Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

‘A money spider,’ I said, opening my fist to show you. ‘That’s supposed to be lucky, isn’t it?’

You were no better the following day, and I insisted you stay in bed. I brought you dry crackers to ease your churning stomach, and read to you until you told me your head was aching. I wanted to call the doctor, but you promised me you would go as soon as the surgery opened on Monday. I stroked your hair and watched your eyelids flicker in your sleep, and I wondered what you were dreaming of.

I left you in bed on Monday morning, with a note by your pillow reminding you to see the doctor. I called from work, but there was no answer, and although I rang every half-hour from that point, you didn’t answer the house phone and your mobile was turned off. I became frantic with worry, and by lunchtime I decided I would go home to check you were okay.

Your car was outside the house, and when I put my key in the door I realised it was still on the latch. You were sitting on the sofa with your head in your hands.

‘Are you okay? I’ve been going out of my mind!’

You looked up but didn’t say anything.

‘Jennifer! I’ve been calling you all morning – why didn’t you pick up?’

‘I popped out,’ you said, ‘and then…’ You tailed off without any explanation.

Anger bubbled inside me. ‘Did it not occur to you how worried I would be?’ I grabbed the front of your jumper and hauled you to your feet. You screamed, and the noise stopped me thinking straight. I pushed you backwards across the room and held you against the wall, my fingers pressing against your throat. I felt your pulse beat fast and hard against my own.

‘Please don’t!’ you cried.

Slowly, gently, I pressed my fingers into your neck, watching my hand squeeze tighter as though it belonged to someone else. You made a choking noise.

‘I’m pregnant.’

I let go of you. ‘You can’t be.’

‘I am.’

‘But you’re on the pill.’

You began to cry, and you sank down to the floor and wrapped your arms around your knees. I stood over you, trying to make sense of what I’d heard. You were pregnant.

‘It must have been that time I was sick,’ you said.

I crouched down and put my arms around you. I thought of my father; how cold and unapproachable he had been all my life, and I vowed never to be like that with my own child. I hoped it would be a boy. He would look up to me – want to be like me. I couldn’t stop the smile forming on my face.

You unwrapped your arms and looked at me. You were shaking, and I stroked your cheek. ‘We’re going to have a baby!’

Your eyes were still shiny, but slowly the tension left your face. ‘You’re not angry?’

‘Why would I be angry?’

I felt euphoric. This would change everything. I imagined you full and taut with child, dependent on me to keep you healthy, grateful when I rubbed your feet or brought you tea. When the baby was born you would stop work, and I would provide for you both. I saw our future play out in my mind. ‘It’s a miracle baby,’ I told you. I gripped your shoulders and you tensed. ‘I know things haven’t been perfect between us lately,’ I said, ‘but it will all be different now. I’m going to look after you.’ You looked straight into my eyes and I felt a wave of guilt engulf me. ‘Everything will be all right now,’ I said. ‘I love you so much, Jennifer.’

Fresh tears burst over your lower lids. ‘I love you too.’

I wanted to say sorry – sorry for everything that I had done to you, for every time I had ever hurt you – but the unformed words stuck in my throat. ‘Don’t ever tell anyone,’ I said instead.

‘Tell them what?’

‘About our arguments. Promise me you’ll never tell anyone.’ I could feel your flesh pushing up between my fingers as I held your shoulders, and your eyes grew wide and scared.

‘Never,’ you said, the sound little more than a breath. ‘I’ll never tell a soul.’

I smiled. ‘Now stop crying – you mustn’t stress the baby.’ I stood up and held out a hand to help you to your feet. ‘Do you feel sick?’

You nodded.

‘Lie on the sofa. I’ll get you a blanket.’ You protested but I guided you to the sofa and helped you lie down. You were carrying my son, and I intended to look after you both.

You worried about the first scan. ‘What if there’s something wrong?’

‘Why would there be anything wrong?’ I said.

I took the day off work and drove you to the hospital.

‘It can already close its fingers. Isn’t that amazing?’ you said, reading from one of your many baby books. You had become obsessed with the pregnancy, buying endless magazines and trawling the internet for advice on labour and breastfeeding. No matter what I said, the conversation would inevitably turn to baby names or lists of equipment we should be buying.

‘Amazing,’ I said. I had heard it all before. The pregnancy wasn’t working out the way I had expected. You seemed hell-bent on continuing work in the same way as before, and although you accepted my offers of tea and foot massages, you didn’t seem grateful for them. You paid more attention to our unborn child – a child who as yet had no idea he was even being spoken about – than to your own husband, standing right in front of you. I imagined you leaning over our newborn, oblivious to my own part in his creation, and I had a sudden memory of the way you played with that kitten for hours at a time.

You clutched my hand when the sonographer smeared gel on to your belly, and squeezed it tight until we heard the muffled sound of a heartbeat and saw a tiny flicker on the screen.

‘There’s the head,’ the sonographer said, ‘and you should be able to make out his arms – look, he’s waving to you!’

You laughed.

‘He?’ I said, hopefully.

The sonographer looked up. ‘Figure of speech. We won’t be able to tell the sex for a good while yet. But everything looks healthy and it’s the right size for your dates.’ She printed off a picture and handed it to you. ‘Congratulations.’

The midwife appointment was half an hour afterwards, and we sat in the waiting room with half a dozen other couples. There was a woman on the other side of the room with a grotesquely big stomach that forced her to sit with her legs wide open. I looked away, and was relieved when we were called in.

The midwife took your blue folder from you and looked through your notes, checking your details and producing fact sheets on diet and pregnancy health.

‘She’s already an expert,’ I said. ‘She’s read so many books there can’t be anything she doesn’t know.’

The midwife looked at me appraisingly. ‘And how about you, Mr Petersen? Are you an expert?’

‘I don’t need to be,’ I said, meeting her gaze and holding it. ‘I’m not the one having the baby.’

She didn’t reply. ‘I’ll just check your blood pressure, Jenna. Roll up your sleeve and rest your arm on the desk for me.’

You hesitated and it took me a second to understand why. My jaw clenched but I leaned back in my chair, watching the proceedings with forced indifference.

The bruise on your upper arm was mottled green. It had faded significantly over the last few days, but it was stubborn, as they always were. Although I knew it was impossible, I sometimes felt that you deliberately hung on to them, to remind me what had happened; to provoke me into feeling guilty.

The midwife said nothing, and I relaxed slightly. She took your blood pressure, which was a little high, and noted down the figures. Then she turned to me.

‘If you’d like to step into the waiting room, I’ll just have a quick chat with Jenna on her own.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ I said. ‘We don’t keep anything from each other.’