Set Me Free (2 page)

“He
must
be there!” Anna snapped.

When she's angry, my sister sounds like my mum; the hint of an Italian accent comes out and she starts gesturing wildly. The women in my family are very hot-tempered – I seemed to have skipped the temper gene, being quite easy-going most of the time. But when I get angry, I get
really
angry.

“When I see him I'll give him a piece of mind, I can tell you.”

“Please don't. Honestly. Things are complicated enough at the moment.”

“Someone has to give him a reality check, Margherita! He can't possibly think that his behaviour is normal! Or justifiable! How long have you been married? Ten years now? This is how he treats his wife of ten years, pregnant with her first baby? The guy needs to take a long, hard look at himself!”

Ash had clearly gone down in my sister's estimation. He didn't even have a name now. He was
the guy
. Short for
the guy who is rejecting his own baby
.

“I know. But please don't go in all guns blazing now. Don't go in at all, actually. I'll deal with it myself.”

“How?”

“I don't know.”

“I don't recognise you, Margherita. Why aren't you reading him the riot act? What's all this . . . submissiveness?”

“It's not submissiveness. You don't understand.”

“What do you mean? I don't understand what?”

“I want him to decide for himself, Anna!” I snapped. “I need him to see for himself that he should come to the scan. Not because I shout at him, or you do, or because it's the decent thing to do. I need him to
want
to be there.”

Anna sighed. “I see what you mean.” A pause. “But he still needs a kick up his backside.”

“I know.” I looked out to the rain soaking my sister's garden, bouncing on Marco's slide and drenching abandoned toys.

It was all so different from the way I'd imagined my first pregnancy would be. In my mind, I'd have had two perfect children before I was thirty and Ash would adore them both. We'd have the ideal family. Back then, twenty-five and newly married, I was still to learn that you didn't order a family from a catalogue, picture-perfect and ready-made. The reality was something else entirely.

My reality has been years of infertility, a million tests, a difficult journey to become adoptive parents. And then Lara arrived, and that was when, all of a sudden, reality was better than my dream, better than any ad-worthy family and perfect babies. Because after the years I'd spent trying to create a child that would not materialise, we'd found Lara, and Lara had found us. A child who needed a family and a family who needed a child. She came to us like a blessing. How could I ever wish for anything to be different? We'd chosen each other, and having Lara was, with all its difficulties and challenges, perfect.

I would have loved to adopt again, but Ash didn't want any more children. He simply said he was happy with his little family, that he didn't need anything else. And I went along with it without regrets or recriminations, because Lara filled me up. There would be no more trying to get pregnant, and no more long and convoluted adoption journeys. Just us: Lara, Ash and me.

And then, the two pink lines. Followed by another six tests, each with two perfect lines shining nearly fuchsia in their little windows.

My sister squeezed my hand. “Listen. If Ash doesn't come to the scan, I'll be there. You know that, don't you?”

I forced a smile. “Yes. Thank you.”

“I don't know how long I can keep my mouth shut, though.”

“That makes two of us.”

Ash had to cancel some all-important meeting, but he came.

I was strangely calm as they spread a blob of slimy jelly on me and put the cold hand of the ultrasound arm on my stomach. And there it was, tiny and alien-like, with a huge head and minuscule arms and legs. A little fish swimming inside me. A human being growing inside me.

It was hard to believe, and still it was true.

I couldn't speak. I just stared at the screen and I couldn't stop smiling. I had to stop myself from reaching out and laying my fingers on the screen, in a strange impulse to feel those little hands. I turned towards Ash, and what I saw astonished me. He was smiling too. He was entranced, gazing at the screen.

He had sort of . . . thawed. I couldn't believe it as he began bantering with the sonographer, asking for three copies of the scan, to give his parents and my mum. He kept smiling as we walked out, clutching our baby's very first photograph.

“So. What do you think? Boy or girl?” he asked, squeezing my hand.

“I don't know. I don't even have a hunch. Really, I have no idea.”

“I think it's another girl. A sister for Lara.”

“Maybe. Who knows.”

“Are you okay?” he asked as we were about to get into the car.

I slipped into the passenger's seat. “I think so.”

Was I okay? I felt a bit wobbly. All of a sudden, before I realised what was happening, I burst into tears.

“Margherita, what's wrong?” Ash said, taking hold of my hand again.

“It's the hormones, I'm a bit emotional.” Which was true. Honestly, pregnancy books could not warn you enough about how weepy you could get. I was moved to tears by just about everything.

But what was making me cry then wasn't the turbulent hormones, it was
relief
. Relief and joy, because for the first time my husband had shown something that wasn't regret and annoyance towards our baby. And he knew that. He knew why I was in tears.

“Margherita . . .” he began.

