Etched on Me Page 22

  • • •

  Week thirty-seven. Your baby is now full-term, quoth Miraculous Pregnancy, so unabashed in its editorial excitement I chucked the bloody thing in the bin.

  At my appeal hearing, my hands stood sentry across my bump. Bradford Kamen on one side of me, Sophie on the other. Olivia glaring at her across the table.

  “Given your recent mental health crisis, our decision still stands.”

  Now they got what they wanted. Wild-woman fingers raked through my hair. Snot slobbing down my nose. There. Confirmation. Happy now?

  But this time, after the conference room exodus, Bradford was right on it.

  “Lesley, this is not a given. The ultimate decision doesn’t rest in their hands.”

  “Yes, it does,” I wailed.

  “No. You need to understand. Social services have to apply for an order once she’s born. They’ll request one from a family court judge, who can either approve or deny it. So there’s a chance—”

  “Oh, please. You know he’ll rubber-stamp their paperwork.” I stared down Sophie. “Right?”

  Her face went all squinchy. “Well, erm . . .”

  “How many of your old orders went through? Huh?”

  “All . . .” Ashamed whisper. “All of them.”

  “So that’s it,” I said. “I just wait to go into labor and pray I get a sympathetic judge.”

  Bradford’s face went still and solemn. “Ms. Burnham, may I have a word alone with my client?”

  Once Sophie had ducked out, he drew his chair closer to mine. “You do realize,” he said, “that whilst you’re still pregnant the plan is one hundred percent unenforceable.”

  I nodded.

  “Which means, legally speaking, you’re free to go as you please.”

  “You mean, move to another borough where they won’t mess with me?”

  He nodded. “Another borough, another region. Even another country.”

  I bit my lip.

  “Look,” he said, “if your baby were already here and subject to a child protection plan, I would be completely unethical in suggesting such a thing. In fact, we’d both be breaking the law. But now, when you have this small window . . .”

  “They wouldn’t come after me?”

  “And waste their already-strapped resources on an international womanhunt?” He chuckled. “I believe your adoring fans’ paranoia has gone to your head, my dear.”

  “So you think I should do it.”

  “I think,” he said carefully, “that you should consider all your options.”

  “But if I were your daughter? What about then?”

  I was pushing him well past his boundaries, but I had to know.

  He glanced away. Rubbed his forehead. Looked back at me.

  “If you were my daughter,” he said, “I’d tell you to pack your bags.”

  • • •

  You’d think, hearing that, I’d have grabbed my passport and bolted straightaway, but I spent several sleepless nights debating. Where would I go? How would I get money? What would happen if I really cracked up?

  “Just look up Dec,” Imogen said. “Take the ferry over to Ireland. Easy-peasy.”

  No, it wasn’t. No guarantee he’d take me in. No guarantee he could deal.

  “Okay, then let that Scientologist lady hook you up with her people in Sweden.”

  Ugh. Blech.

  “What’s your fucking problem, Les? You heard your solicitor. It’s the best way out.”

  Alone on a windy upper deck in the dark, rucksack and bin bag and guitar, pulling cold and exhausted into Dún Laoghaire or Stockholm. Alone at another hostel. Alone on a foreign maternity ward.

  “I don’t want out,” I sobbed late one night, my head on the Kremskys’ kitchen table. “I don’t want to have to go.”

  “Leslyochka.” Vera reached over to rest her hand atop my hair. “Ja znaiyu. But you must.”

  I glanced up.

  “You remember, when we first met, I was so rude to you about having been in hospital, da?”

  “Yeah,” I said, impressed that she remembered.

  “I did not mean to be. It was knee-jerk reaction, from . . . From old situation. Past.”

  What? “You mean you were in a—”

  “No, no. Thank God. Not me. But my family. They were . . .” She looked over at Jascha. “What is word poangliski?”

  “Dissidents,” he said.

  “Right. And in those days, Stalin, you disagree, you get sent to psikhushka. Shock treatment, all that. Horrible. Never no idea who is next.”

  Shit. Poor Vera.

  “We were so afraid, you know, that even still, anything to do with mental problems, it . . .” She pressed a hand to her mouth. “I hate to think about.”

