively) will be home within the hour. I have always loved coming here: the way the house smells of cooking and scented candles; the way that Helen and her husband Greg (a huge bear of a man with a mass of curly brown hair that is always a little too long, a little too wild) argue continuously but always end the conversation by whipping a bottom with a tea towel and a giggle, or a one-liner that makes her face light up even though she is rolling her eyes. Helen’s life is something I have always enjoyed – from afar. I have never wanted it to be mine, never been envious, just . . . enjoyed it.
‘I’ve been fired.’ I watch her reaction from over the rim of the cup. She spits out her coffee in a dramatic explosion that showers the kitchen table.
‘Fired?! How the hell has that happened? Did you sleep with the boss and his wife found out? Or did you, you know, sleep with your assistant? And she did you for sexual harassment, because I’ve always said I wouldn’t judge you, but—’
‘Christ, Helen, when was the last time you read a decent book or watched something other than the soaps?’
‘Too tired to read, and back off – the soaps are the only things on telly when the kids are around that don’t involve coloured ponies or presenters that look like they have had too much caffeine.’
‘Point taken, and no, nothing that exciting, I’m afraid. I’ve been accused of stealing information from the company we were taking over.’
‘What? Did you?’
‘Helen! No!’
‘Sorry. Knee-jerk reaction, but you must have done something, or you wouldn’t be sitting here – you’d be demanding your job back.’ Seeing my wobbling lip, her face drops.
‘Oh my Lord, are you about to actually cry?’
I laugh through my tears at that, as she gets up from the table and fetches some kitchen roll with pictures of onions across the bottom. I wonder if the designer had a wicked sense of humour or if they just had a penchant for them. I blow my nose into it as I consider whether it is a pretty enough vegetable to be used decoratively, and decide that, no, it is not. This thought makes me cry a little harder as I realise that I now have the time to consider this useless fact. Six weeks ago, the thought wouldn’t have crossed my mind. Helen is sitting opposite me with a look of utter horror.
‘Oh, Hel . . .’ I rummage into my bag and pull out the test, noticing as I do that the pink lines look even more vivid than they did ten minutes ago. Helen snatches it from my hand and stares at it, biting her bottom lip just like she used to when she was worried as a child.
‘Oh. Wow! I mean, wow! Congratulations?’ she says tentatively.
‘Thanks.’
‘Did they fire you because they found out you’re pregnant and tried to frame the whole stealing thing on you because they didn’t want to pay out for maternity pay? Because I’ve heard all sorts about discrimination against working mothers and—’
‘No. I’ve only just found out. Today. After I crashed my car. They did a routine test because I was having some stomach pains.’
‘You crashed your car?!’
‘Seriously?’ I hold out my hands in exasperation. ‘That’s what you are bothered about?’
‘Well no, obviously, but you know how I love that car.’
‘Helen!’
‘Well, I do, but, oh gosh, come here.’ She kneels in front of me and holds my hands. ‘Who’s the father?’
