Surprise Me
Page 14
‘I’m sorry.’ Dan shakes his head. ‘I didn’t mean to … Sex with you is really good, you know that.’
Really good?
I would have preferred mind-blowingly awesome, but let’s not pursue that right now.
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘We’re inventive, right? We can be happy, right?’
‘Of course we can be happy. Oh God, Sylvie. The truth is, I love you so much, I love the girls so much …’ Dan seems to have sailed straight from belligerent-drunk to sentimental-drunk. (I have a word for that too: wallowish.) ‘The day we had the twins, my life just … it just …’ Dan’s eyes slide around as he searches for a word. ‘It expanded. My heart expanded. I never knew I could love anyone that much. Remember how tiny they were? In their little plastic cots?’
There’s silence and I know we’re both remembering those scary first twenty-four hours when Tessa needed help to breathe. It seems a million years ago now. She’s a robust and healthy girl. But still.
‘I know.’ Drunken tears suddenly well up in my eyes. ‘I know.’
‘You remember those tiny socks they used to wear?’ Dan takes another slug of wine. ‘You want to know a secret? I miss those tiny socks.’
‘I’ve still got them!’ I get up eagerly from the table, half tripping over the chair leg. ‘I was sorting out clothes the other day and I put away a whole bunch of baby clothes, for … I dunno. Maybe the girls will have children one day …’
I head into the hall, open the cupboard under the stairs and drag back a plastic bin bag full of baby clothes. Dan has opened another bottle of wine and pushes a full glass to me as I pull out a bundle of sleepsuits. They smell of Fairy washing powder, and it’s such a babyland smell, it goes straight to my heart. Our entire world was babies and now it’s gone.
‘Oh my God.’ Dan stares at the sleepsuits as though transfixed. ‘They’re so tiny.’
‘I know.’ I take a deep gulp of wine. ‘Look, the one with the duckies.’
This sleepsuit was always my favourite, with its pattern of yellow ducklings. We sometimes used to call the girls our ducklings. We used to say we were putting them away in their nests. It’s funny how things come back to you.
‘Remember that teddy bear mobile with the lullaby?’ Dan waves his wine glass erratically in the air. ‘How did it go again?’
‘La-la-la …’ I try, but I can’t remember the tune. Damn. That tune used to be ingrained in our psyches.
‘It’s on a video.’ Dan opens his laptop, and a moment later opens up a video folder, Girls: First Year. With no warning I’m looking at footage of Dan from five years ago, and I’m so affected, I can’t even speak.
On the screen, Dan’s sitting on our sofa, cradling a week-old Anna on his bare chest. She looks so scrawny with her tiny legs in that froggy newborn position. She looks so vulnerable. They say to you: ‘You’ll forget how small they were,’ and you don’t believe it, but then you do. And Dan looks so tender, so protective. So proud. So fatherly.
I glance over at him, and his face is working with emotion. ‘That’s it,’ he says, his voice all muffled as though he might weep. ‘That’s the meaning of life. Right there.’ He jabs at the screen. ‘Right there.’
‘Right there.’ I wipe at my eyes.
‘Right there,’ he repeats, his eyes still fixed on baby Anna.
‘You’re right.’ I nod emphatically. ‘You’re so, so, so, so, so, so …’ My mind has suddenly gone blank. ‘Exactly. Exactly.’
‘I mean, what else matters?’ He makes elaborate gestures with his wine glass. ‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing,’ I agree, holding on to my chair to stop the world spinning. I’m feeling just a bit … There seem to be two Dans sitting in front of me, put it like that.
‘Nothing.’ Dan seems to want to make this point even more strongly. ‘Nothing at all in the world. Nothing.’
I nod. ‘Nothing.’
‘So you know what? We should have more.’ Dan points emphatically at the screen.
‘Yes,’ I agree whole-heartedly, before realizing I don’t know what he’s on about. ‘More what?’
‘That’s how we make sense of our life. That’s how we fill the endless, interminable years.’ Dan seems more and more animated. ‘We should have more babies. Lots more, Sylvie. Like …’ He casts around. ‘Ten more.’
I stare at him speechlessly. More babies.
And now I can feel tears rising yet again. Oh my God, he’s right, this is the answer to everything.
Through my drunken haze, I have a vision of ten adorable babies all in a row, in matching wooden cradles. Of course we should have more babies. Why didn’t we think of this before? I’ll be Mother Earth. I’ll lead them on bicycle outings, wearing matching clothes, singing wholesome songs.
A tiny voice at the back of my head seems to be protesting something, but I can’t hear it properly and I don’t want to. I want little feet and ducky-down heads. I want babies calling me ‘Mama’ and loving me most of all.
