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He comes out of the toilet, he sees me and says
are you alright you don’t look alright, I say yes I just need to sit down.
As we walk to the car I feel his hand hovering by my elbow, waiting to grab me.
We drive back onto the motorway and I swallow weakly a few times, trying to keep the sickness down.
I wipe my face with my fingers and he says is it too hot, do you want some air?
I say no it’s fine, I just, I feel a bit, queasy. I wonder if this is the nausea I read about in those leaflets, or if it’s just tiredness and stress and travelling in a car.
I want to talk to my mother about it, properly.
I want to say mum I’m so scared I feel like puking, I have no idea how to deal with this.
To say mum I don’t even know how to change a nappy, I don’t know what to feed a baby, I don’t know any lullabies.
Mum, I want to say, I don’t even think my breasts are big enough to produce milk, I don’t know how to get it out, I don’t know any of the things you’re supposed to know, I want to say mum will it hurt?
And then I want to ask her if this is how she felt when she was pregnant with me.
I remember the few times I tried to talk to her about anything serious while I still lived at home, boys or schoolwork or friends who didn’t feel like friends.
I remember the way her face used to shrink slightly, her eyes narrowing and looking quickly around the room, her hands fluttering like birds in a pet shop.
I wouldn’t worry about it love she’d say, every time, things’ll be better soon she’d say, and she’d change the subject, or suddenly remember to do something, rush out to the shops before they closed.
I remember the disappointment I used to feel, the comparisons I used to make with other girls’ mums.
I knew girls whose mothers would help them with their homework, buy them new outfits for new boyfriends, kiss them on the cheek whenever they came through the front door.
I knew girls, sometimes the same girls, whose mothers would shout at them when they got home late, or ground them if they didn’t approve of their boyfriends, or make them help with the housework.
My mother did none of these things.
My mother was polite, and responsible, and didn’t always seem to notice I was there.
I think of what my father said, and I think of the grief and rage she must have had stuffed down inside her like a rag in a petrol-filled bottle, and I wonder how she never exploded.
We get closer to home, we come off the motorway and there are lights shining in through the windows, street lights, traffic lights, lights from shop windows and houses and pub doorways, there is music coming from other cars and there are large groups of people talking and shouting and singing.
We go round a mini roundabout, we stop at a green light to let an ambulance through.
He says what’s going on, why’s it so busy?
I don’t know I say, and we drive past the cafe where we had breakfast the other day and I realise we’re almost there.
I say well thanks for driving me all that way, I really appreciate it, and he looks at me and says that’s okay don’t worry.
We stop outside the shop below my flat and he says if there’s anything I can do, if you need anything.
I look at him, and I think about all the things I need.
He gets out of the car, takes my bag from the boot, opens my door, hands me my bag.
We say goodbye, and I go up to my flat and sit by the window without turning the lights on, watching the traffic and thinking about how little I said to him on the way back.
Chapter 25
