The Decision: Lizzie's Story (5 page)

The general hospital was not in Winby, but the best part of twenty miles away in the next town over, Exmorton. Helen had advised me “the procedure” – she called it that throughout our meeting – was not available in Winby’s small cottage hospital. Sitting on a coach into Exmorton, flashing by fields and woodland, I suddenly realised how isolated from the rest of civilisation we were. We lived in a place where
you couldn’t get even so much as a doctor’s appointment when you needed one, for there were no walk-ins available. Young people were cast adrift in the system and had to rely on the kindness of more well-informed strangers like Nikki to help them find a solution. Real life started so many miles away: proper healthcare, university, even careers. It didn’t seem right, somehow. Walking into Exmorton’s large general hospital felt bewildering and scary. It was like a labyrinth. I ended up in Urology – I didn’t even know what that was – before being directed by a sympathetic porter with a kindly face to the right ward. I wondered if he would be so kindly if he knew what I was about to do. Arriving at reception, a young nurse with purple hair and Doc Marten’s took me to a ward full of sad-looking girls. Some of them had their mothers with them, others their boyfriends, a couple of them had both. Only I was alone.

“Is there anyone I can call for you?” The nurse said.

I shook my head and pulled the curtain around my bed so I could see no one else and no one else could see me. A terrible sense of trepidation gripped me: was I doing the right thing? I knew in my heart I was. Yet why didn’t it feel like it?

The rest of the day passed in a blur. A doctor came and examined me, felt my tummy and muttered something about gestation to an eager-looking medical student. A psychiatrist who pretended she wasn’t a psychiatrist stopped by for a chat: “How do I feel?”
Terrible,
I wanted to say, but bravado would not allow me to. I simply nodded, my default setting of the past few days.

Then… nothing. I could hear the voices of other patients and somewhere a girl was crying, her mother offering soothing words. I felt strangely empty, like I wasn’t really there, like this was all just a bad dream. What felt like years passed and a Filipino nurse arrived with a small cup with a single pill inside. Squat, no-nonsense, she offered it to me with no judgement on her face, yet my shame insisted it must still
be there. Would this be what it would be like forever, now? I hesitated, my hand over the cup.

“Are you sure, darling?” The Filipino nurse said, her words melting together in her thick accent.

I looked up at her at last and I saw only sympathy in her eyes. “Yes.” I said finally – and I was. I took the pill, washing it down with water.

I hadn’t really thought about what would happen next. I suppose in my mind’s eye I had imagined the baby would simply disappear, despite Helen’s careful and vivid explanations. Knowing what would happen and discovering it
for real
though were two very different things. A second pill later – the full course – and I felt the familiar gripes of period-like pain and panic fluttered my heart a little.

No turning back now.

I felt heat envelop me, then nausea. The pain was moderate, though it grew in intensity. A trip to the toilet later confirmed the pregnancy was ending: blood. I remembered one of the leaflets I had read: the passing of the “egg sac” would be next –
don’t look, don’t look
. Egg sac. They meant the baby, of course. “Just think of it as a collection of cells”, the psychiatrist had said. But wasn’t that what all of us were?

“You alright, darling?” The Filipino nurse said as I gathered my things together later. “I call someone for you?”

Tight-lipped, I murmured a barely audible “no thanks”. Shona had arranged for her father – home for once – to come and pick me up. They waited in the car park, Shona’s curious face pressed against the glass of the car window.

“You look like shit.” She declared as I clambered gingerly into the back seat.

“Shona.” Her father scolded. Shona merely pulled a face at him, not caring he could see her doing so. I wondered where she got the nerve to do that. “Everything alright, Lizzie?” he said.

“Just visiting.” I said vaguely, though this seemed to satisfy him. Shona gave me a look in return that told me she didn’t believe me for one second and later that night, she listened wide-eyed as I told her the full story.

“Do you regret it?” she demanded.

