Chapter 4 - Megan

Stretch marks. That extra weight, still hanging on. Sagging. Old. Grey hairs and wrinkles and an incompetent reproductive system, still carrying the weight of a ghost baby that wasn’t there.

Thankfully it wasn't too long to wait for the doorbell, for the much-needed embrace. “Hi, mum. You ready to go?”

“Liza. It's so good to see you. You’re sure it’s no trouble?”

“’Course not. It’s just half an hour into town, and we’ll go for coffee first and then you can come to mine for a couple hours after. I’ve been thinking I should take a day or two off and can’t think who I’d rather spend it with. Best foot forward now.”

Megan smiled despite herself. “You make it sound like a day out, not a support group meeting.”

“You mean it can’t be both?”

Well no, not really. Especially not after the meeting, coming back to Liza’s flat for two solid hours of crying on the sofa. Okay, it did end in laughter, packed around sobs, Liza regaling her with caricatures of every unusual or ignorant customer they’d seen that week, plus tales from colleagues and about her manager, in all cases far more fun in the telling than they would have been in real life. And Megan started to sit up and to think about life, about normal everyday life.

“Ruth was here yesterday,” she said suddenly.

“Oh yeah, I remember you saying…”

“It was nice. Like a normal, simple evening.” She played with a pen, pulling tattered thoughts together. “I’ve started thinking, it’ll be time to start packing soon. Definitely time to clear out… your old room.”

“Ah. Yes.” Liza picked at her nails. “You want help?”

“I’ll probably need it.” Megan laughed bitterly. “The cost of all that stuff…”

“You could maybe get refunds for some of it? Though whether you want to…”

“No. I don’t.”

Liza pushed a box of chocolates at Megan to avoid answering immediately. “I bet there are… loads of people who’ll be grateful. Other babies.”

“Yeah.” What if she did end up getting pregnant again? What if they had a rainbow baby, like so many of the women at support group were talking about? Like Jacqui and Anne both hoped they were actually on the road to?

No. Not happening. Not even if the bloody Archangel Gabriel showed up, nope, big fat no way from her. And that would be the polite version.

“Well… no hurry. Let me know, whenever.”

“Thanks, sweetie. I will do.” Megan hesitated, a fragment of last night’s conversation still hanging in her mind. “It needs doing. Whether we move or not.”

“It’s not certain?”

She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. Ruth hinted in conversation with Mika, like she couldn't quite bring herself to say it was definitely going to happen, and then gave me the “I’ll talk to you later” look. Which we both forgot about.”

“Oh.” Liza picked at her nails again. “Guessing dad’s not mentioned it?”

“Obviously not. So… I’m just picking up stray hints here and there, and waiting for someone to involve us. Same for the kids. What can we do?”

“Have it out with dad?”

“I dunno. What if I upset things?”

“How long are you going to wait? It’s your life too…”

Megan held out her hands. “I don’t know. I’m going to be honest with you, Liza, I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I just know that… Tom and I barely speak. And not about anything important. And sometimes he’s… almost normal, with the kids. And sometimes, he’s just… silent. And sometimes I glance at him in the night and he’s just lying there, staring at the ceiling. And it’s like…” she shivered. “It’s like the moment they put Grace in his arms he just froze. Like he broke, inside, somewhere we can’t see. And like, I broke too, but he… sometimes I look at him and wonder… if it’s actually still him in there.”

Liza stared at the floor, thinking. “And it’s not… improving?”

Megan shrugged. “It kind of is? At least on the outside. I know Ruth – and Bishop Luke, too – they’ve talked to him. He started reading, and praying, and that kind of thing, which he wasn’t doing. And last night, he sort of… seemed normal. Engaged in conversation. Joked a bit, messed about like normal.” She looked away. “And then Ruth went away, and it was just us, and… well, he said goodnight, and all that, but I know Tom, and it wasn’t him.”

Liza twisted her fingers together and then untwisted them, picked at her fingernails, looked at the ground. Megan laughed awkwardly.

“It’s probably just me. This whole thing’s messed me up, big time. He’s probably fine with everyone else.”

“Or you’re just the one who knows him best. You notice the difference. How would you know what he’s like with other people?”

“Well, with everyone yesterday…”

“With everyone. Big group. Different dynamic. Was he playing the joker?” She smiled at Megan’s eye-roll. “He’s dad, of course he was.” Then she was serious again. “That’s nothing. It’s like an act. He does it on autopilot.”

