Mammy cries a little bit but tries to control it so she doesn’t ‘upset me’. I think of her all those years ago when she went to England to get her abortion, a procedure that was surgical and invasive. I’m glad that it looks like I won’t have to go through anything like that, as long as the miscarriage continues the way it ‘should’. I tell her that I have to go back for another scan in two weeks, as long as I have no fevers or complications, and she cries again.
‘I’m so sorry this is happening to you, pet.’ She looks at John. ‘And you too, John. I know ye were excited.’
We drive back to John’s house to tell his parents, but I can’t bring myself to go in. When he comes out, I can tell he’s been crying again, and my heart continues to break. The little hurls had arrived. We watch My Octopus Teacher again that night, this time in my bed in Mammy’s. It feels cathartic. Mammy gallantly leaves the hot-water-bottle making and tea and paracetamol trays to John, even though I know it’s killing her not doing it herself. There’s no sign of Dr Trevor, but when I hear him arriving later that night, I feel comforted to know there’s a doctor in the house.
****
On Tuesday John cancels the plasterer for the gym and stays in bed with me. The cramps have lessened along with the bleeding, although I’m still wearing the mattress in my knickers in case of clots. When he suggests the cinema, I comb the listings for something safe to watch. There’s a new Mission Impossible, which seems unlikely to have a pregnancy storyline. I fret over what to tell Mandy, and John insists on ringing her as soon as it’s a reasonable time in New York. He goes outside to do it and it’s over very fast.
‘What did you say?’
‘I told her the truth, of course. She was dead sound,’ he says, immediately easing my catastrophising that she was going to fire me. ‘She wants you to take two weeks off and will let Aubrey know, as long as it’s okay with you?’
I get an email from Mandy twenty minutes later.
My darling Irish doll,
You gotta look after yourself now. I’ll square things with Aubrey. She can handle the hairdressers and the wax thing. Take as long as you need. You wanna go to a spa? I’m paying.
Love ya,
M
The wax thing. Aubrey must have landed the Hairy Mollies’ new clinic in Dún Laoghaire. Fair play to her.
****
On Wednesday I leave John for the first time to go to Majella’s. I have to tell her before she sends me any more daft nursery-decoration ideas. She and Pablo live in a one-bedroom apartment, and I don’t know who she could get in BGB to paint the cast of the Lion King on her walls anyway. Ciara Connelly was good at art in school, but she made a balls of Sharon’s salon windows at Christmas. Rudolph looked like Marty Morrissey.
I take a deep breath as I stand outside the door of her apartment. I know Pablo is at work in Maguire’s. He’s picking up shifts wherever he can now that Maj has set her sights on a baby travel system that costs over a thousand euro.
She opens the door as soon as I knock. ‘Come in, come in. I wish I could say I have wine in the fridge, but I have some fizzy apple juice that my mother bought in Marks and Spencer instead.’
I say nothing and sit on the couch, feeling sick with nerves and crampy from my ongoing miscarriage.
She clocks my face. ‘What’s wrong, bird?’
‘I don’t want you worrying over this, but I’ve had a miscarriage.’ I just needed to get it out.
Her face crumples immediately. ‘Oh, Ais. What? Are you sure? Oh my God, I’m so sorry.’ She’s down on the couch beside me, arm awkwardly around my shoulders. We’ve never been the biggest huggers. Not sober, anyway. After a second, she scuttles away from me though. ‘Sorry, there’s nits in my class and I can’t use the usual poisonous stuff because of …’ She trails off and I know it’s because she’s pregnant.
‘It’s okay. You can say it. You’re pregnant. And look, I don’t want you fretting and worrying that something is going to happen to you. You’ll be fine.’
She looks down at her hands, crying. ‘Okay. But are you okay? When did this happen? How are you feeling?’
We drink the fizzy apple juice, even though I suppose I could have something stronger if I wanted. I wouldn’t have the stomach for it, though. I try not to tell her too many specifics because I really don’t want her constantly thinking it’s happening to her.
‘And I don’t know if you should tell Pablo yet,’ I say. ‘He’ll go berserk worrying.’
‘I don’t know – he’s gone very zen with his crystals. He’s made two best friends on Etsy already. I’m worried they’re taking advantage of him. I might have to cut him off. If you don’t want me to tell him, though, I won’t.’
‘No, it’s okay, you can tell him. I’ve actually just realised how much miscarriages are kept a secret. Like, you’re not even supposed to tell anyone you’re pregnant until you’re three months and out of the danger zone or whatever. Oh God, not that you’re in the danger zone or anything.’
‘Ais, it’s okay. I’m a big girl. Let’s worry about you for now. And the bloody nits.’