  “God,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I had no—”

  “Nyet, is okay. Am not telling you this for sympathy. Just to apologize for being idiot, and to explain why . . .”

  “Why you left Russia?” I asked.

  She nodded. “This one was so tiny.” She gestured towards Jascha. “Couldn’t take chances. So we had to take huge chance. You understand?”

  “Yeah,” I said softly. “I do.”

  • • •

  Once I’d made up my mind, there remained the question of where. The EU would be easiest in terms of job prospects, but the thought of being a baby-toting backpacker with a bad case of travel fugue still didn’t sit well with me.

  “Just go to America, then,” Curran said.

  “Easy for you to say,” I told him. “You’ve got dual citizenship; I’m just some layabout on a six-month holiday visa.”

  “You’re not the sort of immigrant they’re fired up about, Les.”

  “No, but what the hell would I do?”

  He shrugged. “You could always stay with my gran.”

  Hmm. I didn’t know Caroline well, but I’d met her a few times when she’d flown over for Christmas, and she’d been almost painfully nice: flipping excitedly through Imogen’s design portfolio, eagerly talking shop with me about studio techniques for orchestral recordings.

  Of course, she also drove Gloria round the fucking bend with her constant fussy, fastidious chatter—“Honey, are you sure you don’t want some highlights from that new salon in Chelsea? You know, your kitchen would be just adorable if you painted it a light peach. And have you thought about putting Sveta in an organized sport? It’d be such a good way for her to burn off all that hyperactive energy . . .”—so I went to her for a second opinion.

  “My mother,” Gloria said, “would spoil you and Squidlet absolutely rotten.”

  I pictured us tucked away in her floral guest room, the darkbright strains of a cello drifting down the lush-carpeted hall.

  “But,” she went on, “you need to realize that my former homeland is not the land of the Smartie-crapping unicorns. Far from it.”

  “I won’t have social services on my back. That’s good enough.”

  “Until you need, oh, health care. Or child care. Or—”

  “I don’t give a fuck. I just want us to stay together.”

  • • •

  Consent from a medical provider is required for women traveling past their 36th week of pregnancy, every international airline’s website read.

  Right. Like I could just ring Tasmin and ask for her blessing immortalized in written form.

  I was about to say Screw it and click over to the Stena Line ferry schedule when Vera tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Don’t,” she said. “I can fix this.”

  “How?”

  “Back in Krasnoyarsk, I was midwife’s apprentice. Not for long, but still.”

  I wanted to grin, but all I could think was worst-case scenario. “What if—”

  “What if nothing. Is simple. You hand British Airways check-in person my signed letter. Take leap of faith. Get on plane.”

  • • •

  And so I gave notice at my job, and transferred the lease on my flat to one of the Team
Six Percent girls, and crammed all of Squidlet’s and my clothes into one suitcase. I held Sveta on my lap as she whimpered, “Why do you have to go, Auntie Lesley?” I DJ-ed one final time, with Immi and Curran helping me up in the sound booth. I snuggled the hellhounds while watching Match of the Day with Vera. I visited Francesca and made fun of her nurse to make her laugh. I sent Sophie and Dr. P. thank-you letters, and slipped an impulsive, sorrowful one containing my new address in Baltimore to my mum, just for my own closure, under the jumpered-Scottie mat.

  My last night in London, I went with the Kremskys to the Russian Orthodox cathedral in South Ken, where the signs read No Stilletos and you had to stand for the whole flipping service. My bump clenched and my back cramped and my stomach churned from the incense, but I stood strong between Gloria and Jascha, bathed in candles’ flicker for the first time since Clare. When I bowed my head, I prayed with ecumenical reverence: for the dutiful daughters and the sad slumped men, the ones who pinned wrists down and the ones who stroked foreheads, the saved children and the lost workers, all of them.

  23

  On the way to Heathrow the next morning, Immi and I sat in the backseat of Gloria’s car, lobbing one last round of gleeful epithets while clutching each other’s hands.

  “Twatwaffle.”

  “Daft-and-naïve.”

