The Decision: Lizzie's Story (6 page)

“Is Sal with you?” Mum demanded, “I just went to her room and she’s not there. She didn’t tell me she was going out.”

Sal. Something niggled at me, though I wasn’t sure why. “She’s not with me.” I retorted, a fit of pique not far away.
Get off the phone!

“Lizzie, this is serious. I’m worried.” Mum said plaintively.

I sighed, but did my best to repress it. I had bigger things to worry about, but Mum didn’t know that. I grabbed my bag, pushed the door out to the marketplace.
The noise came in deafeningly as stallholders and customers jostled for attention and a bargain, making me raise my voice on the phone.

“I can’t see her in the marketplace,” I said, elbowing my way through the crowd and the stalls, though the noise swallowed up my voice and my mother’s reply. There was the butcher’s. The fishmonger’s. The old lady with a trestle table full of junk. Same old, same old. But… I stopped in front of another stall: an elderly man stood there in overalls, with pot plants and seedling trays for sale. The old man gave me a hopeful, gummy smile, but I wasn’t buying. For some reason, I could sense something had changed here, but I wasn’t sure what or how.

Must be my imagination.

“Lizzie?” Mum’s voice pierced the disorder at last. “Can you see her?”

“No.” I said at last, “Sorry, Mum.”

A fatal mistake. I never apologised to Mum “just like that” and never, ever over something that wasn’t even my fault, like this. It had always been a little power struggle between us. I had noticed, aged about eight, Mum was fallible. Yet whenever she made mistakes, she didn’t seem to feel the need to apologise. I had decided there and then I wouldn’t either. Over the years this had lead to epic disagreements between us, usually beginning with minor transgressions and becoming an avalanche of ill-feeling that could last anything between a few days and several months, much to my sisters’ chagrin. Nine times out of ten I would be the first back down too, leading me to create an ever-more increasing ball of resentment of things I could chuck back at Mum later.

“What’s the matter?” Mum said, suspiciously.

“Nothing.” I said quickly, cursing my moment of weakness. Mum had almost supernatural powers of deduction anyway, without giving her the green light something was wrong!

“Hmmmmmm,” Mum said in that way of hers that means,
“I don’t believe a word you say, Missy.”
On the other end of the line, I heard the front door slam. “Sal!” Mum was still saying at the end of the line, forgetting she was shouting down the phone right in my ear: “Where the hell have you been?”

Back at home, Sal muttered something belligerent and barely audible. Regardless, Mum wasn’t listening. “Well, stay here and watch the twins, will you?” She said to Sal, then her attention was back to me. “I’m coming to get you.”

“No, there’s no need.” I said panic-struck. “I’m just tired.”

“Don’t lie to me, Lizzie.” Mum declared.

There was no way of getting out of this one, I realised. And did I want to? As harsh as Mum’s reaction might be, I needed someone’s help – and she was my mother after all.

“Fine.” I said testily, still resenting her bulldozer ways. “I’ll come home on the bus right now.”

“You do that.” Mum said, ringing off.

A sense of dread pervaded my every move as I made for the bus. I felt as if I was walking through toffee, the girl condemned. As the vehicle rattled and rolled through the country lanes back to Linwood, I told Mum my news a million times in my head. What was best: “I’m pregnant” or “I’m having a baby”? Which was the least likely to antagonise her? I could see her in my mind’s eye her saying a thousand different words, but all of them accusatory.
Why were Mike and I not careful? How could we be so stupid! What were we going to do?

As the bus stopped briefly in Linwood by the old closed down pub, I groaned: Mum had sent Amanda to meet me. Dressed in her uniform of pink tracksuit, denim jacket and white high tops, Amanda’s make up was perfect, not a blonde hair out of place. My sister seemed to believe even in the middle of nowhere a model scout could spot her. Amanda sat in the broken bus shelter, smoking one of her not-so-secret cigarettes. I knew her jacket pockets would be full to bursting with packets of gum; she must have thought Mum was born yesterday. Like so many smokers, Mum despised her own habit and was always at pains to prevent us all from starting, even though she didn’t have the willpower to stop herself. And with Sal, Hannah and I, Mum’s endless lectures had worked. Even if we had been able to stand the smell (after nearly eighteen years of it, I certainly couldn’t), there was no way we were going to voluntarily sign up for more hassle than we needed to. Amanda was Amanda though; she just didn’t give a damn what anyone said, especially Mum. It was like she could tune her out. I wondered how she managed it.

