Read Online The Language of Dying by Sarah Pinborough - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah Pinborough
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to my face before sitting heavily on a toilet seat, locking the cubicle behind me. I hug the cistern, not caring about any germs, enjoying the cold ceramic. Dark spots gather in the corners of my vision and the world swims slightly as I fight to control the nausea. I can’t be sick. I don’t want to be sick. I have to get home before the next phone call.
I sit very still for ten minutes or so and then trust myself enough to stand. The worst of it has passed, only a clingy wet feeling is left in my gut and my mouth tastes stale. Ignoring the strange looks that must be coming my way I collect my basket and pay. I need to get home.
At eight o’clock the next morning I am dry-heaving over the kitchen sink, the sickness grabbing me too quickly to get to the toilet. He stares at me, putting down his toast.
‘Maybe you should go to the doctor,’ he suggests quietly.
‘I’ll be all right,’ I say. ‘It’s probably just a bug.’
He nods and hands me some kitchen roll to wipe thesaliva from my mouth. The doctor can be tricky. I only go if I really have to because I just can’t be sure of the reaction. A doctor, like a book, is out of his control. He can’t be sure of what I might say within those private walls.
I don’t go to the doctor, I just fight the queasiness for a couple of days, but he can see that I’m doing it. I see him watching me. That causes more sharp twists in my gut that don’t help the nausea to fade. I wait for a reaction, but there is no sign of his loss of patience. He smiles at me and strokes my hair as we watch TV. I wonder what is coming, but there is only more tenderness. It sets my nerves on edge and I can’t sleep.
He brings home a pregnancy test and waits outside the bathroom chewing on a fingernail. He smiles at the fact I hadn’t thought of this and as he patronises me I grit my teeth and read the instructions. When I come out and show him the definite blue line, he laughs like he did in the beginning and kisses me all over.
I relax slightly. Maybe things will be better when there are three of us. For the first time in a long time I feel the fizz of excitement. In fact, it’s the first time in a long time that I’ve felt anything at all.
I sleep with a hand on my belly and when we go to the doctor, we go together. All smiles.
*
Leopards don’t change their spots. Another cliché to fill my empty thinking space. I’m lying at the bottom ofthe stairs, the pain not quite gripping me fully, too shocked to feel and I’m angry at myself for my stupidity, for not realising. For still wanting to believe in fairy-tale endings, when I know they don’t exist. For not getting my shit together and getting out of there.
Unmoving, I can see red spreading outwards through the fibres of our thick cream carpet and I feel the first wave of panic. I think that maybe I blacked out for a couple of seconds because somewhere behind me I can hear him calling an ambulance. My head is foggy. This can’t be good, I think, if he’s getting a doctor.
I try to move, but I can’t. When you’re seven months pregnant moving isn’t easy at the best of times, and when you’ve just been shoved down the stairs it’s another matter. Or tripped down the stairs, or walked into a cupboard, or whatever else he’s going to tell them so convincingly that he’ll end up believing it himself.
I almost laugh. I hate myself. I can see my heeled shoe on the floor beside me. It has come off as I’ve tumbled. The red is creeping towards it and it’s trying to tell me something but I don’t want to listen. Not yet. My chest hurts from where he slammed his knee into it only minutes ago. Something cracked in there. I’m sure of it.
I can hear him crying. I hate him almost as much as I hate me. His words are slurring into the phone. He’s drunk. That’ll be his excuse when he begs me to forgive him. He was drunk and I laughed a little too loudly atsomething his partner had said over dinner and
why the hell was
I sit very still for ten minutes or so and then trust myself enough to stand. The worst of it has passed, only a clingy wet feeling is left in my gut and my mouth tastes stale. Ignoring the strange looks that must be coming my way I collect my basket and pay. I need to get home.
At eight o’clock the next morning I am dry-heaving over the kitchen sink, the sickness grabbing me too quickly to get to the toilet. He stares at me, putting down his toast.
‘Maybe you should go to the doctor,’ he suggests quietly.
‘I’ll be all right,’ I say. ‘It’s probably just a bug.’
He nods and hands me some kitchen roll to wipe thesaliva from my mouth. The doctor can be tricky. I only go if I really have to because I just can’t be sure of the reaction. A doctor, like a book, is out of his control. He can’t be sure of what I might say within those private walls.
I don’t go to the doctor, I just fight the queasiness for a couple of days, but he can see that I’m doing it. I see him watching me. That causes more sharp twists in my gut that don’t help the nausea to fade. I wait for a reaction, but there is no sign of his loss of patience. He smiles at me and strokes my hair as we watch TV. I wonder what is coming, but there is only more tenderness. It sets my nerves on edge and I can’t sleep.
He brings home a pregnancy test and waits outside the bathroom chewing on a fingernail. He smiles at the fact I hadn’t thought of this and as he patronises me I grit my teeth and read the instructions. When I come out and show him the definite blue line, he laughs like he did in the beginning and kisses me all over.
I relax slightly. Maybe things will be better when there are three of us. For the first time in a long time I feel the fizz of excitement. In fact, it’s the first time in a long time that I’ve felt anything at all.
I sleep with a hand on my belly and when we go to the doctor, we go together. All smiles.
*
Leopards don’t change their spots. Another cliché to fill my empty thinking space. I’m lying at the bottom ofthe stairs, the pain not quite gripping me fully, too shocked to feel and I’m angry at myself for my stupidity, for not realising. For still wanting to believe in fairy-tale endings, when I know they don’t exist. For not getting my shit together and getting out of there.
Unmoving, I can see red spreading outwards through the fibres of our thick cream carpet and I feel the first wave of panic. I think that maybe I blacked out for a couple of seconds because somewhere behind me I can hear him calling an ambulance. My head is foggy. This can’t be good, I think, if he’s getting a doctor.
I try to move, but I can’t. When you’re seven months pregnant moving isn’t easy at the best of times, and when you’ve just been shoved down the stairs it’s another matter. Or tripped down the stairs, or walked into a cupboard, or whatever else he’s going to tell them so convincingly that he’ll end up believing it himself.
I almost laugh. I hate myself. I can see my heeled shoe on the floor beside me. It has come off as I’ve tumbled. The red is creeping towards it and it’s trying to tell me something but I don’t want to listen. Not yet. My chest hurts from where he slammed his knee into it only minutes ago. Something cracked in there. I’m sure of it.
I can hear him crying. I hate him almost as much as I hate me. His words are slurring into the phone. He’s drunk. That’ll be his excuse when he begs me to forgive him. He was drunk and I laughed a little too loudly atsomething his partner had said over dinner and
why the hell was
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