‘Can you use anything at all?’
‘Ah, some organic shite that they’re probably lapping up like it’s kombucha and having a nit party in my cow’s lick.’
I go to the bathroom to change my pad, and she gets us water when we can’t hack any more of the fake wine.
‘Did you tell Mandy?’
‘John rang her yesterday. She’s been very sound about it, especially since I’ve only done one day of work.’
‘Eh, of course she has. Who wouldn’t be?’
‘There’s no paid leave for miscarriages – did you know that? Mandy’s given me two weeks, but she doesn’t have to.’
‘Why am I not surprised? And you’re so right about the secrecy thing. It’s like people don’t want to acknowledge that these terrible things happen.’
‘Oh, sure, Sadhbh is already campaigning for period leave in her new job. They’re all foosball tables and Domino’s on a Friday so she thinks they might go for it.’
Majella looks thoughtful. ‘I’m fairly sure I mistaught multiplication in school one year because of a bad period. It’d be for the good of the country if they gave us a bit of time off. And here, how is John?’
‘Ah, Maj, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him crying.’
Her eyes instantly fill with tears again. ‘Are you serious? That’s so sad. The poor fucker.’
‘I know. And he was crying with his parents, and I think he was crying in the bathroom earlier. He was all snotty.’
Maj pulls her sleeve across her face. ‘And now I’m all snotty.’
‘This is worse than the time Shayne Ward got engaged.’
‘Ah, Ais, nothing is worse than that.’
We’re crying laughing when Pablo comes in from Maguire’s, complaining that his socks are full of Guinness after spilling a pint all over himself. He looks from Maj’s face to mine. ‘You’re crying? Why are you crying, my love?’
‘Ah, nothing, I’ll tell you later.’
‘Maybe the babies make you cry,’ he calls behind him as he goes to change his socks. If only he knew how right he is.
****
Every morning this week has felt like waking up on St Stephenses Day. The excitement is gone. The magic is over. John has stayed with me every night. He was due to start a personal training teaching course this week, but they’ve let him push it back a bit. As we lie in bed on Friday night he says glumly, ‘This time last week we were in a different place.’
‘Don’t remind me.’
He bends down and kisses the side of my head. He’s sitting up in bed and I have my head in his lap, curled up against him. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘S’okay.’
‘Here, do you think your mother is okay with me being here all week? Maybe I should go back home.’
The very thought of it brings me to tears.
‘Ah, Ais, I’m not trying to upset you.’
‘I know. I just don’t want you to go. You’re the only one who gets it. My mother doesn’t care that you’re here. She’s beside herself making wholesome dinners.’
‘Okay. Just, if you get sick of me let me know. Or you can come and stay in Fran and Ray’s if you want.’
‘Okay, maybe we’ll stay with them next week or something.’
‘It’s a pain in the hole, isn’t it, all this living out of bags and going between houses?’
‘It is. I don’t know where I left my deodorant.’
We’re quiet then, watching an old episode of University Challenge. We figure nothing is safer, content-wise, than quiz shows.
‘Jane Eyre!’ I shout.
‘Terminator 2,’ says John.
‘The Tempest,’ says one of the nerds on the telly. He’s right, of course.
‘John?’ I say, not lifting my head from his lap.
‘Yeah?’
‘I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of you.’
He bends down to kiss me again. ‘And you won’t even marry me. Such a tease.’
I laugh. He hasn’t asked me to marry him in a week. I’m relieved to hear him bring it up again. Last night I started to panic that he was only with me because of the baby. But maybe we’ll be alright.
‘Classical music now,’ says Jeremy Paxman from the TV.
John groans. ‘I’ll get the tea and biscuits.’
‘Don’t forget my –’
‘Hot-water bottle. Already on it.’
I actually get the first classical music question right. Finally, learning Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony on the recorder in Transition Year has paid off. As John returns to the bedroom I’m ready to gloat, but he has a serious look on his face.
‘What’s wrong? Is it the cat? I swear there’s something dead inside it. The farts are noxious.’
He puts the tea tray down on my desk and sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Aisling, will you marry me, though? I’m dead serious.’
I stare back at him for a long time – probably only twenty seconds, though. Thousands of images race through my head. Me in a wedding dress, him rolling down a grassy hill for some reason, me watching him and Megan dance at the wedding, me alone in New York, us with two blonde Instagram kids, us crying in the Micra.
‘Not now, John. It’s too much.’
It’s his turn to stare back at me. For a split second, I wonder if he’s going to get mad. But then he sighs. ‘Are you sure? Because I really mean it.’
‘I know. I know you do.’