40 Things I Want to Tell You (11 page)

I wanted to make things better for Gina so badly. God, parents were always making life more complicated than it was already. At least by answering Gina, I could forget the nightmare that was my own life. Sort of.

MY GUTS WERE TWISTED UP WITH EITHER MORNING SICKNESS OR
anxiety, it was hard to tell, and I hadn’t spoken through the bus ride or during the walk past rows of terraced houses to get to the main doors of the hospital. I looked at Cleo and her face was set in a grim smile.

She said, “You okay?”

I thought about the weekend waiting for this scan. I’d been paralyzed. I thought about Griffin. He and I had watched a movie together the night before, me unable to tell him—everything the same, everything changed.

As we walked into the hospital, I said to Cleo, “I just want this over with.” The only thing I could be glad of was that the February break had started Friday and would run until Wednesday, so we didn’t have school. It meant that I hadn’t had to face anyone, and that Cleo could be with me for this appointment.

The corridor at Mayday Hospital in Croydon was the longest I’d ever seen. Cleo and I walked down it together, her arm linked through mine. I could smell her expensive face cream and perfume over and above the sterile stench of bleach that permeated the grey walls. We had to get to an area called the Yellow Zone. Hurrying by a room full of old people looking sad, I saw that Maternity was just ahead. I averted my eyes to avoid seeing women cuddling babies or proud dads kissing newborns. God.

She said, “I still think you should have told your mum. Or Griffin.”

“Cleo, don’t,” I croaked, then my voice gave out. We arrived at the Yellow Zone. Suddenly the long corridor seemed too short.

I pushed open the heavy door and we followed signs to the reception. Women round with pregnancy huddled close to their husbands, smiling, the two of them looking at baby magazines. A warm blush crept onto my cheeks. I was so totally embarrassed. I felt young, and really stupid. At the reception an overweight nurse with a huge smile greeted me.

“Amy Finch,” I whispered to her.

“Do you have your chart?” she asked.

I pulled out the stuff the doctor had given me the week before and handed it to her. She read it through and indicated I should sit down. Cleo ushered me over to a chair by the window and I gazed out at an empty cement parking area. Nausea rose through my entire body. My boobs hurt and they pushed against my bra, squeezed in. My belly was bloated, my mouth dry and I needed to pee, so I got up to go to the bathroom, but a woman with grey hair and wearing a white coat came out of a room to call my name.

I grabbed Cleo’s hand. “You’re coming with me.”

She gripped my fingers. “It’ll be okay, Bird.”

We followed the grey-haired woman into a small, dark room. I said, “Is it okay if my friend’s here?”

She said, “Is anyone else with you?”

I
knew
she was wondering where the father of the baby was, and was judging me and weighing up my age. I cast my eyes down.

“Lie here and pull up your top. No need to take off your jeans. I’m going to put a gel on here, a cold gel.”

“I’m going to have an … abortion,” I said, struggling suddenly with the word.

“We just have to see how far along you are. Are you comfortable?”

“I don’t want a baby. I haven’t even finished school.”

“Just try to relax. Is that too cold?”

I studied the white ceiling. “I don’t want to see the baby. I just want all of this to be over.”

“That’s fine. I’m just having a look now.”

Cleo, who was sitting to my right, gasped. The “Oh!” was loud in the small room. She said, “Wow, look! No, don’t look. Oh—”

I didn’t mean to, but it was too late. My eyes lifted and I saw the screen, and there before me was a wriggly
baby
with a big head and little kicking legs.

The frizzy-haired woman said softly, “That’s the heartbeat.”

Cleo pointed. “The flashing bit? I had no idea. Wow.”

“I thought,” I said, “it would look like a bean.”

“Baby did a few weeks ago, but you’re twelve weeks, five days along. These are the hands, can you see?” She pointed.

I gazed at the kicking green shape as the technician slid the scanner over my skin. I said, “It’s moving so much.”

“That’s good. There’s your placenta. And there’s the umbilical cord. The fetus looks fine to me. A good heartbeat. I’ll measure the nuchal fold and take another couple of measurements and then we’re done.”

I wanted to lie there forever. There was a pull through my heart that I’d never felt before, a really weird feeling. “Oh, Cleo,” I murmured. “What am I going to do?”

She turned to me with her big chocolate eyes. Her lips moved but she didn’t say anything.

I looked again at the image of the kicking baby. The technician pulled the scanner away, and with a blink the baby was gone.

I WAS IN A HAZE AND SO I FOLLOWED CLEO TO THE ROOM I’D BEEN
told to go to and listened while the doctor explained I’d have the abortion two days later. He gave me details of the type of procedure—and options for counselling, which I refused.

Cleo nudged me. “It might be a good idea,” she whispered.

I realized she was holding my hand.

The doctor gave me the number to call if I changed my mind.

“I just want to go home,” I said.

We left the doctor’s office and somehow I got home and to my room. Cleo wanted to come in, but I told her I needed some time alone.

I pushed the door shut and collapsed on the bed, my head hurting and my eyes moist. I slept fitfully for hours.

THE MORNING AFTER THE SCAN, I LAY IN BED TRYING TO FIGURE OUT
what I was supposed to do about Griffin. An awful thought sneaked into my head: after the abortion, I could perhaps get away with never telling him about the baby, carry on like nothing had happened. But I couldn’t do that. It would be so
wrong.
With shaking hands, I called Griffin to let him know I was coming over. His phone was off. I dressed quickly and walked up the path to his house with my insides as tight as a
blown-up balloon. I tried not to puke as I knocked. When no one answered, I pushed open the door. They always left it open, as if they still lived in some tiny town in the States rather than London, and they’d never been burgled—amazing.