For a moment, I was afraid. Was he going to say something terrible again? Had I misunderstood his joy at seeing the baby on the scan? I held my breath.

“I just wanted to say . . . I'm sorry. For the way I reacted when you told me about this baby. To see her on the screen . . .”
Her?
I thought. What if it was a he? “I don't know. It just felt . . . right. I've been an idiot. I'm sorry.”

For a while Ash was more attentive, and miraculously less busy, which was a first since I'd known him. He was home more, and he began to actually talk about the baby, to acknowledge its presence. We discussed little things, like what colour we'd paint the nursery, or if we should buy a cot or a Moses basket, what would be more comfortable for her. I noticed that he was always calling the baby
she
, and although there was a little pinprick of fear there – would he be disappointed if it was a boy? – I thought it was sweet. I didn't mind the gender and, unlike Ash, I didn't even have hunches. I just wanted the baby to be here, healthy and happy.

By the end of the third month, the sickness hadn't gone away at all and I was constantly exhausted. It was wonderful to be able to lean on Ash and not experience it by myself. I think it was the first time since we got together that I had been so dependent on him – me, usually so self-sufficient. Too independent at times, I suppose.

Meanwhile, Lara was going through a difficult time. Being eleven is hard enough – on the brink of a new era, and a tumultuous one – but with Lara's background, it was even harder. As my bump grew, she grew quiet, anxious. She followed me around everywhere like a puppy scared of being abandoned. On top of all her fears and worries, now she was afraid I'd love this baby more because it was ‘mine'. She never said as much, but I knew. I could feel it in the words unspoken between us, in the way she looked at me when she thought I couldn't see her. That could never happen, of course – I would love the new baby just as much as I did her, but to love anyone more than I loved my Lara? That was impossible.

When she came into our world, Lara was withdrawn, full of grief for her earlier experiences. But she was brimming with strength and courage as well, a little fighter and a lover of life. I fell under her spell, this little creature who had changed many homes already, who was desperately looking for something to hang on to, something safe that would not change and sift through her fingers. I, for my part, was looking for someone to shower with all the love I had inside me and had nowhere to go.

Her real name was Laura, like my baby sister, but she asked to be called Lara, and she was so convinced, so forceful about it – as if she were renaming herself – that we went with it. Our social worker, Kirsty, wasn't keen on the name change and I could see why: so much of our sense of self is woven into the name we are given at birth.

“Unless there are safety issues, we prefer it if the adopted parents don't change the child's name. It can cause further trauma and loss of identity,” she said. Kirsty had been a real ally in our quest for a child, at our side every step of the way, even if her workload was impossible and her job highly stressful. She'd trusted us all along, and we trusted her.

“I can imagine,” I explained. “I would hate to have my name changed like that, all of a sudden. But it came from her; we didn't have a say in it. She didn't ask us to call her Lara. She
told
us to.”

When she was interviewed by Kirsty, Lara made her point. “I am Lara Ward,” she said, tapping a little foot on the floor in the perpetual motion of a six-year-old child.

“Is that a nickname you like, Lara?”

“It's not a nickname. It's my name. And this is my mum and dad. Their names are Margherita and Ashley Ward. And my gran makes cakes. She is from Italy, where there's a lot of sun. I'm going to learn to make cakes and open a shop and call it Lara's Bakery and Sweets.” I was so touched; my mum and dad had a bakery in Hertfordshire called Scotti's (my family name) Bakery and Sweets. Lara had given herself a history; she had rewritten herself as part of our family already.

The next day Ash ordered a little wooden kitchen from a catalogue, and he painted Lara's Bakery and Sweets on it in big blue clumsy letters. Lara loved it and played with it for hours. He'd do little things like this, in the past. Not any more.

Reassuring Lara and nurturing her during my pregnancy took a lot of work, a lot of energy, a lot of time. I wanted to speak to her openly about her fears, but I didn't know how to broach the subject. Words seemed so clumsy in the delicate universe that was Lara, and words could be comets, bringers of doom.

I decided that there was no need to put her worries – and my reassurances – into words. I decided that the only way was to show her how strong my love for her was and always would be, and how she was my daughter through and through, whether I'd carried her or not.

Just before my four-month scan I took her for a day out, just the two of us. We went shopping, and then to the Tate gallery, a place she'd been enchanted with since the first time we'd taken her there. We stopped in front of one of her favourite paintings,
Mother and Child
by Sir William Rothenstein. She always stopped in front of it, contemplating the domestic scene full of quiet happiness. It portrays a mother sitting by a sunny window and holding her small son up in the air, a smile of contentment on both their faces. In the background there is a stone fireplace, a hearth – a safe, warm place that mother and child call home. The scene speaks of quiet domesticity and love.

“That's you and the baby,” Lara said thoughtfully, without looking at me.

