It’s early morning and several blankets cold. It’s the Sunday after my birthday and I’m still feeling celebratory. It was such a good lunch. Joyful. And now I have time to be lazy in bed because I have an excuse to loll around. I’m gazing at my belly under the duvet. A moment’s peaceful contemplation.
My phone rings, breaking the spell, and I feel for it by the side of the bed then bring my hand back under the warmth of the duvet, glancing casually at the glow of the screen. It’s Emily. It’s EMILY! I sit up immediately and pull myself into some kind of reasonable shape, finger combing my hair, as though she might catch me looking like a pregnant sloven.
“Emily!” I say, brimming with excitement. “Oh my God, Em! I’m so pleased to hear from you.”
“I’m sorry, Jennifer, it’s Michael. There’s no good news, I’m afraid.”
I feel myself go cold.
“We’re turning off her life support later today. We thought you would want to know.”
I’m overwhelmed with emotion, but he’s being so stoic about it, I stay in control. “I’m so sorry. Please give my love to Marion. I feel for you both. How is she coping?”
“She’s not. The whole thing is unbearable. You think you’re prepared. You’ve had months to grieve and contemplate the worst. But now it’s here. It’s simply agonizing. But she’s a brave woman.”
“I’m so so sorry, Michael.”
“We’ll let you know arrangements. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”
The disconnect tone resounds cruelly in my ear. He’s gone. The phone slides from my hand. “Emily!” I whisper. “You poor lost soul.”
I curl up on my side, warm tears trickling down my face. “Oh my God!” I say out loud. “Emily is about to die.” My body is trembling; the hairs on my arms stand up. What did she do to herself? Why? Why? Why? Was her life really that bad?
I place my hands gently on my stomach. “Baby,” I say. “I want you to know how loved you are. Even now. Even when I don’t have a clue who you are, or what sex you are, or who you’re going to be . . . You are loved. Don’t you ever forget that. And if you should ever hear that you were a mistake, and someone will no doubt say something because people can be unkind, then I want you to know, we all make mistakes, and you were the best one I ever made. You will be loved all your life. I’m going to make sure of that. All your life, you will know your mummy truly loves you.”
I sense the sobbing build, slowly, silently until it takes hold of me and I roll over and cry into my pillow, feeling my baby pushing against me. “Poor Marion. Poor, poor Marion. A mother should never have to bury a child. Oh, Emily! What were you thinking? Suicide was not in your Deathopoly plan.”
I fumble around the mattress and retrieve my phone. I dial Isabelle.
“Pick up!” I say. “Pick up, Isabelle!” But it goes to voice mail. “Call me, please,” I say.
I dial Olivia. She picks up immediately.
“Oh, Liv,” I sob.
“What’s wrong?” She waits for a bit, allowing me to settle. “Please tell me, Jennifer. Please tell me what’s wrong.”
I grapple for my voice. “It’s Emily . . .”
“What’s happened?”
I come up for air and grab a tissue then blow my nose. “Sorry, Liv. They’re turning the life support off today. She’s going to die.”
“Oh, Jennifer. I’m so sorry. Truly I am. I’ll come round now,” she says. “I’ll be there asap.”
I pace the room waiting for Olivia. It feels like an eternity before the bell rings. I open the door and we throw ourselves at each other, baby in between, crying in each other’s arms. I tell her it should have been me and she tells me not to be so ridiculous, Emily made her choice a long time ago.
Suddenly I feel a pain. I push away and bend forward holding my sides. I’m getting cramps in my stomach.
“Ow!” I say, stretching toward the wall, trying to pull myself out of it.
Olivia acts startled. “You’re not having the baby, are you?”
“Better not be. Way, way too early.”
“Lie down, for God’s sake.” She hurries me over to the couch. “I’ll get you some water.” Olivia rushes to the kitchen then rushes back and hands me the water. I drink it slowly and lie back down. “Don’t panic,” I say. “I’m going to be okay. It was only a cramp.”
“You scared me.”
“I scared myself. Oh, Liv. Poor Em.”
She nods. Her eyes are genuinely sad, which makes me feel even sadder. We sit quietly together, holding hands.
After she leaves, I go back to bed, feeling lonely and miserable. This is definitely a day for staying under the duvet.
The phone rings. I answer absently. “Hi, Isabelle,” I croak.
“Jennifer?” A man’s voice.
I check the phone. “Andy. Oh my God, Andy, have you heard the news?”
“Yes!” he says, sounding massively upset.
“It’s terrible, isn’t it?”
“I thought you’d be pleased?”
I jolt. “Why would I be pleased?”
“You’re preg-nant, Jennifer. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?” He says it with the same distaste as his wife. “I think you need to explain what’s going on. One minute you tell me you’re dying and the next you’re with child. I never thought you’d try and hoodwink me like this.”
“Are you kidding me? Hoodwink you? After all your lies. Well, I haven’t hoodwinked. you. I was told I was dying and then I was told it was a mistake. If you’d have let me speak that night you came round, I would have told you everything.”
He goes quiet. “Didn’t I let you speak?”
“You know you didn’t. You were wrapped up in your own little domestic soap opera.”
“Nonsense. If you’d have said something, I’d have paid attention.”
“Why do I always have to be the one to say something? Why doesn’t it ever occur to you to ask?”
“Well, I’m asking you now. What did you tell Elizabeth? She’s been acting like a lunatic. She’s so angry at me. As if your baby is mine.”
“I told her the truth.”
“Shit, Jennifer!”
“Not about you feeling trapped in your marriage. I told her the truth about her. That’s all. She’ll get over it. Anyway, Emily’s about to die or maybe she has already,” I say. “That’s why I thought you’d phoned.”
“Emily? As in Michael and Emily?”
“Yes. She attempted suicide, but she failed. She’s been in a coma for months. They’re turning off the life support today.”
The horror dawns on him. “I’m sorry. That’s awful.” His voice sounds appropriately somber. “I haven’t been in touch with them for years. Not since our divorce. Poor Mike.”
Grief is tugging at my heart. I want to get off the phone. “I’ve got to go, Andy. It’s been a horrible morning.”
“Sure,” he says. “I’m sorry, Jennifer. I’m sorry for everything. I was a shit.”
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself.”
He splutters. “Anyone who doesn’t allow his ex-wife room in a conversation to tell him she’s not dying is a shit.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll give you that.”
“And you’re really pregnant. So whose is it?”
“No one you know.” There’s a silence, as if he thinks I’m going to tell him. “Bye, Andy,” I say and disconnect.