The Decision: Lizzie's Story (14 page)

“I don’t know.” Shona said dully.

Suddenly my resentment flared up again: Shona was the one with the secret boyfriend; Shona was the one who had got off the hook. I hadn’t been so lucky.
She owed me!
“Not good enough.” I stated, marvelling at the words coming out of me.

“What does that even mean?” Shona resisted angrily. I’d heard her say that phrase to so many people: her parents, teachers, even people in the street. Usually it was a sarcastic retort to adults, an easy way of redirecting attention back to her from discussion of politics, religion, even what was for dinner. She’d never said it to me before, but then I’d never given her cause to. Both of us squared up to each other, sure something had changed, but unsure what … Besides the obvious.

“You and Bobby.” I said at last. “You never told me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” Shona said automatically.

“I think there is.” I persisted.

“I’m not joking, don’t go there Liz.” Shona said darkly. “What’s this even got to do with anything?”

“I want to understand… Bobby Kingsmith? Seriously?” I replied.

“You don’t know him.” Shona argued.

“I didn’t even know you did!” I exploded.

Another silence fell. Shona continued making cigarettes, dropping each ready-made into the baccy tin. I waited for her to say something. To tell me she loved Bobby; to tell me it had been a mistake –
anything!
Anything that would give me a clue. Because perhaps if I knew what Shona would have done had she been pregnant by Bobby, I would know now what to do next about my own predicament. But:

“… I can’t tell you what to do.” Shona said in a low voice, as if she had read my mind.

As soon as the words were spoken, I knew Shona was right. My chest suddenly felt tight as I faced up to the situation for the first time. I had been stalling, obsessing over Bobby and Shona in a bid to avoid making a choice myself.
I was pregnant. Me.
Only I could decide what to do next. A cacophony of emotions and thoughts overwhelmed me. I collapsed onto Shona’s unmade bed, the tangle of sheets. Everything blurred together, a tidal wave of confusion, panic and fear, the only clear word
shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit…

“… You’re alright.” Shona soothed. She sat next to me, her arm draped round my shoulders. I had a vague memory of sitting like this back in primary: I had skinned my knee. Shona had fetched a wet towel from the toilets and pressed it on the wound herself. She hadn’t told the teacher. It was just me and her, as it was now.

“How can this be alright?” I wailed and Shona winced, as if expecting someone to come running from upstairs. No one did.

“You should tell Mike.” Shona said.

“No.” I said, surprised at my own vehemence. “You know what he’s like.”

“So did you, you still slept with him.” Shona opposed skillfully.
Touche.

“He wouldn’t be able to handle it…” I began.

“… Can you, on your own?” Shona enquired.

I sighed. Shona had a point. Two people had created this pregnancy. Those same two people should be the ones to figure out what to do about it. Mike lived on the opposite side of Winby to Shona, about a twenty minute walk away. Near the park, his terrace of houses had been the best town had to offer once, but their residents, with too much on and too little money, had let their homesteads fade. On the outside, Victorian bay windows fell victim to the weather; porches were covered in corrugated plastic; front gardens were paved over, weeds peeking up through the cracks. Inside, grimy net curtains flickered, the only sign of life from their mostly aged inhabitants. As we approached the front door of Mike’s, I stopped. My heart was hammering, I struggled to catch my breath. Shona grabbed both my arms and made me look at her, making me think of primary again. But this time, for a moment I saw my mother in Shona’s place: her comforting words on my first day at school, wiping my tears away. I had never thought of Shona as being maternal before now.

“Whatever happens, it’ll be okay.” She asserted.

Mute, I nodded. I knocked once, before letting myself in, just as I had always done. Shona stepped in after me. She had never actually been inside Mike’s house before. Her nostrils flared in disgust. Though I had witnessed Francis push a vacuum around and wash up from time to time, he did little else by way of housework. Shelves were thick with dust, the mirror murky with grime. Tobacco fragments littered the carpet, clouds of dirt erupted from the sofa when it was sat on. Even the air felt old and dirty. Francis was a hoarder: stacks of newspapers and magazines occupied every available floor and counter space; dishes and mugs were left to gather mould; wrappers were left to crumple underfoot where they fell. The bathroom didn’t even bear thinking about. The whole place was a health hazard.

