“It’s up to you,” the doctor says, not unkindly. “It’s your choice. And you don’t have to decide now. Support networks are in place. I can put you in touch with the right people.”
“And if I have the baby?”
The doctor nods, looking unsurprised. “That’s also your choice. I can put you in touch with support groups for that too.”
“Support groups?” Ari asks. “You mean, for pregnant women?”
The doctor clears her throat. “For pregnant teenagers.”
Ari stares at her. “I’m twenty years old. I’ll soon be twenty-one. An adult.”
“Don’t take it the wrong way, Ari. I refer all pregnant under twenty-ones to that support group. Pregnancy is hard. Babies are hard. And you told me yourself, you don’t have parents. And the father of your baby—”
“Is coming for me,” Ari says firmly, sitting up.
The doctor gives her a small but disbelieving smile, reaching over to take her hand. “Take the leaflets for all the different options, and the support group numbers too. You aren’t alone in this, Ari. You really aren’t.”
Ari nods before leaving her office. She stumbles out of the clinic, blinking in the bright sunshine of Grafton Street, before she walks in no particular direction, holding her stomach.
Holding where her baby grows.
London’s an odd city,Ari thinks to herself as she blindly walks through Tavistock Square. A mix of wealth, privilege and utter poverty. A mix of old architecture, mellowed by the sun, with newer buildings, their steel and glass exteriors glinting down at her. Not that their age matters. New or old, they all seem to bear down upon her — grand, intimidating and judgemental.
She finds herself outside of the Foundling Museum, sitting on the cool stone steps, wrapping her cardigan around her arms and staring at the ground.
A baby. She’s having a baby. Tom’s baby.
It’s so odd and utterly ridiculous that she wants to laugh. Her laughter comes out as silent tears though, tears that streak down her cheeks, leaving damp and salty patches on the thin fabric of her shirt.
Next to her, a woman clears her throat before offering her a tissue.
“Been to the museum, have you, love?”
“Yes,” Ari replies, accepting the tissue gratefully and wiping her nose. It’s easier to lie than to tell the truth.Easier to believe a lie than hear the truth too,she reflects sadly.
“It’s a hard place to visit,” the lady says with a sigh. “Very sad. Well, you cry it out. I did when I first came.”
“Thank you,” Ari whispers back. The lady stares at her.
“Was it the tokens? Is that what made you cry?”
“The tokens?” Ari asks stupidly, her mind blank. The lady gives her a sharp look, before her eyes drift over Ari’s arms, still tightly wrapped around her stomach, and her face softens.
“The tokens left by the mothers when they brought in their babies. The women who were too poverty-stricken to care for their own children, or the women who were forced by their families to be rid of an unwanted child. That’s what they did here at the Foundling, love, they took in unwanted babies. Twenty-five thousand of them, in fact. The mothers... well, most of them hoped to come back for their children, when times or circumstances were better. So, they left tokens with their infants. Scraps of cloth. Treasured rings or bracelets. Small snippets of paper. Thimbles or dried flowers or anything else of worth they owned. Most of the tokens were worthless, but to those women... they were the most important things they owned. And they left them with their babies.”
Ari looks up. “How many of them came back? For their babies?”
The woman sighs. “Out of twenty-five thousand? One hundred and fifty-two.”
Ari’s mouth drops open. She feels a wave of sadness wash over her, and she shifts on the cold stone steps of the museum.
“How far along are you?” the woman asks her, and Ari wipes at her eyes.
“Eight weeks,” she swallows nervously. “How did you know?”
“Just a hunch I had.”
“I’m twenty years old,” Ari carries on. “I have no money. A hundred years ago, my baby would have ended up here too.”
