Aisling Ever After, page 13
Promising the Peigs ticket to Aubrey is a godsend because she’s having a tough time settling into Dublin life. Unlike Irish people moving to the US, who grew up on a diet of American TV shows and films, she really hadn’t a clue what to expect when she arrived here. She watched The Banshees of Inisherin on the plane over so was pleasantly surprised to see that Dublin is actually not all fields and donkeys. But she’s already missing Jeremy like mad and is struggling with not being able to plug in her hairdryer in the bathroom. It’s putting a dampener on the whole experience. Plus, she doesn’t like being on the back foot when it comes to local knowledge.
‘I promise the Luas isn’t always like that,’ I tell her softly after she recounts an unfortunate incident involving a group of tweens setting fire to a schoolbag while further down the carriage a fare evader was trying to wrestle the doors open. I would have thought after New York Aubrey would be up for anything, but the Red Line would test Jason Statham.
‘I know, I know. I’m just missing home. And ranch dressing. I can’t find it anywhere!’
‘Right, I need a break from these IKEA instructions. Will we have an actual work meeting? Something to report back to Mandy on Tuesday? She’s already scheduled a Zoom.’
I’m actually dreading having a face-to-face with Mandy. I feel so sneaky taking the job knowing full well that I’m going to be clocking off for at least six months while the company is still finding its feet. I’ve heard of women in New York sending emails between pushes and being back at their desks while their stitches are healing. I have every intention of taking all my maternity leave, though, whether she likes it or not. I know my rights. But I’ve decided I’m going to wait until l’m five months gone to tell her, because I probably won’t be showing until then. I’m also considering wearing a wire in case she threatens to murder me and I do end up going missing. It could be crucial evidence.
Aubrey snaps right into work mode and opens her laptop. Luckily the Wi-Fi is working like a dream. That might have sent her over the edge.
She looks at me over the top of the computer. ‘I have a lead on a waxing company – the Hairy Mollies – but it’s small fry.’
‘Small fry is good. It’s something. We’re starting at the bottom here. Anything else?’
‘What do you know about hair?’
I self-consciously touch my damp bun. ‘Not a huge amount.’
‘Okay, well, when Mandy was in London she connected with a potential new client who’s expanding into Ireland as a sort of tester before going to the UK. Paloma Porter Haircare.’
‘I have her deep-conditioning masque!’ I picked it up at one of Tara’s charity beauty sales for a dollar. She has one every month to get rid of all the free stuff that’s clogging up her spare room, with all proceeds going to a women’s shelter on the Lower East Side. The masque normally costs $30 so I was keeping it for a special occasion, but I’ve opened the lid three times for a sniff. Divine.
Aubrey rolls her eyes. ‘She’s not a person – it’s a corporation.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘So … any ideas? The budget is generous. Mandy wants to make it known that there’s a new player on the events scene in town.’
I think for a minute. ‘What about an awards show?’
Aubrey narrows her eyes. ‘What, like, Paloma Porter sponsors the Irish Oscars or something? Do you even have an equivalent of the Oscars here?’
I’m about to launch into a defensive explanation of the IFTAs when I remember some of the guests got a bit pissed and rowdy one year and then they stopped televising it for a while. It plays into too many stereotypes.
‘I mean we could create our own awards show from scratch. Something like’ – it comes to me in a flash of inspiration – ‘the Paloma Porter Style Awards. We can have categories for beauty industry professionals, celebrities, influencers. Anyone who’s cool. Let people campaign and then the public can vote.’
I can nearly hear the cogs in Aubrey’s head turning. ‘How will people vote?’
‘Josh B can make a website.’
‘What’s in it for the winner?’
‘The glory.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘A night out.’
‘A night out?’
‘You have to remember you’re in Dublin now, Aubrey. There’s not that much going on here, entertainment-wise. RTÉ might even show it. Well, maybe Virgin Media Two.’
‘Okay, let’s do up a pitch for Mandy,’ Aubrey concedes. ‘The sooner we get things moving and hire permanent staff, the sooner I can go home.’
