But some things should never be, no matter how good they feel in the beginning. No matter how much you think you need.
The car keys weigh heavy in my palm as I turn.
Chapter Forty
Ivy
Icrieda few tears after he’d left, but no more than a few self-pitying sniffles. I’m not done weeping, I know, but I’m done for now.
In the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of water and down it, one hand curled and gripping the sink. I rinse my glass. Stack. Dry my hands on the dish towel then head to the bathroom to wash away this awful day. Ordinary actions, one foot after the other, are the only way to go. June, I know, would agree.
Please, God, let her be okay.
‘Things could be so much worse,’ I tell myself through the small vanity mirror. Wrapped in a towel and dripping wet from the shower, I’m holding my toothbrush in hand. June is alive and stable, my friends and family will be there for me, and Dylan seems to want to forgive me. To be a part of our lives.
‘Hear that, Vlad?’ I place one hand on my stomach and the little bugger bursts to life. ‘You like the sound of that, do you?’ And of course, he’s saved his rave until bedtime. ‘Think you could move for your daddy next time? I think he’d find it pretty special.’
It might make it more real for him. More real than a boring hospital appointment, at any rate. Tears spring again, but I’m not wallowing. Instead, I make my way to the bedroom and slip on a huge t-shirt I’ve adopted as bedwear these days.
Want, frustration, pain, and hurt.
I’m going to sleep it all away.
Start again tomorrow. Maybe try a smile on for size.
I slip between the cool covers of my three-quarter bed, switching off the small bedside lamp that once belonged to my gran. I send my love heavenwards to her, along with a silent plea that she look after June and little Vlad. Then I thump my pillow to maximum effect, turn, once, twice, and begin to drift off.
Five minutes later—or five hours, I’m not really sure—I wake to the sound of hard hail against the window pane. Muttering a curse, I pull the quilt over my head then fold the corners of my pillows over my ears, just to be sure.
Deep even breaths. Stay calm. Centred. And just for good measure, I’ll add in some Sanskrit chants...
Bang!
‘Oh, you bunch of little bawbags!’ I throw the quilt back from my legs and touch my feet to the floor. ‘If it’s those bloody kids from the estate...’ I yank back the curtain and push the window wide. ‘Away ‘round your own doors, or I’m callin’ the polis!’ I yell in my best angry Scots housewife voice.Bloody cider swilling delinquents. Or are drugs to blame these days?
‘Ah, hell. I’m turning into my mother already,’ I mutter. Still, I suppose I’d best get used to being the voice of authority. With a daddy like Dylan, this babe is bound to be a handful.
I can’t see the ground for the nearby glow of the streetlamp but cover my eyes anyway, breathing out another chant.
‘Fuck this day, fuck my life and just... fuck!’
‘Hey,’ calls a familiar voice from below. ‘Was that an invitation?’
By the timeI’ve buzzed open the bottom door and cranked the lock on the second, Dylan is already on my doorstep. Hands clasped to the sides of the doorframe, he leans toward me but doesn’t step inside.
‘I thought you’d left,’ I say, tucking my wild hair into a quick twist.
‘I tried.’ He shrugs, sort of ruefully, his gaze coming up from his shoes. ‘It didn’t work.’
‘So I see.’
‘Listen, I think you’re gonna be a fantastic mom,’ he states suddenly—sincerely—knocking me off my stride.
‘Because I can yell out a window?’ He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I can’t make out what he’s thinking from his expression. Not at all. ‘Or because I can yell like a fish wifey, or—ow,you wee bugger!’ I whisper-hiss, clutching my stomach as Vlad kicks my bladder . .. and stomps on my uterus.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks, stepping closer and into the hallway.
‘Yeah, f-fine.’ With his momentum, my back is literally against the wall, and I hold up a hand to ward off his concern or maybe his approach. I was desperate for him earlier, but I need to learn from my mistakes. Learn some self-control. ‘It’s just disco time. Your son’s quite the mo—oover.’Ow... and oh, shit. Again.‘I didn’t tell you, did I?’