Times ten.
On impulse I reach for the duckling sleepsuit, hold it up and we both stare at it for a moment. I know we’re both imagining a brand-new squirmy baby in it. Then I drop it on the table.
‘Let’s do it,’ I say breathlessly. ‘Right here, right now.’ I lean over to kiss him, but accidentally slide off my chair on to the floor. Shit. Ow.
‘Right here, right now.’ Dan eagerly joins me on the floor and starts pulling off my clothes.
And it’s not that comfortable, here on the tiled floor, but I don’t care, because we’re starting a new life! We’re starting a new chapter. We have a purpose, a goal, a dear little tiny baby in a Moses basket … Everything’s suddenly rosy.
FOUR
OH MY GOD, WHAT HAVE WE DONE?
Am I pregnant?
Am I?
I’m lying in bed the next morning, my head pounding. I feel nauseous. I feel freaked out. Do I feel pregnant? Oh God, do I?
I can’t believe I’m waking up to this scenario. I feel as though I’m in a video warning teens about accidental pregnancy. We didn’t use any protection last night.
Hang on, did we?
No. No. Definitely not.
Gingerly, my hand steals down to touch my abdomen. It hasn’t changed. But that means nothing. Inside me, the miracle of human conception could have happened. Or it could be happening, right now, while Dan sleeps on, blissfully clutching his pillow as though our life hasn’t just been ruined.
No, not ruined.
Yes, ruined. In so, so many ways.
Morning sickness. Backache. No sleep. Baby weight. Those vile pregnancy jeans with the elastic panels. No money. No sleep.
I know I’m fixated by sleep. That’s because sleep deprivation is a form of torture. I can’t do the no-sleep thing again. Plus: the age gap would be six years. So, would we have to have a fourth child, to keep the baby company? But four? Four children? What kind of car would we need then? Some monstrous people carrier. How will we park a people carrier in our little street? Nightmare.
Would I have to give up work to look after the brood? But I don’t want to give up work. My routine works well, and everyone’s happy …
A brand-new, horrific thought makes me gasp. What if we have another baby, and then we try for a fourth … and end up with triplets? It happens. These things happen. That family in Stoke Newington that Tilda met once. Three singletons and then boom! Triplets. I would die. I would actually collapse. Oh God, why didn’t we think this through? Six children? Six? Where would we put them?
Really good?
I would have preferred mind-blowingly awesome, but let’s not pursue that right now.
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘We’re inventive, right? We can be happy, right?’
‘Of course we can be happy. Oh God, Sylvie. The truth is, I love you so much, I love the girls so much …’ Dan seems to have sailed straight from belligerent-drunk to sentimental-drunk. (I have a word for that too: wallowish.) ‘The day we had the twins, my life just … it just …’ Dan’s eyes slide around as he searches for a word. ‘It expanded. My heart expanded. I never knew I could love anyone that much. Remember how tiny they were? In their little plastic cots?’
There’s silence and I know we’re both remembering those scary first twenty-four hours when Tessa needed help to breathe. It seems a million years ago now. She’s a robust and healthy girl. But still.
‘I know.’ Drunken tears suddenly well up in my eyes. ‘I know.’
‘You remember those tiny socks they used to wear?’ Dan takes another slug of wine. ‘You want to know a secret? I miss those tiny socks.’
‘I’ve still got them!’ I get up eagerly from the table, half tripping over the chair leg. ‘I was sorting out clothes the other day and I put away a whole bunch of baby clothes, for … I dunno. Maybe the girls will have children one day …’
I head into the hall, open the cupboard under the stairs and drag back a plastic bin bag full of baby clothes. Dan has opened another bottle of wine and pushes a full glass to me as I pull out a bundle of sleepsuits. They smell of Fairy washing powder, and it’s such a babyland smell, it goes straight to my heart. Our entire world was babies and now it’s gone.
‘Oh my God.’ Dan stares at the sleepsuits as though transfixed. ‘They’re so tiny.’
‘I know.’ I take a deep gulp of wine. ‘Look, the one with the duckies.’
This sleepsuit was always my favourite, with its pattern of yellow ducklings. We sometimes used to call the girls our ducklings. We used to say we were putting them away in their nests. It’s funny how things come back to you.
‘Remember that teddy bear mobile with the lullaby?’ Dan waves his wine glass erratically in the air. ‘How did it go again?’
‘La-la-la …’ I try, but I can’t remember the tune. Damn. That tune used to be ingrained in our psyches.