“Francis?” I said. I set one foot on the creaking stairs, Shona shuffling behind me. For the first time I noticed not only the dirt, but the neglected house underneath too: the faded and yellowed paintwork, the marks and gouges in the walls, the curling and stiff carpet. Mike’s house was the exact opposite to Shona’s, which was overdressed, immaculate, magazine-inspired: yet each building had a lack of homeliness in common.

“He’s upstairs.” Francis confirmed from the safety of the kitchen. That room was a cocoon to him: an old man now, Francis had retired years ago. He didn’t appear to have any friends or many visitors (unless you counted the milkman, who’d stop by for a chat every Tuesday. Who had milk delivered anymore?). So Francis stood at the dirty kitchen countertop, turning the pages of his beloved newspapers and periodicals, listening to the radio and smoking his pipe. When I’d started going out with Mike, I hadn’t even known his father was home the first few times I had gone back to the house. Mike mentioned nothing and when our paths failed to cross those first few times, I had just assumed Francis worked late or did night shifts. One night however, my hangover hit at three am and I crept down to the kitchen in my bra and knickers for a glass of water. Turning the kitchen overhead on, I discovered Francis had been seated at the kitchen table in the dark and I shrieked as if I had discovered a burglar.

“He doesn’t sleep.” Mike said later, as if that explained everything.

“He saw me in my underwear!” I raged.

“He’s old.” Mike shrugged, “Don’t worry about it.”

Now, Shona and I climbed the narrow stairs up to Mike’s attic bedroom. He was sprawled out on his grubby duvet in just his boxers, fiddling with a games console as various soldiers exploded and died on screen. He grinned as I came in, but his expression soon turned sour at the sight of Shona behind me.

“For God’s sake Liz, you could’ve warned me, I’m half-dressed here.” Mike grumbled, pulling on a tee shirt he’d abandoned on the floor.

“Don’t mind me.” Shona quipped, “You haven’t got anything I haven’t seen before.”

“I bet.” Mike said.

“Funny you, aren’t ya?” Shona smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

There was no love lost between Mike and Shona. Mike had told me many times he thought her vain, egotistical and selfish, which he probably recognised as he was all three himself. Shona had never said anything to me directly about Mike, but she’d made it plain she didn’t like him with her usual rolled eyes every time I said his name. As time went on, it became clear to me: to have a relationship with both of them, I had to keep them separate. This was the first time they had been in the same room in nearly a year. Shona plonked herself down on Mike’s old futon, chucking various textbooks and rubbish aside in a bid to make herself comfortable. She wanted a good seat for the show, no doubt. Even so, I was still glad I didn’t have to face Mike on my own.

“So what do you girls want?” Mike demanded.

You girls.
How quickly my role in his life changed to him: did he really think I was with him or against him? If I ever chose to involve anyone in my life but Mike, it seemed I was on the opposite “side” to him. “We were… I was just…” My eyes darted to Shona, who nodded to me as if to say
Go on
. “… I’ve got something to tell you.” I gulped.

Mike simply folded his arms and waited for the revelation. I could sense the latent hostility in him. He knew that whatever I had to say, it wasn’t good.

“I’m pregnant.” I said.

Shona looked like she might explode with anticipation of Mike’s reaction; I could see her hand hovering in her pocket. Inside, I knew she had the police on speed dial, “just in case”. “There’s two potentially dangerous times in a pregnant woman’s life.” She’d said back in her bedroom. “When she actually has the baby – obviously – and when she tells the father.”

“That’s ridiculous.” I scoffed.

“It’s true!” Shona said earnestly, “I saw it on Crime Scene Investigation.”

“Oh, must be true then.” I said, rolling my own eyes at her.

“Seriously. Think about it.” Shona insisted, but I refused. It wasn’t as if I could have got pregnant on my own. Whatever happened, Mike would never hurt me. Not for this. Then, I was sure. Now, I was not. There was barely a ripple of movement in Mike’s features, but I could still perceive a dark fury in him. A part of me wanted to explode with apologies and explanations, try and make the situation right again. But another look from Shona silenced me before I could even begin:
Don’t you dare.

“… And it’s mine?” Mike enquired at last. He fished a half-smoked cigarette from an overflowing ashtray, grimacing at the taste of relit tobacco.

