‘What? Don’t be silly.’
I look up at the ceiling as if weighing up the evidence. ‘The implication in your statement is that I’m entirely responsible for my pregnancy.’ She stares at me, lips parted but silent, so I continue. ‘There are generally two parties involved. If you want to talk blame.’
She is grimacing at me, because she is a man’s woman who believes men are never at fault for anything, and I am embarrassing her in front of the Y-chromosome specimen in the room, who has pleasingly shiny black hair and perfect blemish-free skin, which will not have escaped Miriam’s notice.
‘What day is it?’ I ask.
‘Thursday,’ says Miriam, just as the boy says, ‘What day do you think it is?’
I look around for my phone, but it’s not here. He says something I miss and then puts the chart back and says the nurse will be in soon with some more medication. I try to smile a thank you.
When he’s gone I look back at the bird, pretending Miriam has gone too.
Pregnant.I haven’t had sex for maybe … six or eight weeks. This situation is not ideal, given the fact that I do not wish to be a parent. I slump back into the pillow and close my eyes. I keep them shut tight against the emotion that threatens to swamp me.
‘Where’s my phone?’ I ask Miriam.
‘You smashed it in the accident.’
‘I’m meant to see Phyllida tonight. I need to message her.’ The idea of leaving Phyllida hanging, wondering why I haven’t turned up for our Thursday night dinner makes my stomach tighten.
Miriam eyes me suspiciously, almost as if I have said something offensive.
‘You don’t remember?’
‘Remember what?’
‘About Phyllida?’
I hesitate. Something is tapping at my brain. Something that involves Phyllida. ‘Is she okay?’
‘Oh … she’s, er, she …’ Miriam falters, discomfort flitting across her face. ‘We can talk about it later. When you’re feeling better.’
‘Mother,’ I snap. I close my eyes again. A memory swims, just out of reach. ‘She’s sick, isn’t she? In hospital,’ I say slowly, as the memory arrives.
‘A stroke, apparently,’ says Miriam, with a sceptical air.
‘A stroke,’ I repeat, but that doesn’t feel right.
49
LOTTIE
NOW, NSW SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, AUSTRALIA
I’m sitting on my hospital bed, waiting for the child doctor to discharge me. In the meantime, I am sipping terrible tea and pondering how anyone is meant to recover their health in a place where noise and interruptions make it impossible to sleep. I am not good without sleep; one of many reasons why I do not wish to be a mother. I push this unwelcome thought from my throbbing head. Avoidance is a well-developed skill in my family.
I flick between websites on my laptop, and decide I should send an email to Roddy or Mary to see if they can put up a sign on the shop door to say it’s closed for a few days. I still feel fuzzy-headed but memories are returning: Phyllida in hospital; the girl in the bookshop, though I can’t recall her name. I suddenly remember a letter that feels important, even urgent, though I can’t say why.
I flick onto my emails and see I have been included on a slew of messages to garden club members.
From:Mary Penhallidon
To:Garden Club
Subject:Postponing Garden Club Meet on 20th
Dear Members,