****
‘Welcome home!’ John scoops me up in his arms on the doorstep of his parents’ house in Knocknamanagh.
‘Home? You know I’m BGB till I die, and don’t get me started on the tiny jersey debate again,’ I murmur into his shoulder.
‘Okay, okay, you know what I meant.’ He laughs and holds me at arm’s length. ‘I’ve already ordered two little hurls in the BGB and Knock colours. We can be bipartisan.’
‘You big eejit!’
‘Are you nervous?’
‘A bit. Are they here?’
‘They are. They know we have to tell them something. I think they’re expecting an engagement. Oh, by the way, will you marry me?’
I roll my eyes and push past him. ‘Come on, let’s just do it.’
****
I’m shaking a bit when John delivers the news. His dad, Ray, strides over and gives him a big handshake, and after Fran has digested everything for thirty seconds, she comes to me first and wraps her arms around me. I wasn’t expecting a hug.
‘Well, isn’t that lovely news? You’re a great girl.’ Over her shoulder, I raise my eyebrows at John and he smiles. This couldn’t be going any better. I sensed Fran was disappointed that John and I seemed done for good when he went to Dubai with Megan, so maybe me getting knocked up is actually a big win for her. I’m just so glad there wasn’t a lecture or a round of tutting.
‘Will you have dinner, Aisling? You will, of course. You always had a good appetite. And you’ll stay tonight? I’ll do up the spare bed for ye.’ She kind of mutters the end of the last sentence but I hear her well enough. Never in all my years of knowing John have we been allowed to share a double bed in the spare room. I was always in the single bed in his sister Rachel’s old room and he was in his own. The fact that she’s now giving us the nod to share is like getting a blessing from Rome. I don’t know if I’ll be able to look her in the eye in the morning.
I follow Fran into the kitchen while Ray and John go out to look at Ray’s new car. As they go out the door, I hear Ray calling it a ‘Granddadmobile’ and it nearly sets me off.
‘How far along are you, Aisling? Oh look, move those papers and sit down.’ She points to the comfy armchair by the stove.
‘Actually only nine weeks. So it’s early days, although it has taste buds now. We just wanted to tell you and Ray because I already told Mammy.’
‘The first grandchild on both sides. We’ll have them spoilt between us.’
Fran busies herself draining potatoes and checking chops. I offer to help twice, but her second refusal is borderline terrifying, so instead I take up one of the papers I moved off the chair. The local weekly has a story on the front page about three Christmas wreaths that were stolen from front doors over the festive period. Hopefully the best minds are on the case. I’m just getting stuck into a review of the Knock Musical Society’s run of The Rocky Horror Picture Show and the praise for Father Fenlon in the high heels when Fran asks me to tell the lads that dinner is ready and says she’ll take a Romantica out for dessert since it’s a special occasion. My heart feels so full.
****
‘I’m surprised Fran didn’t have long johns and a floor-length nightdress laid out for us,’ John murmurs as we lie naked in the spare-room bed under a picture of Jesus Christ himself. We thought about removing the red bulb but it felt too blasphemous.
‘I suppose she’s thinking “what’s the worst that can happen now?”’ I whisper back, before sliding out of my side of the bed.
John grabs at my arm. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘I’m putting on my nightdress. What if Fran comes bursting in in the morning with a plate of rashers and sausages? I might be pregnant with her illegitimate grandchild, but I’m not having her seeing me in the nip on her good spare-room sheets.’
He sighs. ‘Good point. At least they’re going away tomorrow.’
I actually can’t wait for that bit. Fran and Ray are off to a boules tournament until Monday, so John and I will have the place to ourselves. It’s already been a pain going between Mammy’s and Sadhbh’s, so I’m looking forward to having a bit of privacy. We both are.
In the morning I wake up early and for a second I assess myself, checking to see if I feel sick. No nausea, thank God, but my belly hurts like I’m about to do a stinker in Fran’s retro seaside-themed bathroom. I tiptoe across the hall and squeeze the door shut as quietly as I can. The sick feeling comes rushing back as I sit down on the toilet, and when I glance down into my pale-pink knickers a slash of bright-red blood in the gusset knocks the air out of my lungs.
