“Feeling more yourself now?”
“Yes, a little. Thanks, Da. Thank you for picking me up and not quizzing me, and letting me sleep. Thank you for being you.” I snuggle into his side, my head on his shoulder, breathing in his familiar smell.
“You’ve nothing to thank me for, hen. I’m your da. Simple as that. Are ye ready to talk about it yet?”
“No. Not even a little bit. But I will.” He takes my hand with a gentle squeeze and waits.
I clear my throat nervously. “Well, Da, you’re going to be a grandad.”
“Och, what wonderful news.” He kisses my forehead without a moment’s hesitation. “Not what I was expecting to hear, but a wonderful blessing nonetheless.” He waits for me to continue, and when I don’t, he steps in. “But I’m sensing you’re not entirely sure how you feel. Would I be right?”
“Yes. And no. I don’t know.” I can feel the unshed tears building and will them away. “It’s complicated.”
“Of course it is. Why else would you be here in such a lather? Start at the beginning, then.”
And so the whole sorry story comes out. By the time I’m finished, I’m crying and so is Da.
“Well,mo ghradh, however they come aboot, babies are a blessing, and this one will be loved, as it should be. But tell me, are ye sure ye can’t work things out with your man? It sounds to me like perhaps you ran off without so much as a by-your-leave.”
“What’s to work out, Dad? He lied to me. We always said it was no-strings. The last thing I want is a relationship. And now …” I don’t even know how to finish my sentence.
“I see. So did you run off because ye saw the photo, because it seems he lied to ye, or because ye gave yourself a fright with your feelings?” he says with a sad smile.
I hate that maybe he’s right.
“Because …” Ugh. Dad and Rosanna are singing from the same hymn sheet. That’s pretty much what she said as she dropped me at the airport. Only not as politely. She might have included references to heads and arses, convenient excuses and cowards. “All of them maybe.”
He says nothing but raises an eyebrow. Which reminds me of Nick. So, the tears start again.
“I just need a little time to process, Da.”
“Aye, I can see that. Well, you take some time. But you need to be honest with yourself, hen. And don’t take too long. You do have to tell him about the bairn, and the sooner the better, regardless of what you feel.”
“Yes, I know. But not right now. Right now, I just want to … well, I don’t know what I want. Other than to not feel like this.”
“I have every faith you’ll make the right decisions, my darling. And what better place than here in the fresh air with people who love you to help settle your mind?”
“Yes, that’s what I need. Some good clean air and a bit of time to work out what to do.”
I’m starting to feel much more like myself within a few days. I’m glad I turned my phone off when I left Sydney. I’m not ready to speak to Nick. I’m not ready to hear excuses. Or maybe worse, a deafening silence. And right now, I don’t know what to believe. Dad gets me a new one from the village, and the only people I give the number to are Rosanna and Sebastian, and they’ve been threatened with death if they pass it on.
I spend a lot of time walking the fields, despite the cold. Even the nausea is more bearable, usually only hitting first thing in the morning. Morag, Dad’s housekeeper, works out pretty quickly what makes me sick and what settles my stomach.
But the nights are hard. An electric blanket is no substitute for the warmth of Nick’s body, and crying myself to sleep has become a sad ritual.
The exhibit at the gallery finishes with every piece sold, and I’m able to Skype Sebastian and a couple of potential clients to discuss commissions. Dad is happy for me to use his supplies, but he works with watercolour, so I hit the internet and then do a daytrip to Inverness to stock up on what I’ll need. Dad has converted a room at the top of the old tower into a studio. The light is great, at least when the sun is out, and it’s plenty big enough for us both to work in there. It reminds me of when I was small and we’d stand side by side, me with my tiny little easel, painting for hours. It strikes me that in not too many years, this might be my baby and me, and my hand goes to my ever so slightly rounded belly.
By the time I’ve been in Scotland for a couple of weeks, Dad and I have settled into a soothing routine. I have no idea if Nick is still trying to contact me as I haven’t turned my old phone on since I got the new one. Dad hasn’t once asked what I plan to do or if I’ve spoken to Nick, but I know he sees my puffy eyes in the mornings for what they are.
“I was wondering if you had given any consideration to seeing a doctor, hen.” Dad drops casually into the silence while we’re painting early one afternoon. Normally Dad would be out on the farm at this time, but the rain has turned sleety today, so he has holed himself up with me.
“Oh. Um. No. Not yet. But I guess I should. Is there someone in the village?”
“I asked the GP—he’s happy to take you on, but there’s no’ an obstetrician. You’d have to go further afield for that. Although there is a midwife. Morag’s sister, Lydia. Would you like her to make you an appointment?”
This is making it all too real. But I know it can’t be avoided.
“That’s okay, Da. I’ll talk to her.”