Griffin’s mum stood in the corridor, the features of her face all blurred. I guess
blurred
was the word. Or smeared, as if she was confused.

“Bird?” she said.

“Are you, um, okay?” I asked. The world felt full of grown-up problems, bursting at the seams with things I didn’t want to deal with.

She frowned and fumbled with the pockets of her dressing gown. “Bird, Bird, the sun fell into the lining and I can’t get it out.”

“Is Griffin here?”

“I put it in my pocket for safekeeping, but it slipped like water and was gone.”

“Um, uh, maybe it’s in the living room. Why don’t we, uh, go and sit down in there?”

“Oh, no,” she said, her speech suddenly clear, “I know where it is.” She hurried down the carpeted corridor into the kitchen and I heard her cry out with delight. “I can see it in the stove.”

I followed her. She was crouched on the floor, switching the oven light on and off, crowing with pleasure. “See, darling, there it is.”

“Why don’t we, um, get you upstairs and away from the oven? Come on with me, that’s right.” I helped her up. She was frail and light. She let me lead her like she was a toddler and I
an adult. We climbed the stairs. The smell of lavender wafted from the bathroom.

“It smells so good,” she cried. “Like childhood.” She stopped and her face transformed into her normal features. She said, “What’s happening to me? It’s all so strange. I don’t know how everything became so— I just don’t feel like myself right now.” She admired both her hands. “I don’t want this,” she said. She raised her gaze to me and I could see from her glazed eyes that her moment of lucidity was gone.

“Come on, follow me.” I took her to her room.

“
There
it is,” she cried. “
Outside.
”

The sun hung low in the sky, rising over London.

Sitting on the bed, she started humming, gazing enraptured out the window.

God. Poor Griffin. I kissed her on the cheek, feeling her papery skin, and she curled up on the bed. “I’m so tired, little Birdy. Fly with me,” she murmured.

I sat with her for a long time, waiting for her to fall asleep, then tiptoed out and went down the corridor to G’s room. His door creaked, but the noise didn’t distract him. He was sitting at his computer, headphones on, frowning just like his mum had been, his tongue poking out from between his lips. He wore his favourite khaki-green T-shirt and jeans. His feet were bare. He must have sensed movement, because he turned to me, his whole face lighting up.

“Bird,” he cried.

“You’re up early,” I said. “I wasn’t sure you’d even be awake yet.”

“I’m just watching some guys fighting in Tokyo on the Internet. It’s dumb.”

I said, “Your mum seemed pretty out of it.”

He froze. “Was she okay?”

“It’s okay, G. You should let me help. Have you thought about, you know, other help?”

He stayed silent.

“You’re taking on too much here.”

He said, “No one else knows, Bird. And you have to trust me—most of the time she’s fine. She just has these periods when … She’s going to get better, I just know it.”

“It seems like the last few times I’ve been round, it’s worse. Have you taken her to the doctor? They’ll be able to help.”

“Bird, she’s all I’ve got.”

“Okay,” I said. “Forget I mentioned anything,” I added.

I sat gingerly on his bed. He came over and sat next to me. I had the sudden urge to cry, but I managed to stammer, “I’m s-sorry I’ve been so distant.” No matter what was going on with his mum, I
had
to do this.

“You’ve had a lot happening with your family.”

“That’s not it,” I said.

“No? What?” His handsome face filled with questions.

I didn’t know where to start. But I
had
to say something. It wasn’t fair on him—none of this was his fault. I pushed aside thoughts of his mum, swallowed hard and managed to say, “Griffin, I can’t, um, do this anymore.”

“Do what?”

“Oh God, I don’t know how to say this.”

His tone brimmed with concern. “What’s wrong? Is your dad okay?”

Trust him to be so thoughtful. I squeezed the bridge of my nose. With a burst of clarity, I saw exactly what to say.

“Nothing’s changed with my parents. It’s, um, us. I mean me. And you. Me and you. It’s like since we became a couple, we’re not friends anymore—we don’t, uh, talk.”

“Is this because of the sex thing? I’m being patient, right?”

“No,” I said, too sharply.

He was silent. Who knew silence was so loud?

“I mean, y-yes, you’re being patient, but that’s not it. I don’t know how I— God, if I’m honest, I don’t know how I … feel anymore. I’m sorry, Griffin. It’s, um, not you,” I said lamely into the thick heat of the room. When had it got so hot?

“I don’t understand,” he came out with eventually, and the words cut through me.

I remembered once, after his father died, Griffin came over to my house and we sat together in my garden, our legs buried in the long grass that my dad had failed to cut all summer. Griffin hadn’t said much about his father since the funeral, which had been the saddest day ever. He looked up at the sky that day as we sat together in my garden and his Adam’s apple bobbed. He said to the blue emptiness above, “I don’t understand.”

In the room, facing me now, he said it again. The same words. “I don’t …” he said. “I don’t understand.”

I was sick at myself.

He pleaded, “Don’t you love me? Look, I know you probably think I’m, I dunno, but I’m trying to be patient with you and not … I sound pathetic. I hate this. I hate what you’re saying right now.”

“Griffin, please.”

“You’re having a hard time with your parents but don’t ruin
what we’ve got here—it’s a good thing.” The words left him looking empty.