A heartbeat.

“That's me and you,” I said.

“I didn't know you when I was that small.” She was matter-of-fact about it, like it was an undeniable, if painful, reality.

My mind wrestled for a moment with the best words I could use to reassure her. I felt that it was a pivotal moment, one where the words said would be remembered and stored away. The truth came out in all its simplicity.

“But I've known you all my life. You were always in my dreams.”

She slipped her hand in mine and stepped a little closer to me.

Margherita

At the four-month scan we found out I was carrying a boy. I was overjoyed, not because it was a boy as such – I would have loved a girl too – but because now I
knew
him. I felt like finally this little dream I was carrying inside me was real, a small human being in the making. We chose his name: Leo, after my father. I was in love already.

But for some reason only he knew, Ash started drifting away from us again. The babymoon was over. It happened slowly, over a few weeks. More meetings, more trips away, silence creeping between us like ivy up a wall. I had no energy to challenge him, to question him. I needed him as my belly grew bigger and I stepped into uncharted land – but he just wasn't there any more. The last five months were so hard, but something in me was resolute and focused. This baby was all that mattered, and my little Lara. I would be strong for them, no matter what.

“I don't know what's happening to him. I don't know why he's changed,” I said to Anna. We were sitting at her kitchen table, Marco playing at our feet. “He seemed to have accepted it, he even seemed happy about it . . . oh, who is that? Is it for me?” Marco was handing me his toy phone.

“Yes! For Ziarita!” That was his nickname for me.
Zia
meant ‘auntie' in Italian, so
Zia
Margherita had become Ziarita, which never failed to make me melt inside. He was the only person in the world allowed to shorten my name.

“Hello? Is that Marco?”

“It sure is!” He threw his little chubby hands up in the air. Marco and Pietro had a hint of an American accent because their dad was from Colorado.

“Maybe it's just a phase,” Anna offered.

“Maybe.”

I agonised over Ash's change, but I couldn't bring myself to ask him what was wrong. I was too frightened to hear that what was really wrong for him was that he'd gone back to square one, and once again he didn't want this baby.

“Maybe he's nervous, that's all,” she said unconvincingly. I could see she didn't believe what she was saying. “Marco, sit beside Ziarita, not
on
her. There, good boy. No room to sit on her lap any more. Paul was terrified when Pietro came along. You know, about becoming a father. But he was always there for us.”

“Paul is a good man.”

“And Ash isn't?” she said, and looked up to study my face.

Anna and I were very close – we had been all our lives – and I knew very well she had never been sure about Ash. She often said we were like two different species. I'd always known that, always, but it never worried me before. I was too in love to even suspect it could one day be an issue. His reaction to my pregnancy had completely thrown me – but I seemed to be the only one who was surprised. Anna certainly wasn't.

“Of course he is. You know that. It's just that he's never been like this.”

“He wasn't that keen on adopting Lara, I seem to remember.”

I felt my stomach churning. I didn't want to remember that. I'd wanted to forget how he'd resisted the process, how often I'd suspected he was only going along with it because of me. I'd been too hungry for motherhood to acknowledge it, to even admit it to myself. That stung. And it stung even more because it was true.

“I remember you telling me many times that he wasn't convinced about the adoption at all,” she continued. “You seem to have removed this from your memory. Like you've pressed the delete button on it. Look, I'm sorry . . .” she said, seeing my face crumple. “I don't want to upset you.”

“Ziarita? Look!” Marco had wiggled down from his little seat and was handing me a Spiderman costume.

“Oh, that's a fancy costume! Shall we put it on?” I busied myself slipping it on him, trying to hide my disquiet.

Anna was right. Ash had dragged his feet about adopting, although I didn't like remembering that. He eventually came round and embraced the idea, but right at the beginning he'd had his doubts.

“Better head back,” I said, fighting back tears, and I rose to go.

Anna looked hurt. “Look, I'm sorry. Come on, stay for a little longer. Another slice of cake?” She gestured to the chocolate delight on the table.

With the amount of cake I was eating every day – it was the only thing that settled my stomach – I feared I wouldn't be able to move by the time I got to the end. I hadn't been very slim before either. Thankfully my sister dragged me on interminable walks – she walked, I waddled – to keep me trim. Although
trim
was the last thing you would have said about me right now. My bump sat comfortably on my small frame, making me look like a little Russian doll. My hair was shiny and thick and my skin was glowing, though: overall, pregnancy seemed to be kind on my looks.

“Come on, you're eating for two,” Anna insisted.

“For five, more like.” I sank my spoon back into chocolate heaven with only a hint of guilt.

Finally, the time had come. Come and gone. I was ten days late, fit to burst and completely fed up.

