Читать книгу 11 Missed Calls: A gripping psychological thriller that will have you on the edge of your seat - Elisabeth Carpenter, Elisabeth Carpenter, Libby Carpenter - Страница 10

Debbie

Peter’s holding Annie while I pack. I almost don’t want to leave the hospital. With Bobby, I wanted to go home straight away, but regretted it as soon as I got back.

Ever since I gave birth to him, I’ve been scared that I’ll die any minute. I go to bed and, most nights, I think I won’t wake up. Sometimes I’m exhausted, but when my mind feels sleep begin – it’s like I’m slipping from life, and I’m jolted awake. I can’t sleep for hours after.

At least in hospital I’m safe. Plus, people give you food to eat, and you don’t have to worry about housework. As much as Peter said he’d become one of these New Men who help tidy up and change nappies, it didn’t happen. Now I know what’s waiting for me when I get home.

I had a little routine here. I got to know Stacy in the next bed. Actually … know is exaggerating it a bit. We watched Coronation Street together, and both our babies decided to sleep through it, which was a miracle in itself. Stacy couldn’t get over Bet Lynch being in the Rovers when it was on fire. I told her that it’s not real life, but she was having none of it. I put a cushion between us when she said she fancied Brian Tilsley – it still gives me shivers thinking about it.

‘Was it horrible spending the whole of your birthday in hospital?’ says Peter.

‘It wasn’t too bad,’ I say.

I smile at him, so he’ll probably think it’s because of Annie that I didn’t mind, because she’s enough of a present. He gives me a smile back. He thinks he can read my mind. I look at him and he’s the same lovely-looking man I’ve been with for years. I love him. Why are my thoughts telling me different? It’s like they’re betraying me.

I zip up my suitcase; the clothes inside’ll smell of hospital when I open it up. I’ll probably feel sentimental about it.

‘It’s too warm in here,’ I say.

He smiles again. Perhaps he likes the fact I’m suffering for our child – even after being pregnant and giving birth. Perhaps he’s right. It was a relatively quick labour – I’ve not endured enough to deserve the life I’ll go back to: swanning about the house all day watching Sons and Daughters, The Sullivans, and all the other soaps he reckons I watched during those long weeks when my maternity leave started.

‘Good luck,’ says Stacy, lying in the next bed, baby fast asleep in her arms – her only child.

‘Good luck,’ I say, to be friendly. ‘Not that you’ll need it.’

‘We should meet up for coffee sometime,’ she says.

‘Yes, we should.’

I pick the baby up from the bed and Peter and I leave the ward. I didn’t give Stacy my telephone number because we’ll never get together. People suggest it all the time and they never mean it. I’m not sure if I’ll regret it or not.

Annie’s wrapped up in the shawl we used for Bobby on his first day out into the world. We’re in the lift and Annie’s not opened her eyes since leaving the ward. She’s going to miss her first proper glimpse of sky if she’s not careful.

‘There, there,’ I say, stroking her soft, plump cheek.

‘Don’t wake her, Debs,’ says Peter. ‘The bright light might startle her.’

‘Don’t be silly. She’s got to see it some time.’

The lift doors open and there are people everywhere.

‘Can we pop into the shop to get a souvenir?’ I say.

I don’t wait for Peter.

‘Is Annie not souvenir enough?’

I pretend I didn’t hear. I want something to put in her little keepsake box, like I did for Bobby. Someday she’ll look at it and know that I cared enough.

On the counter, there’s a selection of pens. I pick one up that has a boat sailing up and down. She’ll like that, I know she will. I’d have loved my mum to have bought me anything that wasn’t on a birthday or Christmas, even if it were practical.

‘A pen’s got nothing to do with hospitals,’ says Peter.

‘They’re hardly going to sell stethoscopes and hypodermic needles.’

I smile at the lady behind the counter, but she doesn’t smile back. She’s not amused. I’m used to it. Peter’s always telling me not to be so honest in public.

I wind the window down because it’s as hot in the car as it was in the hospital. I’m holding on to Annie tightly on the back seat. Peter’s driving at about ten miles an hour. It’s a good job our house is only five minutes away.

I’m staring at Annie, willing her eyes to open, and it seems she’s telepathic: her eyes don’t even squint in the daylight.

‘Welcome to the world, little girl.’

I say it quietly, so Peter doesn’t hear. I’m keeping this moment for me.

They’re due here at three. The house looks okay; I have the baby as an excuse not to bother about it so much. If it were my mum visiting, I’d make it a bit messier – if only to give her something to do. She likes to feel useful.

Bobby’s waiting by the window. His little hands are around the cat’s neck as it lies on the back of the settee. Annie’s in the pram next to him by the window – the midwife said it’s the best way to get the jaundice out of her.