Shock pierced my psyche like a knife. I had never imagined Mike would call his paternity into question. I had never been unfaithful! “… What?” I said, barely able to comprehend what he had just said. “There’s only ever been you.” I whispered, barely audibly.

If Mike heard, he didn’t give any indication. “I wouldn’t ask,” Mike said complacently, taking another drag: “If it wasn’t for the company you keep, Liz.” He raised an eyebrow at Shona as he said this and suddenly Shona was on her feet, grabbing at Mike’s tee shirt as if attempting to shake some sense into him. Mike only raised one hand to push her away, yet used such force Shona almost fell backwards:
she cartwheeled her arms in an attempt to stay upright, before grabbing the wall to save herself.

“Oh classy.” Shona spat, massaging her shoulder. She was wearing a vest top, so I could see the flesh was red, where it had hit the brick of the attic wall. A nasty bruise would form there tomorrow. “Manhandling a girl. Nice one, Keegan!”

“Don’t bother playing the girl card.” Mike drawled, bored. “You came at me, remember? If you’re gonna play feminists, at least practice what you preach.”

“You’re disgusting,” Shona breathed, her voice dangerously low.

I stood between them before the fight could get more physical. “Please. Don’t.” I pleaded with Shona. “Could you… Wait downstairs? … Please.”

Behind me, I knew Mike would be eyeballing my best friend with a sarcastic grin, figuring I was on his side merely for wanting to hear him out and sending her downstairs. I squeezed her arm to say “sorry”: Shona sighed and backed down.

Still looking at Mike, she said to me, “I’ll be in the kitchen. Alright?” The subtext was clear: if Shona heard too much or Mike got physical with me, she’d be telling Francis about the pregnancy, chapter and verse. I loved her for that, especially as Mike appeared to shrink under the weight of the threat. For a microsecond. “Later.” She said to Mike. Mike made a face at her, mimicked her under his breath like a child.
What had I seen in him?
As soon as the attic door swung behind her, Mike was his usual self, all macho bravado in the safety of his room.

“So?” He said.

“So. It’s yours.” I confirmed, pushing down my anger. I needed to keep a clear head, however ugly this got.

“Do you want money, is that it?” Mike enquired.

For a moment I thought he meant a payoff. Yet I was no shark-like groupy and Mike was no celebrity, however high on himself he was. He had no public good name or wife to lose at the news of the pregnancy. More importantly, he had no wealth.
What the hell was he on about?

Mike raised his eyes skywards, realising I was not catching on. “For the abortion?” He prompted.

The abortion.
As if that was the only option. Not “an abortion”, as one of many things to be explored. Mike’s mind was already made up: there could be only one outcome here.

“I don’t know if that’s what I want.” I said.

“And what about what I want?” Mike challenged.

“We need to decide what happens next.” I pleaded, “I just want to look at all the options…”

“… Sounds like you’ve made your mind up already.” Mike accused.

“Yeah? Ditto!” I countered. Stalemate. The weight of the situation between us, Mike and I stared at each other, both of us searching for words. I found myself staring at the hairs on his arms, the veins bulging in his skin, his anger and frustration – and fear? - clear. His cigarette dangled from his slack hand, forgotten. The end had fallen off: more ash upon the filthy carpet, the burning ember making a hot rock in the fibres. Mike did not notice or care.

“I’m the one who’s pregnant.” I pointed out, attempting to choose my words carefully. “If you don’t want to be involved...”

“… Except I am involved!” Mike interjected, raising his voice at last. He couldn’t even so much as let me finish my sentence. “Even if I walk away, there’d
still be a kid somewhere in the world, related to me whether I like it or not! How’d you think that makes me feel?”

“Well you should have thought of that, then!” I spat back at him. I couldn’t believe it. Mike would rather simply erase all evidence of the pregnancy, rather than discuss it, like an adult? Yet standing before me in a tee shirt and boxers, his pale stick-like legs on display, his eyes shining with frustrated tears, I suddenly realised: Mike was just a boy. So what was I: a girl? Or a woman?.

“I don’t want a child.” Mike said at last. His tone made me think of a child caught in the throes of a tantrum, telling his mother he didn’t want dinner or to put his clothes on. Not something as monumental as this.

“I don’t know if I want one, either…” I began.