Running both hands over my swollen belly, I wonder if I’d be capable of the same. The afternoon light is dying, the sky growing dark, and since I’ve been still a while, the baby is starting to stir. I can feel her above my pubic bone and under my ribs. She’s small, they tell me, and I suspect I know why, but you wouldn’t know it, the way I feel. Tense and achy, I’m unable to relax. It could be any day now. I think of what’s to come and panic blooms.
Rob will be back soon. I’m counting the minutes, listening to the sounds from the neighbouring houses that signal the day’s end. The Spanish couple in the short-stay apartment on the top floor of the McCallister place are squabbling good-naturedly; there’s the clang of pots and pans from the kitchenette, glasses clinking, the aroma of something rich and spicy on the evening breeze. They’re the nicest of the parade of couples and families who’ve come through this season. The McCallisters like to keep the bottom floor free so they can come and go as they please, but they’re rarely there, so it falls to Rob and me to crisis-manage when things go awry. I’m getting bloody sick of it.
I hear the rumble of Samir’s voice from the balcony on the other side of the house followed by Erica’s nasal response. If I listen carefully, I can hear every word. I try not to, of course. There’s nothing worse than overhearing things you wish you hadn’t.
Erica’s the only one I’ve had to talk to, what with Rob gone so often and her home on stress leave. She’s told me she’ll help when the baby comes and I know she means it. But I’m not like most women. This is not like most pregnancies. And Erica, well-meaning as she is, is the last person who’d be able to understand.
The abandoned houses across the creek, left of the Dawson place, stand in shadow, ghosts of their former selves. I wonder about the people in those houses, what brought them here, why they chose to leave. Did they have children? Were they happy? I never imagined the two could be synonymous. Soon I will know for sure.
There’s the rumble of a car engine and I stick my head out of the window as a car pulls up beside the McCallister place. I recognise the embattled pale blue station wagon. He’s back. The Spanish couple are due to depart; he must be coming to collect the keys and resume his old job as caretaker in exchange for cheap rent. Slacker.
As he steps out, I’m reminded of why he gets away with it. Young, toned, healthy. He looks up and our eyes meet. He gives me that slow smile of his, as if we’re both in on a secret. And my thoughts stray, despite myself, and I fantasise that if I weren’t so pregnant …
I’m the first to look away and at that moment the front door slams. I flinch. Rob’s home. There’s a sharp stab in my lower abdomen, the vibrations of tiny feet kicking, and for the thousandth time I wonder at the repercussions of what I’ve done.
***
3am
I’m edgy, anxious, as though insects are crawling over my skin. I really need him right now. But somehow, on the other side of the bed, Rob seems too far away to reach.
I slip out from between the sheets and creep silently along the hall. Out on the balcony, under a veil of barely visible stars, I squeeze my eyes shut against a thrust of guilt. I take a half cigarette from the pack hidden behind a pot plant and light it, inhaling deeply once, twice, but the smoke comes spluttering back out again. It tastes acrid and wrong. Like failure. Yet, still, I crave it.
Something catches my eye and when I look up I see a faint red glow in the window of the Dawson house across the water. I squint, heart racing, but it disappears.
I stub the cigarette out hastily, lungs burning, tears spilling from my eyes. A single sob escapes, echoing through the silent night.
As I slide into bed, Rob murmurs in his sleep and rolls towards me. Shit. I clap a hand over my mouth, but it’s too late. I know it. Even though I’ve washed my hands and scrubbed my teeth, it was all in vain. Rob is still. Silent. And I can feel the disappointment radiating from him like waves.
***
Sunday, 4pm
I can’t go through with it.
I pace the house, stopping at the fridge to take out one of Rob’s beers, stare at it, then put it back. I do this four times before relenting and throwing back a long, hard swig.
I can’t go through with it.
The thought won’t go away, no matter what I do, no matter where I go. And I can’t go anywhere much, not in my condition. I’m sick of being trapped here like a beached whale, a ticking time bomb, alone, even though Rob promised – he promised! – he’d be here for the final week. Three days until my due date and I know in my heart, in my bones, I cannot go through with this.
I call the hospital, wait impatiently while it connects, and ask to be put through to the prenatal ward. I’m told everyone is busy, as per usual, and I nearly scream as I end the call and throw the phone in to the piled-high laundry basket.
Leah, bloody Leah Jones, who’s never taken my concerns seriously, calls back sounding polite, distant, harassed. ‘Delilah Waters, that you again? You doing okay?’ she says, a sigh in her voice, and I want to shout at her, tell her no I’m not fucking okay, I have never been this not okay! But my voice sticks in my throat. I’m suddenly mute.
‘Miss Waters?’
Help me. My brain screams. Please help me. But it’s useless. Because what can they do? What can anyone do? What’s done is done. It’s far too late to change anything now.
‘I’m sorry. It’s nothing. Just Braxton Hicks, I think,’ I murmur. ‘All good now.’
‘Oh, yes, that. Well. Glad you’re okay, love. Not long to go now!’ her voice rings with false cheer, her words more threat than promise.
I hang up. I can already see Leah mentally checking me off a list, moving on to other things. I’m just a number. I don’t matter. Nothing matters.
***
2:09am
I wake to blinding pain. Reaching across the sheets, my fingers find Rob’s arm and grip, vice-like, as the pain rolls through me with the force of a tidal wave.
‘Dee?’ his voice is thick with sleep. ‘What is it?’
I double over on my side, listening as a low, animal moan, a primal sound unlike anything I’ve ever heard, fills the room. It takes a moment before I realise it’s me.
Rob bolts upright, flicks on the lamp and I screw my eyes shut against the glare. ‘Dee? It’s happening, isn’t it? Is this it?’
I nod, then shake my head. I don’t know. I don’t know. Something feels wrong.
‘Dee? Talk to me! What’s happening?’
My chest expands and my lungs fill with air as the pain dulls to a throb. I can breathe again. ‘I … I don’t know. I think … I think she’s coming.’
‘Oh, God,’ he whispers. He clasps my hands. ‘Dee. Dee! We’re going to have a baby!’
His voice is too loud. It’s too bright in here. ‘Rob,’ I pant. ‘Please. Please.’ I don’t know what I’m asking for, but he’s nodding, kissing my forehead, tripping out of bed and into the clothes he’s had laid out for weeks. He’s beaming at me, delirious and terrified, bringing me my warm robe and slippers I’ve set aside for this occasion, fetching my overnight bag and the things for the baby. All I can think is, this is it. This is it this is it this is it.