‘Are you sure you don’t mind Monica and Nathan coming round?’ says Peter. ‘I tried to put them off, but she wouldn’t listen.’

‘It’s fine, it’s fine.’

Sometimes I think Peter knows about my secret, but he doesn’t seem to let on.

He says I look good, considering, but I don’t feel it. I can’t move quickly with these damn painful stitches; I walk like I’ve drenched my trousers in starch. I’d planned what to wear when they came round, but my blouse gaped too much at the front. I’m like a cow that needed milking two days ago, and my breasts are leaking so much. So now, I’m wearing a jumper, in June, with two green paper towels from the hospital stuffed in each cup of my bra.

‘They’re here,’ shouts Bobby, jumping down from the settee, scaring the cat.

‘I’ll go,’ says Peter, as though he’s doing me a huge favour by answering the door.

I hear them in the hallway – Monica’s whispering in case Annie’s asleep, but Peter’s talking normally because we’ve decided to talk at a regular volume during the day so as not to make the baby used to silence. It took Bobby three years to learn that there didn’t have to be quiet in order to sleep.

I’m not the first person Nathan looks at when he walks in the room. His eyes are on the floor until his gaze reaches the pram wheels, and only then does he look up. He almost tiptoes, which isn’t really necessary on the carpet.

‘Well aren’t you a pretty little thing?’ he says.

Monica’s in my face and I almost jump, until I realise she’s kissing my cheek.

‘I know I saw you in the hospital,’ she says, ‘but bloody well done, you.’

She hands me a Marks & Sparks carrier bag that she’s filled with magazines, Ferrero Rocher, and a mini bottle of Snowball. Is it too early to open it?

‘You don’t need to whisper, everyone,’ shouts Peter, as though there were a crowd in the room. ‘We’re doing this thing …’

I let him explain. It’s embarrassing. It’s like we’re pretending to be New Age parents when we’re probably the opposite. Does Nathan think I’m boring now – worrying about babies and what sort of noise is acceptable?

‘Did you see the match on Sunday?’ Peter says to Nathan.

‘Oh God, don’t mention it,’ says Monica. ‘He’s not stopped moaning about it all week.’

‘Bloody hand of God,’ says Nathan. ‘I’m not watching any more World Cup. I just can’t believe …’ He shakes his head.

Monica sits and pulls Nathan down towards the settee by his hand; he lands next to her. Peter goes to the kitchen, and Monica leans towards me, her hands on her knees.

‘Peter’s so good, isn’t he?’

I glance at Nathan; he’s still not looking at me.

‘He is,’ I say. ‘He’s the best.’

Monica tilts her head. They’ve left Leo at his friend’s so they can have a proper visit. She’s so nice to me, she’s been such a good friend. I suddenly have this sense of remorse and a crushing feeling of shame about the thoughts I’ve been having. She gets down onto her knees and reaches into her pocket for a rectangular tissue.

‘It’s only normal,’ she says. ‘I cried for days after I had Leo.’

I hadn’t realised I was crying.

I pat my face dry and look at Nathan above the tissue.

He narrows his eyes when he looks at me.

Was that hatred? Does he think I’m weird? I’ve always been inappropriate. I feel like I’m in the wrong life. I should be with Nathan, not Peter. He was with me first, after all.

There was a girl in my class at school who died in a car crash when she was fourteen. I’ll always remember her name: Leslie Pickering. It’s terrible that I think about her at times like this, and I don’t know why I do. I think to myself: she never has to go through this, and I wish I were her. These thoughts scare me.

‘It’s just … just …’

I think of poor Leslie Pickering’s parents. I bet they wish I were dead instead of her, too.

My face is in my hands. Why am I doing this in front of them?

Monica pats my knees and rubs them like I need warming.

‘We need to arrange a night out,’ she says.

I look up. Nathan wrinkles his nose.

‘Don’t be stupid, Monica,’ he says. ‘She’s just had a baby – why the hell would she want a night out?’

I sit up a bit straighter and stuff the tissue up my sleeve.

‘Mind your language in front of Bobby,’ says Monica. ‘What about Lytham Club Day tomorrow instead? We could let the boys go on a few rides.’

‘Actually, that doesn’t seem such a bad idea,’ I say, pretending I want to go outside – that I wouldn’t care if everyone saw me walking like I’ve a horse missing between my legs. I could take some painkillers. ‘I’ve been in the house for too long. I could do with getting out.’

I try to make eye contact with Nathan, but after a few minutes, it gets silly. I’m ridiculous. Because it’s all in my head. Why would he want me? A mother who’s just given birth to her second child, and a wife who’s supposed to be in love with her husband. I’m a joke.