frown. ‘Is that what you were doing, trying to find our son’s heartbeat?’ He nods and wipes the back of his hand across his brow. ‘Why couldn’t you find it? Is… is there something wrong?’
With a shaking hand he turns off the monitor, puts down the transducer and sinks down on the bed next to me. ‘He’s…’ He swallows hard and takes my hand. ‘I’m not worried unduly, but he is a little smaller than his sister.’
I can see he’s worried, even though his words say otherwise. No! This is insane. ‘But… I saw both babies, they were strong, looked the same size… and…’
‘No, it’s hard to tell really. You might have thought they were, but… anyway, as I said, he’s not that tiny! Don’t worry, love; it’s all going to be fine.’
‘Don’t lie to me. I can tell when you’re keeping things back!’ I yell and yank my hand from his. ‘Is it because of me – something I did? My past, the fact that I abused my body and…’ A sob stops my words and he shakes his head and scrubs at his eyes.
‘No, Holly. Please calm down; it will all be fine. It’s common for one twin to be smaller than the other – you know that.’
I want to yell. Slap him. Stop any more lies from leaving his mouth. When Simon lies he can’t look at me. Not that he lies to me often, but I can always tell when he does. Right now his voice is unnaturally calm too… as if I’m a patient who has to be handled with kid gloves. A person who can’t cope with the bad things in the world. ‘Why are you just sitting there calmly, talking about it? Go and get a senior partner, a second opinion.’
He sighs and rubs his eyes again. ‘Believe me, there’s no point asking anyone else. There is nothing to get hysterical about, I promise. Now come on, Holly, my love. Let’s go and have a cuppa…’
‘But I don’t want a cuppa! I want the truth from you.’ I hate that he’s using the word ‘hysterical’. The trouble is, even to my own ears I do sound it. I sit up and grip his shoulders. Make him face me.
Simon shifts away, looks at the floor. ‘Okay. There might be a problem when he’s born… it’s hard to tell. As far as I can see he’s developing normally, has everything he should have and all in the right places. Just a bit…’
‘Small.’ My sarcasm slices through the tense atmosphere, thick between us. ‘Yes, so you keep saying. When you say a problem when he’s born, do you mean he’s going to be in ICU, or, or what?’
‘That’s possible. But there’s no point in getting ahead of ourselves, to be honest.’
‘It would be nice if you were, Simon.’ He gives me a quizzical look. ‘Honest.’ My voice sounds far away… faint. Could… could he d… die?’
A deep sigh. ‘I wish you wouldn’t jump to the worst-case scenario like this, Holly.’
It’s me who looks at the floor now. I feel too hot, the room is moving. I take a few deep breaths to stop myself from screaming. If I start, I won’t be able to stop. I’ll never forgive myself if there’s something seriously wrong… my past life can’t have helped, can it? Even though Simon says that wasn’t the reason. Was it because I went swimming in the sea when it was too cold? My mum said I shouldn’t have… ‘So… so what are you saying? There is a worst-case scenario?’
‘There’s always a worst-case scenario in these situations.’ Simon stands up and puts his hands on his hips. ‘But for goodness’ sake, Holly, stop all this. Everything will be fine, I’m sure of it.’
‘You aren’t sure of it. I saw your face when you couldn’t find the heartbeat. Watched your hands trembling!’
Simon sits back down, gathers me to him and at first I push him off. Then, as he whispers soothing words into my ear, I slump against him, the fight draining away like my dreams of pushing the twins around the park in the new double buggy that waits in the hall. I should never have bought that before they were born. Mum said it would be bad luck.
‘My darling, I can’t give you a one hundred per cent cast-iron guarantee that both our babies will be born perfect, without any problems or issues, but that’s the case in any birth – twins or not. You really do have to calm down and trust me. You always imagine the worst, it’s one of your faults.’ He lifts my chin, looks into my eyes. ‘Not that you have many.’
I want to pull away but I force myself to stay focused on him. He’s right. I do always think the worst. But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s something I have done and it’s my fault that our boy is smaller than he should be. It did cross my mind when I fell pregnant that my drug addiction and wild lifestyle might have damaged my body, my organs, in some way. Perhaps I’m not fit enough to sustain two lives…?
Simon kisses my lips and I lay my head on his shoulder. A huge sob bursts out and then I clamp my hand over my mouth to smother any more. I need to get a grip, be strong and think positive. I owe that to my babies and my husband. Simon has told me that everything will be okay as far as he can tell, and he knows what he’s talking about. So I have to believe him, don’t I?
Three weeks later…
‘If you could just get some rest you’d feel better, love.’
My mum is hovering again. She’s been doing that for days and it’s beginning to drive me insane. From the corner of my eye I see her hands twisting themselves together. Then they stop and retidy the already tidy pile of nappies, creams and wipes next to the Moses basket in which my daughter is sleeping.
‘I’ve told you I can’t rest. My son is dead and everyone is behaving as if he never existed.’ My voice is flat, monotone, empty. I didn’t plan to say that to her, but I can’t bear all the pussyfooting around on the one hand and the think-positive speeches on the other. Everyone does it, not just Mum. Simon, nurses, everyone I come into contact with. What do they know about how I feel? What does anyone know?
‘Oh, love.’ Mum’s voice catches. ‘Holly… we know the poor little mite existed. It’s only been three weeks, you’re bound to feel like this… but it’s true what they say, that time is…’
‘A great healer – yes, so you and everyone else keep saying. And the “poor little mite” had a name. My son was called Ruan.’
Anger has filled the emptiness in my voice and my hands are beginning to tremble. Simon tells me I’m probably depressed – no shit, Sherlock – and that I might need to go back on the happy pills if I’m not careful. He says he’d hate that to happen because it reminds him of what a mess I was in when he first met me. I’m not like I was then. I’m worse. My son’s death has made me into another person. Someone I don’t recognise, someone that scares me. The thoughts in my head scare me. The anger that builds in my chest scares me. It rages. It screams from my core as I sit silently looking at the ocean.
I’m looking at the ocean now, trapped in my own head, even though Mum is talking, talking, talking, talking. That’s all she ever does. Words don’t mean anything. Words can’t help. Advice leaflets from support groups say I should talk about what happened, how I feel; but unlike everyone else’s, my words remain stuck, unformed, hidden.
The doorbell rings and I remember that Demi is visiting. It will be the first time she’s seen me and Iona, my daughter. First time I have actually spoken to her. Mum broke the news. How will she be? Will she cry, avoid the subject of Ruan, be overly cheerful or something else? Anything has to be better than the three days I’ve spent here at the beach house with Mum. She loves me, of course, wants the best for me, grieves for her lost grandson, but she has this knack of making me want to yell. She doesn’t know how to be around me and I’m not sure I do either.
‘Holly, it’s Demi!’ Mum says as she comes back to do a bit of hovering on the balcony. I want to say, yes, of course it is. Who