“What’ve you done?” Amanda drawled, popping some gum in her mouth as I got off the bus.

“None of your business.” I retorted.

Amanda shrugged; she didn’t care. “Mum will tell me, anyway.” She said.

We walked in silence across the fields to our house and as our house at the bottom of the valley swam into view, I felt my heart plummet even further in my chest. Perhaps it had been a mistake not to allow my mother to come and fetch me? We could have gone a café or something. There, she would have been forced to listen, because there was one thing Mum hated more than anything else: a scene in public. Always, it was “Don’t cause a scene” or, “Don’t you dare, people are looking!” All of us had enacted a small revenge on Mum at some point in public as a result: eight year
old Amanda had sung an expletive-ridden rap song Christmas-carol style, in perfect soprano, whilst bored at a school play. A four year Sal had screamed, “She’s trying to kill me!” as Mum dragged her out of a toy shop. Even do-gooding Hannah had yelled as an under five, “Look Mummy, look! A really fat lady!” as a morbidly obese woman had attempted to board the bus we were all on once. Throughout all of these shenanigans I had seen my mother’s drawstring mouth become even tighter and her face age ten years in a single moment. I could have had a sensible, adult discussion with Mum on neutral ground with her as my captive audience. But home was Mum’s domain. Worse still, I had left her stewing there for forty minutes over what I could possibly be hiding? I was an idiot!

No music was playing as I walked through the front door. That was a bad sign. Mum told me once she only ever turned the radio off when she had “too many thoughts rolling around in her head”. She didn’t like daytime television, so instead there was silence. And cigarette smoke; lots of it. Mum usually made some attempt to smoke outside, hovering on the doorstep of the open back door to the patio, even first thing in the morning in the middle of winter. But not today. The back door was closed and a smoky fug enveloped the room, making my nostrils twitch. Mum was seated in what we girls called her “interrogation mode”: at the table, two packets of Marlboro Red and a lighter at her elbow, countless butts overflowing in the ashtray.

“Go to your room, Amanda.” Mum said, barely looking at her, her gaze fixed on me. Without a word, Amanda shrugged and complied, shooting me a “Good luck!” expression on her way past. No doubt Sal, Hannah and the twins were already in theirs, straining to hear the battle beyond through the cottage’s ultra-thick old walls. Mum pushed a chair out from under the table with her foot and indicated for me to take it. It was not an option to refuse.

“Sit down.” She said.

I could sense the fury in Mum just waiting to unleash itself and for a moment, I really hated her. Had I not been good enough over my near-eighteen years to be given the benefit of the doubt? Had I really been that difficult a daughter? Not for the first time, resentment reared its ugly head as I regarded her. So before she could start on me, I stated baldly and unapologetically: “I’m pregnant.”

I had expected an immediate eruption from Mum. What I got was more akin to deflation, as if someone had abruptly let the air out of her. Whatever she had been thinking during the time it had taken me to get home, it was clear she had not been expecting this. She opened her mouth, then closed it. She took a cigarette out of its packet, but crucially, didn’t light it. The one thing she hated more than the idea of us girls smoking, was smoking whilst or around pregnant women. The only times fresh air circulated our house, unbidden, was when Mum was pregnant. Literally the moment she gave birth however, she was out on the hospital steps having a crafty fag before my father could stop her.

“And Mike’s the father?” She said quietly.

“Of course he is,” I snapped.

“Don’t take that tone with me, lady.” Mum replied automatically. An uncomfortable silence. Mum turned the unlit cigarette around in her fingers, over and over. “When?” She said at last.

“What?” But I knew what she meant. When had this happened, how pregnant was I. I sighed, “I don’t know – two, two and a half weeks ago?”

“Okay.” Mum said, which I thought was strange. How could this be okay? But I said nothing, waiting for her to go on. Mum flicked her Zippo a couple of times and then continued, “… Okay. We can figure this out.”

My heart leapt in my chest at last. She was going to help me. But what did that mean? Even I was unsure what I wanted to do.

“Does Mike know?” Mum said.

“No.” I said.

