Chapter Eleven: Is Stealing a Baby Wrong?

If Three Hundred and Seventy Eight had words to describe its condition, it would have said it was having a full-blown anxiety attack. Its membrane itched. Its insides kept on whooshing. There was something crawling up the base of its bubble with padded fingertips that kept tickling and itching and scratching - it was pure irritation. The friend had gone, if you could call it friend. Three Hundred and Seventy Eight would have called it ‘Phisssh’ which was what it called everything; the inner chamber, the rubbery tubes, the roar of blood passing by - it was all Phisssh. And the click noise that sounded like a tongue, the noise after the friend had gone for a few days - that was Phisssh. And this itchy, whooshing, scrunched up feeling that was definitely Phisssh. Three Hundred and Seventy Eight no longer wanted to be the one on the inside waiting to get out. It was time.
‘Phisssh,’ it said as it wriggled its way forwards.
‘Phisssh,’ the one in front replied.

Some experiences are life changing- they’re like a tremendous re-birth and everything changes and you emerge from the experience a completely new person, like you’ve shed your skin and everything that went before no longer matters and you’re fresh and new and ready to embrace whatever happens next.

This wasn’t one of those experiences.
Instead of emerging from this catastrophe with a renewed sense of vigour, instead of making me realise how ridiculous my pregnancy obsession had become and bursting forth into the world like a gorgeous butterfly full of optimism and a commitment to get a new job, forge a new path, wipe the slate well and truly clean, I just stopped dead in my tracks. Even before Carla’s pregnancy, I’d hardly been in the cut and thrust of life - working in a bookshop, one-night stands, Sunday dinner with my Mum and brother, weeknights spent drinking with Simon. I’d always been in the slow stream of life, one of those people who treads water and always replies ‘Yeah, fine,’ whenever people ask but is actually completely terrified and wants to shout back at them- ‘I WISH I WAS DEAD! WILL IT EVER GET BETTER?’ But after George’s dalliance with fatherhood, I went from slow stream to dead stop. I stopped going to work. I stopped seeing Mum and Simon and of course I stopped seeing George. And Carla of course. I never wanted to see her again except that now seemed unlikely because she was family (unless she decided to pack it in with George which I sincerely hoped she would once she realised that all he did was play games and eat taramasalata).

If you really break things down, you don’t need much to survive. All you need is some sort of liquid to drink - I chose a combination of white wine and lemonade as it was highly quaffable and ensured that you didn’t peak too early or end up being sick in the bed. Then I moved onto some Greek stuff Mum had bought back from holiday. I steered away from red because I knew it would drive me to suicide and still had enough drive for self-preservation to want to continue. Then you also need food and I chose sliced white bread which can be eaten straight from the bag and screwed into a kind of bread ball if you have wet fingers from rubbing your eyes all day. And if you dip it into butter then it’s like primitive garlic bread. Or you can toast it which I did very rarely as making toast involves getting plates out and there weren’t any plates because I’d smashed them all the morning I’d woken up and realised it had really happened. And now and then you need to wash but then you don’t really need to because you’re not really moving so you don’t sweat and the only thing that gets sweaty is your face because you keep pushing it into the pillow to try and rub out history. But a bath is good and sitting in a bath feels suitably dramatic - the bath is THE place to smoke a fag, to stare into space and wonder where it all went wrong. Then you can sort of haul yourself over the side and lie on the floor with a towel over you and if you lie there long enough you don’t even need to dry yourself. You can just slither away like a damp snake and crawl straight into bed and start rolling up bread balls then washing them down with lukewarm spritzer.

And when I wasn’t drinking or staring into space, I didn’t even bother putting the TV on. There was no point because every time I tried the words just danced in front of my eyes as if there was an illuminated sign burnt into both retina which read; ‘YOU WILL ALWAYS BE ALONE,’ and I couldn’t even see the faces of the TV presenters or pretend that I cared about a new kind of prawn from America which had infiltrated the Thames and was eating all the other prawns. And something was wrong with my phone – ever since that call it just vibrated non-stop as if it was having a fit and couldn’t cope with the weight of the news and because it was vibrating constantly I left it in the kitchen drawer where I couldn’t hear it protesting. Angry! I’ll show you angry. Except I wasn’t angry, I was just a zombie most of the time and then in the small moments when I remembered what had happened I wanted to spit. I’d never spit in my life before but I actually started spitting! (I’d clean it up afterwards- I’m not a complete animal.) I was conscious of the doorbell going a couple of times but I didn’t get it. I knew it would be either Mum or George or Simon or Carla and I didn’t want to see any of them, didn’t want to hear any more about it and each one of them was involved in some way and I could only hope that they packed up and moved away so once I was feeling better I could get a clean slate and start again.