One night in April Lara and I were reading
The Hobbit
together, cosying up on the armchair in her room – I took up all the space, and she had to perch on the armrest – when I felt like a huge hand was squeezing my insides. A thin film of sweat settled on my forehead, and I knew.

Ash was in Liverpool on business, so I called Anna at once. She arrived in ten minutes flat, which was quite remarkable because her house was twenty minutes away by car. I'd rather not think
how
she managed that with her tiny Mini Cooper. We left Lara with my next-door neighbour, a kindly woman who had worked as a childminder and had a house full of children day in and day out, and off we went.

After hours of howling, kneeling on the floor and leaning on the hospital bed while contractions came thick and fast – I had long said goodbye to any remains of my dignity – Ash arrived. At last. He was white-faced and still in a suit and tie, more than a bit frayed around the edges. He went from white to green as I screamed and grunted and did all the unbecoming things that women do when they squeeze a human being out of their bellies. I cried a lot, mainly because it was all so painful and I'd never felt such agony before, but also because I was so completely overwhelmed by it all. It was just too . . .
enormous
an experience. My body was an alien thing, contracting and expanding and turning itself inside out. My birth plan had gone straight out of the window and I begged the midwife for an epidural – she smiled cheerfully and said it was too late. At that moment, I hated her with all my might. I briefly contemplated shaking her until she had no choice but to call the anaesthetist, but I couldn't sit up straight so I abandoned the idea. I cried some more, I screamed some more, I cursed some more, and someone, somewhere, said the head was out, and then the whole baby was. His cries filled the room, and it was finished.

I had done it.

They weighed him and wrapped him in a little blanket, and then they gave him to me. I cried some more – from happiness. He was perfect. He was Leo, with his little face and a mop of fine blond hair, and his little chubby fists and his scent – how I had dreamed of breathing in the scent of a baby of mine, a baby I had brought into this world! He was screaming, and he would not settle. I couldn't blame him: the birth, and the bright lights, and being whisked away to be weighed, and people talking all around – it had been quite a lot for him. His screams were surprisingly loud, somewhere between a kitten meowing and a siren. When he was in my arms, I held him in a haze of happiness, whispering soothing words, smiling like I would never stop smiling ever again.

“So what's his name?” the midwife asked.

“Leo,” I said, and my father's name enfolded him like a blessing.

It seemed impossible that Ash would not fall for Leo too, and I turned to him in trust, and love, and gratefulness for having given me the gift of a son. I was expecting the same rapture painted all over his face.

I couldn't believe my eyes. Instead of shining with happiness, he was frowning as poor Leo cried. And then, as his eyes met mine briefly, he decided to put on his martyr face. His expression said it all:
I never wanted this child, but I'll do well by him, as it is my duty.

At that moment, as I held Leo and slowly, slowly soothed him with my presence, my scent, my whispered words, I felt a part of my love for Ash leave me, painfully, inevitably. Like losing blood, I was losing love, pouring out of my heart and dissolving in the air between us. We sat in silence. All of a sudden, my husband seemed a stranger to me, and I wished he'd go and leave me alone with my son.

One night, not long after we'd come home from hospital, Lara came to sit beside me as I nursed Leo. She touched his head with infinite gentleness. Around him, Lara was like this little instinctive animal, geared to protect and nurture. After all my fears about how she'd take his birth, I was immensely relieved.

“I can't remember who I lived with when I was a baby,” she whispered.

“You lived with several foster families, my love, until you went to Uncle Peter and Aunt Beth, who loved you very much.” Peter and Beth were an older couple who had fostered Lara for two years after it was decided she couldn't go back to her father and that an adoptive family was needed. The social workers had done everything they could not to separate her and her dad, after Lara's mother's traumatic death when she was two. During those two years with Peter and Beth they looked for a suitable family until they found us. An older child with a difficult history can be hard to place, as opposed to babies and toddlers, who usually find a family relatively quickly.

“Yes, but I don't know who looked after me when I was a baby.”

“Well, it was your mother for a while. And then other kind people . . . Do you want me to ask Kirsty for their names? Would that help?”

She shrugged. “No point.”

I was flooded with regret, the pointless, useless regret that it hadn't been me looking after her since the beginning. Because it felt that way, it felt like she'd been with us forever, that she was mine. Although she'd only been with us five years, it felt like that there could never have been a time in which we simply didn't know each other.

“They certainly did a good job, your foster parents. Look how lovely you are, how clever and smart and pretty.”

Leo had stopped suckling and had fallen asleep at my breast. Lara rested a hand on his sleeping form, bundled up in blankets. “I'm happy Leo is here,” she whispered.

“Yes. Lara and Leo. They sound good together, don't they?”

“Yes,” she said with a little smile, but I could see the ever-present spark of sadness in her eyes.