“Do you want him involved?” Mum demanded.

I hesitated. A part of me inexplicably never wanted to see Mike again, just because it would be simpler that way. Mike had been my boyfriend less than a year, but there was a lot I didn’t like about him and I knew he felt the same way about me. We were parallel opposites, brought together only by the need to have someone hanging off one’s arm at college. Ours was strictly social, no great meeting of minds. Something inside me told me we were not destined to be together and my pregnancy should not keep us together or bind us in time, whatever the outcome. Yet somehow it just seemed wrong to exclude him.

“Yes.” I said finally.

“Okay.” Mum said again, as if getting various things straight in her own head, her gaze off in the distance. “Well, I can call the university for you.”

I didn’t understand what she meant at first. Then it dawned on me: Mum was assuming I would have the baby and stay at home. But did I want to? I thought of the other solution: abortion. Just the word made me shudder. I wasn’t sure if I could do it. I could feel university falling from my reach, but a small part of me didn’t seem to care. I was surprised: it had been everything to me as little as a few short hours ago. Yet despite this realisation, a part of me burned with a secret anger at Mum for having made the supposition, rather than actually asking me.

“What if I don’t want the baby?” I said coldly.

Mum stopped flicking the Zippo lid, looked me right in the eye. “Don’t you?”

I hesitated. Was I really going to tell my mother I wanted rid of the life inside me, out of sheer willfulness? It seemed foolish, especially when my gut instinct was telling me to hang fire. Ironically, another of my mother’s many catchphrases came back to haunt me right that at that moment, “when in doubt, do without.” But what did that mean: do without making the decision to have an abortion? Or do without the baby? I was confused.

“I don’t know.” I admitted.

Mum’s expression seemed to soften at last and she abandoned the lighter, reaching out across the table, squeezing my hand in her bony one. “I know, darling. It’s scary. I remember it well.” She said quietly.

Of course. Mum had not been much older than I was now when she had me. If anyone knew how to get me through this, Mum did. Though I had always strived to be independent since infancy, rejecting my mother’s warnings and comfort throughout my childhood, I needed her to show me the way now.

Didn’t I?

“It’s all logistics,” Mum was saying, “If you get it right, you can have everything you always wanted, including a little baby. It’s a win-win.”

I was dubious. “But university…” I began. I could see it getting further and further away and if I didn’t make some attempt to snatch it back, wouldn’t I regret it? Mum had always told us, “If you have no money, education is your only hope.” All of us had worked hard at school – okay, all of us except Amanda – but the rest of us had taken Mum at her word! And now she was telling me I should wait? It didn’t make sense.

“Just wait a bit,” Mum said, “There’s no reason you can’t go when the baby starts school.”

“But that’s five years away nearly!” I wailed, a sudden panic washing over me. I felt paralysed. Something unfathomable in me wanted to keep the baby, yet I felt terrified at the prospect of being in limbo while I waited for it to grow up so I could start my life. I felt sure I would wither away and die in the meantime.

“Darling,” Mum said with a smile, “those five years will fly by.”

She seemed so sure. So I found myself telling my sisters my news not even an hour later. As I had predicted, Sal curled her upper lip at me, before returning to her room. But I needn’t have worried about Amanda, who merely shrugged and said, “You got any cravings yet, then?” The ever-effusive Hannah whooped, “I’m going to be an Aunty!” and flung her arms around me. The twins piled on top of us too, laughing and for a moment I forgot my own fears and let myself be swept along with it. A baby in the house. It couldn’t be so bad, could it? Perhaps it really was as simple as Mum said: so what if most people went to university, then had a career, then a baby? I was intelligent, I was hard working. I could bump baby to the top of the list and have the other two later. Having a child did not mean my ambitions and hopes for the future would simply dissipate.

Of course, Dad needed to be told. Mum called him over and he turned up all smiles. It was unusual for Mum to initiate contact, he must have thought he was onto a promise. Knowing him too well, Mum broke the news herself. I was consigned to the bedroom I shared with Amanda. We listened as best we could as we heard my father’s raised voice, a chair go over, just about catching
“This is your fault…”
and my mother’s profane, incredulous reply. I could just imagine the hurricane downstairs, the vitriol my mother saved just for my Dad:
irresponsible. Loser. Weak.