‘What’s wrong?’ snaps Miriam. ‘You like tuna. It has omega fats for the baby.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
‘Well.’ Miriam looks out my bedroom window, then returns her attention to mothering tasks. ‘Do you need a Panadol? How’s your head?’
‘It’s okay. I had some drugs earlier.’
‘Were they safe? For the baby?’
‘Umm … sure. Of course.’ I hadn’t thought about it. But it seems obvious they would have been, since I was discharged with them.
‘Well, then.’ Miriam seems uncharacteristically uncertain. ‘You have some things to think about. Do you want me to stay and … discuss anything?’ She raises her eyebrows in question. This dancing around the situation is torture for her. What she desperately wants to know is whether I have told Hugo about the pregnancy yet, and what the outcome of the conversation was.
‘No thanks, Mum. I’m fine. You go do your thing.’
‘I still don’t understand how you went under the truck,’ she says, more certain of her stake in the conversation now. ‘It just seems so ridiculous that you’d step out in front of it.’
I bite into the tuna sandwich. I stopped eating them in high school when I discovered that the brand Miriam bought was unsustainably caught. But I remember how much I like them now.
I focus on chewing. ‘I really can’t remember, Mum. It’s all a blur.’
‘Well, half the town saw it, so no doubt it will continue to be the only thing people are discussing in the village today.’ She folds the throw on the end of my bed. ‘There might be grounds for a court case. You might be able to sue.’
‘For what? I’m fine. You said I caused it.’
‘It’s never that simple. That truck should never have been on the main street. There’s a weight limit for trucks coming across Bells Bridge. He was well over it. And the driver always has a duty of care. It’s negligence if he’s in control of a—’
‘Yeah, okay, whatever.’ My mother often forgets I have two years of a law degree under my belt and don’t require her legal explanations. ‘Aren’t you late?’ Surely her golf game or whatever it is that keeps her busy on a Friday has to be starting soon. My head is throbbing rhythmically and I am craving silence.
‘There’s a tablet there, next to the tea. It’s folate. You need to take it so the baby doesn’t get a neural tube defect.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Spinal formation problems. It may be too late, though. I read up on it. The baby could have spina bifida already. We can have a scan for it, though.’
‘Right.’ The ‘we’ in that sentence sounds ominous. But I have no intention of discussing this pregnancy with her right now, so it’s easier to just go along with her.
‘It was careless to become pregnant without putting any thought into it.’
‘I was just thinking the same thing.’
‘Don’t be glib. You’ve put my grandchild at risk. Drinking too. I’ve seen you pouring drinks several times in the last few weeks.’
‘Can’t deny it,’ I say, fascinated by her take on this, given it is always her who is pouring me the drinks, so that she has a drinking buddy. I rarely drink otherwise.
‘I’ve been on the phone to the foetal alcohol syndrome helpline. They weren’t especially reassuring but said as long as you stopped drinking now, the baby will probably be okay.’
‘Good news, then.’
‘They saidprobably.’
I take another bite of the sandwich and chew in order to validate my silence. Not that my internal voice is silent. It is currently shouting some very unpleasant sentences, all of which contain the word ‘Miriam’ or ‘Mother’ or, more satisfyingly, ‘motherfucking nutcase’. It is oddly calming, and also, in the event there is actually a foetus in my womb (a fact I remainsceptical about), it’s probably good for it to understand that it’s a minefield out here.
‘I pulled some strings and booked you into an obstetrician. Luckily, I insisted on you keeping that private health insurance. It’s Peter Blinko’s brother. He has a five-star rating online.’
I gulp down a mouthful of tea. ‘Doctors have Google reviews?’
Miriam squints. ‘He’s not just any old doctor. He’s an obstetrician. Pay attention, Charlotte.’
