Page 42 of The Two of Us at the End of the World

I didn’t show her the little knives and the scissors hidden beneath the lid on the small pot of boiling water, which I kept there, blade down, submerged in the water so that they’d be ready and sterile the moment Cat asked for them.

Cat and I had decided not to call them by their name, again so as not to terrify Freya or Storm, so we’d decided on a code: if she needed them she’d ask for the “pain relief” and I’d bring them wrapped in a clean cloth. We both hoped she wouldn’t need them. And to begin with, it seemed like whatever form our prayers took that they’d been answered.

Again I don’t remember the whole day clearly. There was a lot of worry and shouting and times when there was nothing that we could do for Freya but wait, seemingly for ever, so long that our repeated words of comfort staled in our mouths and sounded as thin as cobwebs, even to our ears. Then there were other times when we thought something was happening, but it didn’t, and then we’d go back to long, long periods of waiting.

The only real difference in this pattern was that as the day progressed and night and the weather closed in, Freya got weaker, but her speaking got more and more intense. Mostly I could hear what she said because she said it loud enough to reach me on the other side of the dividing walls, but quite a lot of the time it was just intense whispering, flint sharp and clearly intended just for Storm alone. But though I don’t remember the detailed entirety of the day, I do clearly remember three things that stand out.

First, I remember Cat’s calm strength grounding us all. Second, I remember the slippery unmoving heft of the baby and the blueness of its skin as it was handed to me like all the weight in the world for me to carry away to my prepared place. And third and last, I remember both the first and then the second sight, and how they were connected.

I cleaned the kitchen a lot while we waited. Morning turned to afternoon and I heated some soup from the night before, but I remember I did it on the outside fire because I didn’t want the food dirtying up the kitchen space which was, as far as I could tell, now spotless and germ-free. Freya yelled that the smell from the vinegar and scrubbing down was making her sick, which I thought was her just usual complaining, and then she was sick and I felt bad and mean-spirited and definitely not kind enough, given what she was going through. I felt especially bad because I remembered the thing I’d been trying so hard to forget, which is that Cat had secretly told me that Freya might not survive.

Now I know that wasn’t really a secret to any of us. And because I’m slow at realising things sometimes, it was only then, listening to Storm and Cat cleaning up the sick and making her feel comfortable again that I fully realised what a really brave thing this crabby and difficult girl was doing. I’d said it to her once and she’d thrown that chopping board at my head not because it was just a stupid, useless thing to say to someone, but because I hadn’t really understood how bad the odds were, or what it truly all meant, because of course this day and the things that might happen in it were what she had been trying to escape from when she ran herself and Storm off the edge of the quarry. And I realised in that moment, in my bones where the real understanding lives, that in saving her life, this day was the one we had condemned her to, however it turned out. So that’s when I began to feel more than a little sick too.

There was a point where the rain let up enough for me to sit outside the open door, in earshot but out of the Bunker which got more and more claustrophobic as time crawled past and nothing seemed to change.

I sat watching the water drip from the trees and bushes with my hand in Digger’s fur as she leaned companionably against my leg. And at different times I was joined by Cat or Storm, who took turns having breaks from watching Freya. One time, I think it was before I heated the soup at midday, Cat was there with me, and we weren’t really saying anything, just sharing the silence when I felt Digger shift her weight off me and walk over to Cat. I watched the dog rest her chin on her knee and look up at her face. It was only then that I realised Cat was crying, or not really crying, but just looking drawn too tight, her mouth clenched in a grim sad line, rain on her cheeks that might also have been tears.

What’s happened? I said.

Nothing, she said, wiping her eyes.

Are you worried it’s taking too long? I said.

Not really, she said. Or maybe not enough. I mean, Freya is scared and pretty uncomfortable and Storm is scared too of course…

And you? I said.

Me? she said. Me, I’m feeling like a coward because I’m so frightened of the next bit that I’m relieved when we time the contractions, and they haven’t speeded up yet. Even though I can see this waiting is exhausting her.

Being scared is OK, I said. You told me that, ever since I was little. You can’t be brave if you’re not scared, remember?

She nodded. And then she reached over Digger’s head and squeezed my hand very tightly, and I do remember that because that wasn’t something she did very often.

I’m not worried about being scared, she said. But I don’t think being brave is going to help much either. There’s a choice I might have to make when the contractions speed up, if the baby can’t get out and you know what that is. And you also know I don’t really have a clue as to which way to choose, or even whether either way won’t end with both of them dead.

She meant she might have to cut the baby out of Freya’s stomach, which would kill Freya because we didn’t know how to put her back together again. And if we just left the baby stuck halfway getting out, well, that would kill the baby and most likely Freya too.

The longer we wait, the longer I can put off that decision, she said. Which I don’t know how to make anyway. But the longer we wait, the more tired she gets, which makes me think she won’t have enough energy to push. So it also gets more and more likely it will go badly, and I end up having to make the decision I don’t know how to make.

You will make the right choice, I said. And you’ll save them both.

You don’t know that, Mouse, she said.

Yes, I do, I said. You’re Cat. Saving is what you do.

Sometimes you have to lie because the truth alone just isn’t strong enough to change the future. It doesn’t always work, but every now and then it does. I think that’s why people told stories, why all those books got printed, because a well-crafted lie, told with good intentions, can sometimes wrestle the world away from the darkness, towards the light.

In this case of course I was hoping that my lie might boost Cat’s confidence just enough to help her beat the odds stacked against us.

But however well-meant my lie was, it just wasn’t one of those ones that change the world in the way you want it to, because the day did not end as I so desperately hoped it would. Which probably proves that other thing, about the world not thinking about us at all, because you can hope and you can pray, and you can face your fears or even run from them, but it ends up doing exactly what it wants, often in ways you couldn’t even imagine in your wildest or worst dreams. And then? Then you just say goodbye to what you thought would be and carry the weight of what is instead.

That’s what Cat and I decided, later in the cold dark of the next morning, standing together in the rain letting it wash away the blood and the tears.

I think hope is a muscle, Cat said. I think it’s what helps us carry the weight of ourselves into the future.

Seemed an odd thing for her to say, after everything that had happened, after all she had had to do and see done. But, because she was Cat, she was of course right. I just didn’t know how right, or how strong that muscle was going to have to be.

So all the labour has blurred into one long indistinct memory like a bad bruise that loses its definition as time passes and it spreads out in a less and less distinct version of itself, becoming a stain dissolving into a ghost of itself.