was fifty grand,’ I pause, watching his face carefully. ‘The payee’s name was MDO.’
‘Right.’ Art’s expression is impassive. ‘When was this?’
‘Nearly eight years ago. Just after . . . you know . . .’
The atmosphere immediately grows tense. Art sucks in his breath. ‘Has this got something to do with that stupid bitch who came here this morning?’
‘No, of course not.’ I touch his arm, to emphasize that there’s no accusation in my question. ‘Honest, Art, it’s just made me think about that time and I realized I
didn’t know where any of the old paperwork is stored and then I came across this weird account . . .’ I tail off, hoping Art can’t see through me, to the mistrustful heart of my
suspicions.
Art takes a step away from me. His face is guarded. ‘I can’t remember what that payment was for,’ he says. ‘But it probably got filed in a personal folder by accident.
I’ll look into it.’
My heart sinks at the distance that’s just opened up between us. ‘I’m sorry, Art, that woman really upset me. It’s hard when a total stranger looks you in the eyes
and—’
‘And makes an outrageous accusation against your own husband that you can’t be one hundred percent sure isn’t true?’ Art’s voice is carefully light, but I can hear
the tension underneath.
‘No.’ I smile. ‘I know it’s not true. It’s just . . .’ My voice shrinks to a whisper. ‘It’s just . . . our baby . . . I never saw her, Art.
Suppose . . .’
He stares at me. ‘Yes, but
God
, Gen.’ His voice is gentler than before. He squats down beside me and reaches across the bed for my hand. ‘You
know
why you
didn’t, but
I
saw her.’
I look away. I didn’t see Beth because she was so deformed that Dr Rodriguez advised me not to. Her defective chromosome, Trisomy 18, had caused damage to the heart and kidneys, with
massive disfiguration to the head.
Art said at the time he wished he hadn’t seen her. I didn’t understand why, until I demanded to see the pictures in Dr Rodriguez’s file during our visit to hear the results of
his post-mortem tests. The photos were clipped to a report on the birth. I wish I hadn’t seen them – but I did. I saw everything, including the way her face was twisted like melted
wax.
So I didn’t see Beth herself, but I did see the proof that she was dead.
And Art, poor Art, he saw her for real.
‘What did she look like, Art?’ I say, keeping my gaze fixed on his face. ‘Our baby . . . you saw her . . . what . . . how did she look?’
I hold my breath. We’ve never talked about Beth’s specific appearance. I mean, Dr Rodriguez told me about her disfigurement and I saw that picture of her afterwards. But Art’s
always refused to tell me exactly how our baby looked – the essence of her. I watch his face harden, and even before he opens his mouth I know he’s got no intention of talking about it
now, either.
‘I’m not going there, Gen.’ Art stands up, paces to the door then stops, his fingers clenched tightly round the handle. ‘Maybe you should call Hen again. Or Sue. Or your
mum. See what they say about all of this.’
I shake my head. I already know what Hen thinks. Hen never hides her feelings. My friend, Sue, on the other hand, will be soothing and sympathetic, then try and make me laugh. But she
won’t really understand, either. Mum will dismiss my fears out of hand, even before I tell her what they’re about. She makes no attempt to hide her belief that I’ve inherited my
dad’s neurotic, compulsive tendencies, ‘though at least you don’t appear to be looking for the answers to life at the bottom of a bottle.’ Plus she adores Art.
Not that it matters. I know it’s crazy for me to doubt the past like this.
‘Mum’s in Australia.’ My voice breaks as I speak.
‘So? They have phones there, don’t they?’ Art’s tone is suddenly harsh, his breathing jagged. He strides back to the bed. His jaw is clenched.
‘Right.’ Art’s expression is impassive. ‘When was this?’
‘Nearly eight years ago. Just after . . . you know . . .’
The atmosphere immediately grows tense. Art sucks in his breath. ‘Has this got something to do with that stupid bitch who came here this morning?’
‘No, of course not.’ I touch his arm, to emphasize that there’s no accusation in my question. ‘Honest, Art, it’s just made me think about that time and I realized I
didn’t know where any of the old paperwork is stored and then I came across this weird account . . .’ I tail off, hoping Art can’t see through me, to the mistrustful heart of my
suspicions.
Art takes a step away from me. His face is guarded. ‘I can’t remember what that payment was for,’ he says. ‘But it probably got filed in a personal folder by accident.
I’ll look into it.’
My heart sinks at the distance that’s just opened up between us. ‘I’m sorry, Art, that woman really upset me. It’s hard when a total stranger looks you in the eyes
and—’
‘And makes an outrageous accusation against your own husband that you can’t be one hundred percent sure isn’t true?’ Art’s voice is carefully light, but I can hear
the tension underneath.
‘No.’ I smile. ‘I know it’s not true. It’s just . . .’ My voice shrinks to a whisper. ‘It’s just . . . our baby . . . I never saw her, Art.
Suppose . . .’
He stares at me. ‘Yes, but
God
, Gen.’ His voice is gentler than before. He squats down beside me and reaches across the bed for my hand. ‘You
know
why you
didn’t, but
I
saw her.’
I look away. I didn’t see Beth because she was so deformed that Dr Rodriguez advised me not to. Her defective chromosome, Trisomy 18, had caused damage to the heart and kidneys, with
massive disfiguration to the head.
Art said at the time he wished he hadn’t seen her. I didn’t understand why, until I demanded to see the pictures in Dr Rodriguez’s file during our visit to hear the results of
his post-mortem tests. The photos were clipped to a report on the birth. I wish I hadn’t seen them – but I did. I saw everything, including the way her face was twisted like melted
wax.
So I didn’t see Beth herself, but I did see the proof that she was dead.
And Art, poor Art, he saw her for real.
‘What did she look like, Art?’ I say, keeping my gaze fixed on his face. ‘Our baby . . . you saw her . . . what . . . how did she look?’
I hold my breath. We’ve never talked about Beth’s specific appearance. I mean, Dr Rodriguez told me about her disfigurement and I saw that picture of her afterwards. But Art’s
always refused to tell me exactly how our baby looked – the essence of her. I watch his face harden, and even before he opens his mouth I know he’s got no intention of talking about it
now, either.
‘I’m not going there, Gen.’ Art stands up, paces to the door then stops, his fingers clenched tightly round the handle. ‘Maybe you should call Hen again. Or Sue. Or your
mum. See what they say about all of this.’
I shake my head. I already know what Hen thinks. Hen never hides her feelings. My friend, Sue, on the other hand, will be soothing and sympathetic, then try and make me laugh. But she
won’t really understand, either. Mum will dismiss my fears out of hand, even before I tell her what they’re about. She makes no attempt to hide her belief that I’ve inherited my
dad’s neurotic, compulsive tendencies, ‘though at least you don’t appear to be looking for the answers to life at the bottom of a bottle.’ Plus she adores Art.
Not that it matters. I know it’s crazy for me to doubt the past like this.
‘Mum’s in Australia.’ My voice breaks as I speak.
‘So? They have phones there, don’t they?’ Art’s tone is suddenly harsh, his breathing jagged. He strides back to the bed. His jaw is clenched.
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