  “Daily Mail–fucker.”

  “Goatee-shagger.”

  “Christ,” I whispered. “I’m going to miss you.”

  We made a detour for scones and lattes. Cranked “Best of the Screaming Women” loud as it would go.

  By the time we pulled into the Terminal 5 car park, I had to pee so badly it hurt, so we skipped the bag check and headed straight for the ladies’. Giant queue, but bless them, everyone let me cut to the front and snag my dear friend the disabled stall.

  Whew. Flipping epic. Even Squidlet did somersaults of relief.

  Out by the sinks, I could hear Gloria and Imogen rallying themselves.

  “We won’t cry, will we, Mrs. K.?”

  “No. We most certainly will not.”

  I grinned. Hoisted myself with the side rails and pulled up my jeans. I was just about to rebutton them when I felt the most massive plunge-plummet you can possibly imagine. Waterslide, waterfall, surgebloompgush.

  I widened my stance, like I did that night I had to prove I was wearing contraband-less knickers. Glimpsed the massive ovals of damp denim stain that wended from my thighs down to—I’m not joking—the insides of my knees.

  At first, I stood there dazed. Then I put my hands to my mouth. Willed myself not to sway.

  “Hey, Les.” Jaunty knock at the door from Immi. “You fall in, or what?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ll—I’ll be right out.”

  I scrambled to unbutton again. Lowered myself back onto the toilet. Felt the insides of both my knickers and my jeans. Sniffed my fingers.

  Margate ocean, not urine.

  No, I thought. This isn’t happening.

  A few stalls down, a little girl was describing in exquisite detail the anthropomorphic characteristics of her poo—“two snakes and a dragon, Mummy!”—while her mortified mother gently chastised. “Really, Hannah, that’s quite enough.”

  I put my hands over my face and began to silently weep.

  Meanwhile, Hannah had commenced singing “Eensy Weensy Spider,” and Imogen was trying to convince Gloria to go shopping for “saucy boots” once they’d seen me off. “Drown our grief in retail therapy. You know what I’m saying?”

  I tore off a piece of tissue and blew my nose. Pulled off another and dried my eyes. Pulled off a third. Patted it between my legs.

  More damp. More salt.

  Think, I told myself. What did the birthing instructor tell you?

  (“If your waters break, it does not necessarily mean you’re in labor. Nor is it a cause for concern unless twenty-four hours pass.”)

  I rolled my suitcase closer. Unzipped it and pulled out a clean pair of underwear and cargo trousers. Nearly fell on my arse balancing, but I got them on. Quick stuff-down of some extra loo paper for insurance, hurried cram of my dirty clothes into the suitcase’s outside pocket, and Bob’s your uncle.

  “Well hello there, fashionista,” Im said when I finally came out the stall. “What’d you do, piss yourself?”

  I flipped her off and handed her my guitar to carry.

  • • •

  Check-in queue was ginormous. We wound up behind Hannah and her mum, who made empathetic noises about how awful it was to travel while pregnant. (“Of course, you’ve not got this”—a loving hand-swipe towards her daughter—“to contend with yet, so perhaps it’s easier.”)

  I was about to tell her I’d read a juicy magazine and take a good nap on her behalf when my bump clenched and my back twinged.

  Chillax, Wise Mind said. It’s just one of those practice contractions, remember?

  But a few minutes later, there it came again.

  “Disney World, Disney World, Disney World,” Hannah chirped.

  Power of suggestion, Rational Mind scoffed.

  “Earth to Les.” Im nudged me.

  “Ow. Stop.”

  Clench. Twinge.

  Gloria’s mobile rang. “Hi, Mom.” I watched her shake her head, unable to sneak a word in.

  She grinned. Passed the phone to me. “Your turn.”

  “Lesley, it’s Caroline.” Breathy, mellifluous voice. “I’m so looking forward to seeing you again. And so sorry it’s under these circumstances, poor dear girl. But don’t worry. About anything, all right? I’ll be there extra early to meet you. Rush hour will be terrible on the Beltway, so I’m thinking we can stop to eat on the way home—you’ll be famished, no doubt. Which reminds me, is there anything in particular you’d like me to stock up on? Anything making your stomach turn that I should avoid? I asked Gloria, but all she said was ‘For fuck’s sake, Mom, all she needs is a safe haven.’ ” She chuckled. “True to form, no?”