On the fifth day I had to venture outside because the duvet had become stiff with all the misery it had absorbed so I had to get it washed at the laundrette. And as I dragged it behind me (I hadn’t even bothered to put it in a bag because I didn’t want that thin sheet of plastic to separate us even if it was just for a few minutes), I saw Mum’s car parked outside. Then saw Mum sitting on the neighbour’s doorstep drinking out of a Starbucks cup. I’d never seen her drinking Starbucks before and I suddenly became worried that I’d been locked up inside the flat for years because Mum was always so far behind any sort of social trend. She still took thermos flasks on long car journeys. The minute she saw me she put her hand to her mouth as if I was carrying a dead animal not a crumpled, smelly duvet and then she pulled me towards her and my forehead was pressed up against her mohair cardie.
‘I thought you’d never come out!’ she said stroking my hair which was sticking up in little tufty bits like I’d just come out of an ECT session.
‘How did you know I was in there?’ I said pulling away.
I was a bit disappointed that it had been that obvious and no one had been worried thinking I’d run off somewhere. Then I remembered I’d done it before - after I’d split up with Pete I’d locked myself in the flat for about ten days. I can’t remember how I snapped out of it- probably the same thing had happened and Mum had caught me taking the duvet out for a stroll.
‘I don’t understand why you’re so upset,’ Mum said, ‘I should be the one that’s upset, not you. I’m the one that’s going to have to take care of it.’
It was really happening.
‘It wasn’t that,’ I said lying, ‘It was something else. You know… bloke related.’
Mum furrowed her eyebrows together, sending out telepathic rays, which would work their way into my brain and filch out all the information she needed unless I looked at the pavement immediately and shut them out.
‘Let me make you some ratatouille,’ she said.
I didn’t refuse.
I must have been on the mend because I just couldn’t face another ball of bread moistened up with salty tears.

Neil Diamond, Mum's favourite artist, accompanied us on the ten minute drive to Penge.