I thought of the “procedure” as Helen called it. It had been much harder and more traumatic that I had expected. But then I thought of Mike and Mum: how I would never have to have those awkward conversations or have to justify myself to Mike’s Dad or my sisters, barring Sal. I had already planned to tell her it had been a false alarm, anyway. No one need ever know for real, not ever. It could be swept under the carpet, consigned to a terrible moment in time; dealt with and forgotten. Yet something told me I would never truly forget. Though I didn’t regret my decision – I had had too much to lose – I felt an unbearable well of sadness growing within me. I had not entered into the abortion lightly. I had felt I had had no choice, if I were to have the future I was meant to have. But I deserved that future. I had worked hard, too hard, to have it snatched from me at the very last moment.

“No.” I said. And meant it.

The weeks that followed seem to pass on fast-forward: my results arrived and I had done as well as my course tutors predicted. My eighteenth birthday was a small affair, just family, followed by combined “goodbye” drinks with friends and associates, as our friendship group all prepared for our new lives. There was packing for university, plus the organisation of overdrafts, bills and other “adult” stuff, not to mention the excitement and trepidation of what was to come. When focusing on
university, I could gloss over what had happened. Even looking at Sal’s accusatory face over the breakfast table could not get me down. Though I had told her about the supposed “false alarm”, I sensed she did not believe me. But rather than tell the truth or discuss the situation with my confused and angry fifteen year old sister, I chose to ignore her.

But there was one person I could not ignore: Mike. Every time I saw him, it was like all my nerve endings shrieked,
Tell him what you did
. But what would that achieve? He would never have wanted the child and even if he had, I didn’t anyway. Better still that he never knew the sadness of having to make the decision. That’s how I justified it, anyway. I knew I had been wrong not to involve him and guilt kept me away from him in those final few weeks before university. We were going to different ones anyway, several hundred miles apart. I told myself it would never have worked beyond Christmas, anyway. So I watched his confusion, then his anger at the sudden turn of events. I barely paid him any attention on nights out; I “forgot” to return his calls. Voicemails and text messages arrived, demanding to know why I was treating him this way. Finally a last text arrived with a single word: BITCH.

And then, silence.

Mike’s disappearance from my life did not go unnoticed by Mum. She made veiled queries about the split, but I batted them away absently, unable to lie directly to her, for fear of unravelling the rest of the deceit.

Then as life is wont to do, it solved the dilemma for me. A day before leaving for university, Mum came into my room as I was doing the last of my packing.

“I saw Philip in town.” Mum said. Philip was Shona’s Dad’s name. I purposefully didn’t look up, for fear of Mum’s gaze burning a hole in my heart and exposing me. “He says he hopes you feel better?”

I tried to bluff my way through it. “I’m fine.”

“He says he picked you up from the hospital. In Exmorton?” Mum said, her voice deliberately calm. I could tell she was trying her hardest to keep hold of herself. I cursed Philip silently. So he had not believed I was visiting someone after all.

But still I persisted: “I told him, I was visiting someone.” I said.

“Who?” Mum enquired.

The few weeks that had passed had made me complacent. I couldn’t think of a name on the spot. “Just a girl from college.” I stammered.

“Who?” Mum demanded.

“Just a girl! You don’t know her!” I shrieked, desperate to get out of the conversation. I was not going to do this. Not now, not a single day before I left for university.

Then, Mum’s bull’s eye: “He says he picked you up from the left side.”

The left side: what people in town called the side of the hospital that covered maternity, obstetrics, gynaecology. How many times had Dad careered the car around that massive car park, negotiating the stupid one-way system, as my Mum puffed and panted in labour?
She knew.

So I told her.

There were tears, but not for the reasons I expected. I had thought Mum would plead the case for her lost “grandchild”, or that she could point the finger at me, saying I was judging her and our lives by not wanting to be the same as hers. Instead, it turned out it wasn’t just Mike I should have felt guilt over. I had not allowed my mother to support me in my decision either. I had decided, without asking, what Mum’s reaction would be: I had played judge and jury. It was only now, away from
the trauma of the actual situation, I could recognise that. She had wanted to be there for me, support me, in whatever decision I had chosen.
And I had not allowed her.