  I wanted to laugh in agreement but couldn’t. My body too taut. “Yeah.”

  “Listen, honey, I know this is awkward. And I’m sure I’m going overboard here since I never got to experience it with Curran—awful ten-year silence, horrible, but my own idiotic fault, so I can’t exactly . . .”

  Blah well-intentioned blah endearing blah. Slow turn round the corner to the next segment of the queue. I put my hand on the divider. Drew in a sharp breath.

  Clench. Twinge. Clench.

  “You can tell her to shut up, Lesley,” Gloria said. “Really.”

  Her mum laughed again. “She’s right. And I will.”

  “N-no,” I managed to gasp in what I hoped sounded like shy appreciation. “It’s . . . you’re . . . brilliant. Thank you. So much.”

  “Something’s wrong,” I heard Imogen whisper to Gloria. “Look at her.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, soon as I hung up. “My back’s just killing me.”

  “Want to sit down for a little while?” Gloria asked.

  “Go on,” Im said. “I’ll hold your place.”

  On the slow shuffle towards the waiting area, I felt my eyes screw shut: first in anticipation, then in actual pain.

  You’ve been on your feet. Carrying a heavy rucksack. Not drinking enough water. Drinking too much coffee.

  That’s all. That’s all. That’s all.

  I lowered myself into the rigid metal hold of a too-narrow seat. Tried to imagine myself stuck in a similar one for eight-plus hours, hunkered down on the moist bunch of my wadded-up coat, white-knuckling it all the way to Baltimore: What if they what if she what if I what if we—

  What if nothing, Leslyochka. Stick a proper pad in your knickers, and lumber down that Jetway.

  Gloria put her hand on my back. “Where does it hurt, honey?”

  “Everywhere.” I leaned forward into crash-landing position.

  Clench. Clench. Clench.

  She rubbed my shoulder blades, then down my spine. Stopped just above my hip bones, whe
re it twinged the most. “Your water broke in the bathroom, didn’t it?”

  I let out a twisty-mouthed whimper. Looked up to see her pull her mobile from her coat pocket.

  “Don’t ring anyone,” I said hoarsely. “Please.”

  She nodded. We stared down at her open palm, in which the phone lay cradled, its home screen lit with nothing but the time: 10:45.

  “Tell me,” she said, equally hoarsely. “When the next one—”

  Clench clench clench clench.

  Now, I mouthed.

  Screw-shut. Crash-land. Blown-out whew.

  When it stopped, she reached over and stroked my head with her free hand. “Still all in your back?”

  “Front,” I huffed.

  “Getting worse?”

  I sat up. Pushed my hair out of my eyes. “Uh-huh.”

  After I breathed through that contraction, I glanced over at her. “Seven minutes apart,” she said.

  “I can still get on the plane,” I whispered. “Miraculous Pregnancy says it’s not active labor. Not until the pains are less than five—”

  Clenchclenchclenchclench.

  Now.

  Hang on. Head-duck. Breathe. “How many?”

  She bit her lip. “Six.”

  We’re okay. We’re okay. I’m still talking through them. There’s a margin. Wiggle room through the cabin doors. I can have her on an emergency landing in fucking Greenland. Little Inuit Squidlet. Whatever it takes.

  “I’m getting back in the queue,” I said, grabbing my chair’s leather-padded armrests for leverage.

  “Lesley, maybe you should—”

  “What?” I flapped a hand towards the ticket counters. “Look at Immi, how far up she is.” I hefted up with a grunt. “Come on, hand me my bag.”

  She hesitated. Sucked her lips between her teeth so hard her mouth was one thin robot line.

  “Fine, don’t.” I lurched forward to heave my suitcase from the floor just as a brutal cramp shoved me onto my knees.

  “Ohh.” Gut-punched dribble of a moan. I turned round in a slow circle and rested my head on the warm slant of the now-empty seat in front of me.