I go to reach for my phone to google ‘nine weeks pregnant blood’, but I’ve left it in the bedroom. I stand up and close my eyes, afraid to look in the bowl before I flush, but I open them again to see more blood swirl away down the drain. I steady myself on the sink and just miss knocking over a ceramic lighthouse before crossing the hall back into the spare room to shake John’s foot under the duvet.
‘John, I think there’s something wrong.’
CHAPTER 21
‘And remind me of how far along your pregnancy is?’ It’s John who answers Dr Trevor’s gentle question in the strangely familiar confines of Dr Maher’s old office. The de Valera picture on the wall is gone, but it still has the same olive-green wallpaper and surprisingly comfortable wicker chairs. Sadhbh would love them, although Dr Maher definitely wasn’t being trendy when he installed them about twenty years ago.
‘Aisling, do you want to lie down here while I examine you? Nothing scary, I just want to feel your tummy.’
He walks over to the black leather bed in the corner and pulls out a ream of blue tissue paper to cover it. It’s still early in the morning. After waking John up and racing back to the bathroom to vomit, we waited another hour until it felt decent enough to ring Dr Trevor. He told us to meet him at his surgery. I wonder did he tell Mammy.
I slip my feet out of my runners and swing my legs up to lie down on the rustling blue paper, grateful to have John beside me. He stays in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck and then his eyes. It all feels so surreal.
‘Any pain when I push here?’ Dr Trevor’s hands are warmer on my skin than I anticipated.
‘No.’
‘But you have been having cramps?’
‘Yeah. Like period pain. A bit worse, maybe.’ Tears leak out of the corners of my eyes because I know this is probably not a good sign.
‘And how much blood would you estimate?’
‘Not loads, maybe like the first day of my period. A couple of tablespoons.’
‘And the colour? Red or more brown?’
‘Red. Bright red.’
‘Okay, Aisling, thank you. You can sit up now.’
Dr Trevor returns to his desk and starts tapping away at his computer. ‘I’m referring you to the early pregnancy unit at the General. They’ll do a scan so they can’ – he pauses – ‘so they can figure out what’s going on.’
He taps away for another few seconds, and I just have to fill the silence. ‘Do you think it’s a, a thing? A miscarriage?’
He stops typing and looks from me to John and back to me. ‘It’s very hard to know without a blood test and a scan. I’m going to draw some blood now and then again on Monday morning so we can compare your hormone levels. You’ll have the scan on Monday morning too, so we’ll have a much clearer picture then.’
‘Monday?’ John’s voice is surprisingly loud. ‘She has to wait until then? It’s only Saturday. That’s inhumane!’
Dr Trevor nods gravely. ‘I’m afraid so. They don’t open at weekends any more and all emergencies go in via A&E. I don’t want to put you through that unless absolutely necessary. It’s better to wait if you can. Now, Aisling, I’ll draw some blood if that’s okay.’
I make a fist like Dr Trevor asks. Usually if I see or hear the blood whooshing into the little catcher yoke I feel a bit funny, but this time I watch it with fascination, thinking of all the secrets it’s hiding. I look up at John and he’s staring at me. I give him a little half-smile and he gives one back. It is absolutely berserk how brand new this situation is. I have a split second of positive clarity and think, ‘Sure, everything will be grand, no matter what,’ but then in the next breath I think about the tiny feet in the tiny socks and my eyes spill over.
Dr Trevor places a large warm hand over one of mine. ‘Try not to worry too much.’
‘What should she do between now and Monday?’ John asks, still sounding incredulous about the wait.
‘Because you’re already experiencing some cramping and bleeding, I need you to be vigilant on observing more pain and bleeding and any signs of it intensifying.’ Dr Trevor busies himself labelling the vials of blood. ‘If anything becomes worrying or very painful do go straight to A&E.’
‘Have you told Mammy? Like, did you tell her I was coming in?’
‘No, no, of course not – God no. This is confidential. Completely.’