‘It’s on a video.’ Dan opens his laptop, and a moment later opens up a video folder, Girls: First Year. With no warning I’m looking at footage of Dan from five years ago, and I’m so affected, I can’t even speak.
On the screen, Dan’s sitting on our sofa, cradling a week-old Anna on his bare chest. She looks so scrawny with her tiny legs in that froggy newborn position. She looks so vulnerable. They say to you: ‘You’ll forget how small they were,’ and you don’t believe it, but then you do. And Dan looks so tender, so protective. So proud. So fatherly.
I glance over at him, and his face is working with emotion. ‘That’s it,’ he says, his voice all muffled as though he might weep. ‘That’s the meaning of life. Right there.’ He jabs at the screen. ‘Right there.’
‘Right there.’ I wipe at my eyes.
‘Right there,’ he repeats, his eyes still fixed on baby Anna.
‘You’re right.’ I nod emphatically. ‘You’re so, so, so, so, so, so …’ My mind has suddenly gone blank. ‘Exactly. Exactly.’
‘I mean, what else matters?’ He makes elaborate gestures with his wine glass. ‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing,’ I agree, holding on to my chair to stop the world spinning. I’m feeling just a bit … There seem to be two Dans sitting in front of me, put it like that.
‘Nothing.’ Dan seems to want to make this point even more strongly. ‘Nothing at all in the world. Nothing.’
I nod. ‘Nothing.’
‘So you know what? We should have more.’ Dan points emphatically at the screen.
‘Yes,’ I agree whole-heartedly, before realizing I don’t know what he’s on about. ‘More what?’
‘That’s how we make sense of our life. That’s how we fill the endless, interminable years.’ Dan seems more and more animated. ‘We should have more babies. Lots more, Sylvie. Like …’ He casts around. ‘Ten more.’
I stare at him speechlessly. More babies.
And now I can feel tears rising yet again. Oh my God, he’s right, this is the answer to everything.
Through my drunken haze, I have a vision of ten adorable babies all in a row, in matching wooden cradles. Of course we should have more babies. Why didn’t we think of this before? I’ll be Mother Earth. I’ll lead them on bicycle outings, wearing matching clothes, singing wholesome songs.
A tiny voice at the back of my head seems to be protesting something, but I can’t hear it properly and I don’t want to. I want little feet and ducky-down heads. I want babies calling me ‘Mama’ and loving me most of all.
Times ten.
On impulse I reach for the duckling sleepsuit, hold it up and we both stare at it for a moment. I know we’re both imagining a brand-new squirmy baby in it. Then I drop it on the table.
‘Let’s do it,’ I say breathlessly. ‘Right here, right now.’ I lean over to kiss him, but accidentally slide off my chair on to the floor. Shit. Ow.
‘Right here, right now.’ Dan eagerly joins me on the floor and starts pulling off my clothes.
And it’s not that comfortable, here on the tiled floor, but I don’t care, because we’re starting a new life! We’re starting a new chapter. We have a purpose, a goal, a dear little tiny baby in a Moses basket … Everything’s suddenly rosy.
FOUR
OH MY GOD, WHAT HAVE WE DONE?
Am I pregnant?
Am I?
I’m lying in bed the next morning, my head pounding. I feel nauseous. I feel freaked out. Do I feel pregnant? Oh God, do I?
I can’t believe I’m waking up to this scenario. I feel as though I’m in a video warning teens about accidental pregnancy. We didn’t use any protection last night.
Hang on, did we?
No. No. Definitely not.
Gingerly, my hand steals down to touch my abdomen. It hasn’t changed. But that means nothing. Inside me, the miracle of human conception could have happened. Or it could be happening, right now, while Dan sleeps on, blissfully clutching his pillow as though our life hasn’t just been ruined.
No, not ruined.
Yes, ruined. In so, so many ways.
Morning sickness. Backache. No sleep. Baby weight. Those vile pregnancy jeans with the elastic panels. No money. No sleep.
I know I’m fixated by sleep. That’s because sleep deprivation is a form of torture. I can’t do the no-sleep thing again. Plus: the age gap would be six years. So, would we have to have a fourth child, to keep the baby company? But four? Four children? What kind of car would we need then? Some monstrous people carrier. How will we park a people carrier in our little street? Nightmare.
Would I have to give up work to look after the brood? But I don’t want to give up work. My routine works well, and everyone’s happy …
A brand-new, horrific thought makes me gasp. What if we have another baby, and then we try for a fourth … and end up with triplets? It happens. These things happen. That family in Stoke Newington that Tilda met once. Three singletons and then boom! Triplets. I would die. I would actually collapse. Oh God, why didn’t we think this through? Six children? Six? Where would we put them?