Mum always makes ratatouille when there is a crisis. So it’s not really a food that brings much comfort because you end up associating it with all the terrible things. The only time she didn’t make a ratatouille was after Dad died. Then we ate cold chow mien and Doritos. Ratatouille wouldn’t fix it. I like watching her make it because it’s always the same process- she soaks the aubergines in salt after chopping them into thick wedges and then she chops up loads of garlic and onions and with each step it’s a ritual that reminds you of the last terrible thing and yet at the same time reminds you that you got through that terrible thing (though there will always be more terrible things on the way). So it’s not happy exactly but it’s usually the next step towards resuming everyday life. The only problem was I’d forgotten that George lived with Mum and would come in from his room and sit down at the table. Except the man I saw was not George, it was someone with short hair and a shirt (actually a shirt not a black smock with some horror film character on the front!) and he was wearing these shoes - the last time I’d seen him wearing them had been at a cousin’s wedding. He’d sulked all day about those shoes and actually ended up taking them off and putting his trainers back on for the reception and everyone thought that was wild behaviour because they’re all a bit uptight on that side of the family.
‘You’re wearing shoes,’ I said.
‘Yeah, they’re just for work you know; need to smarten up a bit. And I quite like them I guess.’
I studied Mum’s shoulders, trying to guess her expression as she poured a can of tomatoes into the pan. I’d thought she would be furious with George for getting himself into this situation but it didn’t show. Or I’d missed it whilst I’d been screaming into my pillow.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
Again this was uncharacteristic of my brother. My brother lives in a bubble where the only things that exist are exploding submarines and swimming through underwater worlds pursuing orange blobs with human bodies and fish heads. He’d never asked me how I was. My role in life was to lend him money and buy him stuff.
‘You look tired,’ he said.
I look tired. You’re wearing shoes. I wonder why that is! Perhaps it’s because you made my boss pregnant! Perhaps it’s because I should have been the first to bear a child - to make our Mum a Grandma. Luckily I said all of this without any sound coming out of my mouth.
‘Carla’s been worried about you,’ he said.
‘Shut up,’ I said.
‘Kate, don’t be so aggressive,’ Mum said into the ratatouille of tragedy.
George went to open his mouth but I stopped him.
‘Do you think I give a fuck about Carla? I hate Carla. She’s a humourless, sarcastic, husk of a creature. And you’ve managed to make her part of our family! Forever!’
George closed his mouth and stared into my eyes, eyes no longer obscured by his silly fringe because he was now officially an adult.
‘I’m sure Carla’s really nice,’ Mum said sprinkling salt and then throwing the excess over her shoulder.
What kind of future did George have mapped out in front of him? Carla was bad enough when she’d had eight hours sleep and an extra strong macchiato but what would she be like with no sleep? She was suicidal if a customer returned some books - how would she cope with the responsibility of a baby? And it was all entirely avoidable. Condoms! Everyone knows about condoms! Then it dawned on me - this had been intentional. Carla had meant to get pregnant! I myself knew how difficult it was to get up the duff and Carla was at least two years older. She’d obviously done it on purpose.
‘Well done,’ I chortled out loud, ‘I’m impressed. That is very impressive.’
Mum turned round, a queer expression on her face.
‘Who are you talking to?’
‘Yes ten points to you. I’ve wanted to try someone younger for the very same reason and you’ve only gone and done it!’ I was now up out of my chair and walking round the kitchen table, rocking myself backwards and forwards on my heels, ‘The young cancelled out the old. You upped the odds. Well done Reaper. Well done.’
I should have been inspired. Ready to run off to the roughest pub in Penge and jump on the youngest fella in there. Instead I felt deflated - Carla had slimmed down my odds to an even narrower margin. What was the probability of two women over thirty-five and in the same family getting pregnant?
‘Kate can you just sit down and talk sense. What’s wrong?’ Mum said putting down the spoon and wiping her hands on her apron, which had a picture of a naked male torso on the front. Oh what fun we had with that apron. And the ratatouille. You could cope with anything once the apron came out! Suddenly George got up, kicking his chair to one side.
‘You don’t even know Carla. You know nothing about her! We are going to have a baby and we are going to do the best we can and I could use a bit of help instead of you having some sort of nervous breakdown.’
None of these words were natural George words. Carla had been feeding him strange vitamins and he’d gone from nineteen to thirty-nine, missing out all the intervening years. George usually sighed. Sometimes he said funny things if he’d had too much beer. Standing in the kitchen, his short hair plastered against his head, his shirt showing small pools of sweat under his arms, well he looked exactly like Dad. And the realisation that George was going to be a Dad and was possibly going to be exactly like our Dad – a great Dad, a tremendous Dad with all the right combination of personality traits and it was suddenly like Dad was standing there not George and we were kids again with all the things I loved about him like the fact that he always thought things were going to get better, that he didn’t mind when you plaited his hair or drew biro glasses on his face but was also scary enough to make you march up the stairs two at a time when he pulled a certain face. And in that moment it seemed possible that George would make a great father. And in fact maybe Carla would sort herself out as well. Perhaps together, just like Mum and Dad, they’d make a good combination- Carla the more down to earth pessimistic side (if she could just vary her tone so she didn’t sound like a computer) and George believing that life can deliver what you want, at least some of the time.

Any normal person would have stuffed the ratatouille down her neck and wished them both well. Instead it only made me angrier. Not only had Carla succeeded where I’d failed, she’d also got a great father for her child. And even if things didn’t work out with George (if those tablets she was plying him with stopped working and he suddenly realised he was only nineteen)- at least she had a baby. She wasn’t barren like me.

It was only when I was back at home and reinstalled underneath the now clean and fragrant duvet (the comforting smell of Mum’s lavender detergent) that I started to formulate a new strand to my plan. What if I could convince someone that having a baby was the worst thing in the world? What if I made them realise it wasn’t worth it? What if I then volunteered to take that baby away for them?

What if this person was Carla?
What then?