****
Back out in the car, we sit in silence for a minute before John reaches over and takes my hand. ‘Are you alright?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know.’
‘What’ll we do now? We can go back to my house? Fran and Ray should be gone by now. We’ll have the place to ourselves. I’ll mind you.’
I smile sadly and nod through my tears. ‘That sounds nice.’
****
There’s no need to be ‘vigilant’ for the pain because it comes with gusto from around lunchtime and continues in waves, along with what Google seems to think is ‘standard’ bleeding for a miscarriage at nine weeks. John takes away the stack of baby books and fills and refills hot-water bottles as I lie in the spare-room bed, one of the mattress-sized sanitary towels provided by Dr Trevor between my legs.
We watch episode after episode of the American version of The Office on John’s laptop. I laugh along with it at times, and then feel guilty for laughing. I avoid a phone call from Majella and text her to say I can’t talk and will ring her later, but I never do. I compose an email to Mandy and Aubrey saying I’m sick and think I’ll need to take a few days off next week. I scrunch into a foetal position when the pain is bad, and John gets panicky and talks about A&E, but I know myself that there’s no need for that. I just know that I have to exist with this pain and the blood clots I glance at in the toilet before scrunching my eyes closed.
We fall asleep before it gets dark on Saturday evening, and I wake up really early on Sunday morning. I can tell by the light behind the curtains. The giant pad between my legs reminds me that it wasn’t all a horrible dream.
I turn over and John’s face is illuminated by his phone. ‘Stop googling it, there’s nothing we can do to stop it happening,’ I whisper to him, and he gathers me up in his arms as I cry for the millionth time. When I eventually stop he asks me if I want to watch something. ‘Something cosy,’ I say, and we go for the octopus documentary on Netflix. It feels safe. Majella said it was lovely, but she was convinced the lad in it was horny for the octopus, so at least we can look out for that. I find myself enthralled from the start. Yes, maybe the man is a little bit horny for the octopus, but she’s his best friend. At the bit where it looks like she’s gone missing I cry so much that John asks if we should turn it off and I say no. There’s still a good bit left so there has to be some kind of positive news coming, I figure. The octopus makes a reappearance after a battle with a shark takes one of her legs, but she grows it back.
‘I’ve never rooted for anything more in my life,’ I say to John, but he just stoically nods.
As the film ends and the octopus dies after hatching her eggs, I cling to him, and as we watch the footage of the man swimming with his son and seeking out more octopus friends, I feel John’s chest jerk up and down. He furiously wipes away tears as I look up at him.
‘It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,’ I say gently. I scooch up the bed and take him in my arms. He clings around my waist and lies his head on my belly and cries and cries. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him cry, which makes me cry.
When his sobs have petered out, I run my fingers through his hair. ‘So, do you think he was horny for the octopus?’
It’s a relief to laugh.
****
Later, John gets up to heat up some soup and make toast, and Dr Trevor rings. I tell him about the pain and the bleeding, and his voice sounds serious as he tells me that it is likely I am miscarrying. Like I didn’t already know. Sunday night brings more of the same, and I worry about ruining Fran’s sheets. John tells me, ‘They’re only sheets,’ and skips the whole season of The Office where Pam is pregnant. We stay in bed when we hear the back door announcing Fran and Ray’s arrival home.
‘I don’t want to go downstairs,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t want to see anyone.’
‘Stay here. I’ll bring up some crisps. I won’t say anything until we know.’
‘I wish we had our own place. Just the two of us.’
‘Me too.’
****
On Monday morning, Dr Trevor takes more blood and gives me a referral letter for the hospital, where he says they’ll do an ultrasound. I wish he’d been more specific about the type of ultrasound because this one involves a wand going right up my vagina. They confirm that there’s no heartbeat and tell me my body is doing everything it should and advise that I continue the miscarriage without intervention. ‘Conservative management’ they call it. Neither of us cries during the whole hospital visit, but when Dr Trevor rings when we’re on the way back to Knocknamanagh and says the blood test results seem to confirm what the hospital has said, John pulls in to the side of the road and we cry together until the Micra windows have steamed up.