I tried to justify myself, make her see I had never meant her harm, but somehow that was worse; I had barely considered her feelings or needs as my mother at all. The evening ended on an uneasy détente and I retired to bed on my very last night at home with a head full of thoughts and a heart full of regrets. Not because of the abortion, but because of the way I had handled it. I thought back to the mothers and the boyfriends on my ward. All those other girls and women had had their loved ones for support. But crucially, it wasn’t just for them: it was for those mothers and boyfriends too. I recalled the crying girl and the sound of her mother’s soothing voice, comforting her daughter, but also herself:
at least she was there, a part of her daughter’s life when she needed her
. What did my Mum have, now? It was as if my rejection had opened up a chasm between us. I wondered if we could ever find our way back from it. I honestly didn’t know and that’s what scared me most.

In the morning Mum presented bacon and eggs in honour of me leaving; usually it was just cereal and toast. My sisters gave me small going-away presents: a writing set from Amanda; pens from Sal; a random sparkly unicorn figurine from Hannah, typical of her. The twins had drawn me a picture of the house, with a giant portrait of me standing over it with a big red smile on my face and green hair. Dad arrived with helium balloons that wouldn’t fit in Mum’s tiny car with the luggage, so we set them off from the garden with our names and address attached to them.

“I wonder who will write back!” Hannah enthused and I envied her. Everything was always so positive for her, yet even on the eve of an exciting new life, I felt only fear.
Typical me.

Then the time came when I had to get in the car with Mum to drive to the station. Dad and the girls waved for as long as the car took to get to the end of the country lane and then silence descended in the car between Mum and I. I wanted to say “sorry” but I had said it a thousand times the night before and I knew it meant very little. Actions spoke louder than words. Instead we drove the hour it took to the station, without saying a word, just the occasional sorrowful glance from Mum at me in the rearview mirror.

At the rural station in the middle of nowhere, students were shoving their cases and bags onto a state-of-the-art train that seemed to have no place amongst the greenery; a steam locomotive would have been more appropriate. Irritated businessmen and women, not used to sharing the narrow platform, tutted and shook out newspapers in an attempt to gain more arm space. I looked at the train and felt as if everything was going to change. I would go and never come back quite the same again. Perhaps that wouldn’t even be one of my many flights of fancy, but the truth.

“Elizabeth.” Mum said. I looked back, startled; she hardly ever called me by my full name. “This is for you.”

She handed me a small trinket box. I accepted it without a word, feeling I didn’t deserve it after the way I had treated her, but knowing she would be offended if I refused it. Inside, was a silver ring with a green stone, my favourite colour.

“I got it on the market.” Mum gabbled. “I hope it fits…”

I slipped it on my finger. It did. “Thank you.” I gulped, barely able to look her in the eye. Suddenly Mum had enveloped me in her bony embrace.

“I’m so proud of you, you know.” She said. And at that moment I felt my heart would burst. She still loved me after all. We
would
be okay.

And then the guard’s whistle went and Mum was urging me, “go, go” and I was suddenly on board the train, waving from a window, to my impossibly tiny mother, getting tinier as she faded into the distance. A new life could begin.

As I sat back in my chair in the crowded train, I could hear a phone ringing that no one was answering. Then, a little embarrassed as I clocked the exasperated expressions of other travellers, I realised it was my own.

I dug the phone out of my pocket – and on the LCD was MUM. Yet I could see her on the platform, still waving, no phone to her ear. A little confused, I pressed the green button.

“Hello?” I said…

MUM

… And I was back in those grotty toilets, back at Winby marketplace. The phone to my ear. I blinked furiously, my world out of focus, the light hurting my eyes.

“Lizzie? Lizzie… are you there?” On the other end of the line, Mum seemed far away, as if she were underwater. For a second I felt completely disassociated from myself and my own voice seemed far away too, as if I was listening out for someone else speaking instead.

“I-I’m here.” I stammered, though my voice felt impossibly low somehow. “Must be a bad reception.”

My confusion lessened as the world around me swam into focus in glorious technicolour. I was outside the toilet cubicles, looking at my reflection in the aluminium mirror, eye shadow sparkles smeared on my face. I looked down at my left hand, from which the positive pregnancy tester dangled. Of course. Nausea hit me and I leant against the sinks, willing Mum to get off the line. The lemming in me wanted to yell, simply, “I’m pregnant!” down the phone at her. But I knew that would not go down well.