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last time the three of us were
together; I had been bickering with Simon about the cast of Coupling ;
now we were awaiting news about the health of our baby.
    The weather was cooler today, but my brain humidity made up
for it – saturated with emotion.
    The worst part was the guilt – the tug of war between the
two extremes of my feelings. It felt terrible to vocalise but I hadn’t wanted this baby. It was the wrong time, the wrong man, and the wrong conditions. On
the other hand, what could be worse than hearing that the little person inside
had a terminal defect? A part of me – a very dark, selfish part – hoped that I
would find out something definitive, which would take the crucial decision away
from me. I despised that part of me and repeated ‘Please don’t let my baby be
sick’ over and over in my head to neutralise the despicable thought. I tried to
remind myself that whatever happened today, there would be options.
    “We’re just gathering more information,” I reminded Simon.
“Good news doesn’t necessarily mean I’m keeping it and bad news doesn’t
necessarily mean that I won’t.”
    “I know, and I’ll support you whatever you decide to do,” he
said, as if reading from a textbook on how to be the perfect partner. He always
had said the right thing when it came to the baby; he had offered his
wholehearted support and emphasised that it’s my body, my choice … But I
couldn’t help thinking back to that conversation over dinner, about
how abortion felt wrong. Even though he was visibly terrified, I knew that
deep down, a part of him wanted me to have our baby.
    I’d been taking lithium for twenty-three weeks. One website
estimated that the chances of a heart defect were almost one in ten, not to
mention the many other complications lithium could cause. By now my baby was
the length of a ruler from head to foot; even if he or she suffered from an
anomaly, would I be able to say goodbye to somebody I’d nurtured to the length
of a ruler? I tried to remind myself that exploring hypothetical scenarios was
a waste of emotional energy. I had to wait and find out the results of the scan
– not long now.
    The ultrasonographer looked ordinary – just an ordinary
woman with mousy hair, fine facial features and grey eyes. I don’t know what I
expected but this woman had the power to find out whether my baby had a cardiac
defect – potentially whether it might live or die. In my mind, I’d expected a
God (whatever a God might look like).
    “We’re particularly worried about heart defects,” I told
her. “I’ve been taking lithium.”
    “All right,” she said calmly, as if the risks were
negligible. “If you could lift your shirt up …”
    The coldness of the gel excited me with its promise of progress.
Yet, as she approached me with the stick, a part of me wanted to scream at her
to stop, but instead I lay there, paralysed with anticipation.
    “Are you all right?” asked Nicky, from my left. I was just
about to answer when I realised that she was looking across me, and directly at
Simon.
    “Am I missing something?” I asked.
    They exchanged looks again. The atmosphere was familiar. I’d
experienced it once before, when Dave had mentioned a race.
    “I lost somebody because of a heart defect,” Simon said, softly.
    I was stunned. Poor Simon – today’s ordeal was hard enough
already, without it evoking painful memories.
    Then it happened – my baby appeared on the screen. I felt an
avalanche of emotions. The little being looked so much like a person – head,
body, tiny little arms … Already he was upside down – ready to come out –
begging to be born. The thought of being parted from him now felt like having
my insides turned through a mangle.
    “I’m happy to say you seem to have a healthy baby,” said
God.
    “What?” I asked. I’d been so wrapped up in my fear that the
good news – the probable news – felt like a total shock. “Are you sure?” I
asked. Could