Megan leant back. “You’ve got him figured out.”

“Hardly. I just know he’s good at hiding his feelings.”

Another silence. Megan examined the chocolate tray and picked one out, a strawberry crème. Sickly sweet, obviously laden with sugar. Perfect.

“Something else I need a hand with.”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve had all the careers advice stuff recently. I need to sort my CV out. Whether we stay or go, I want to be ready as soon as I know. I can’t hide at home much longer.”

“I’m not much help, but I can try if you want. Though don’t expect me to know anything, I just got lucky landing mine. What do you want to do?”

“Dunno. Anything, pretty much. Nothing to do with the Church.”

“What, anything? Shop floor, admin, fast food chef, cleaner..?”

“Okay maybe not fast food. But anything else.”

“Something with kids?”

“Maybe, I guess.”

“I mean, just seems natural. After Mika. And all the other foster kids. And us. You’d be a great teacher.”

Megan snorted. “Me? Don’t even have a degree.”

“Is that required? I dunno, I guess… classroom assistant?”

“Special needs? I guess? Though I’m not at all qualified…”

“Literally. You turned Mika into a chatterbox.”

“Not exactly a qualification.”

“It should be, you can tell 'em about it at interview. May as well try, anyway. Or classroom assistant. Or school catering, front of house – feeding kids, making them feel loved.”

A small, real smile edged up onto Megan’s face. “You know what I like, don’t you?”

“I’ve been on the receiving end.”

“I mean, I probably won’t get it…”

“Big yourself up, you’d be awesome. I’ll help you with the applications.”

Megan leaned over and hugged her awkwardly. “I’m going to miss you, if we do move.”

“And I’ll miss you too, but hey? Easy way for me to get independence!”

If we do move.

If this, if that. When all she wanted was to push on with life, to move on from hell, it was all tied up in ifs. At least she had one thing to be doing now, tidying up her CV and drafting snippets of possible covering letters. But beyond that, and a bit of scrolling through job ads, what? Just waiting to see what county she’d be in in two months’ time?

And then there were the children. New schools to be found. At least it wasn’t too bad a time for it – Mika, halfway through primary and definitely capable of making new friends, and with all the paperwork sorted out to access her various support packages. She'd get extra induction days and home visits and a key worker and a safe space and her communication cards, and within a couple of months she'd be just like anyone else. And then there was Mars, just finishing his GCSEs, a point when many of his classmates would be moving anyway. They’d found him a nice place, a big sixth form with reliably good results and an atmosphere he liked and the right set of options, he’d done all of the applications already and had his place confirmed. If plans changed?

It couldn’t change, not now. Surely? It was all announced, dates set. An episcopal consecration! An enthronement! Utterly ridiculous concepts, yet this was the world her husband lived in.

A world which, apparently, didn’t go in for talking to people outside of itself.

She toyed with calling Ruth, reminding her of the dropped hint, forcing her to explain. Ruth had clearly planned to, just not had the opportunity, leaving as soon as Mika was in bed to be back in York for work the next day. It would only take a minute, and be no trouble… but then, ringing the Archbishop of York? A friend of Tom’s, yes, but… an archbishop. Megan could never entirely get past that. Ruth was just so… competent. So certain, so in control.

And what would she say? That she couldn’t ask Tom himself about it? Yeah, that’d be really helpful, if there were already questions over his fitness to take this new job…

Liza took her home, in the end, said a slow goodbye and then left. Alone, Megan took a deep breath, looked around, and found a couple of boxes. Passive aggressive packing, that was the way to go. Looking for anything that they wouldn’t need in the next two months and stowing it away, filling a bag for the charity shop with old toys and anything else they didn’t really need. And then… what to do with the packed boxes? There was an obvious place, but… she wasn’t tackling it, yet. Instead she just stacked the boxes on the landing, outside the door. Later. She'd leave it for later.

“It’s almost moving time?”

Megan pushed a snack onto the table for Mika, just back from school and still in her uniform. “Less than eight weeks. I thought I’d make a start. Save a last-minute rush.”

“Should I pack too?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it yet. Though if you have any old toys or books, we can take them to the charity shop, that’ll make it easier when we get round to doing your stuff – and make you more room, too. But as for actually packing, mum’s just being organised.” She carried on packing glasses in bubble wrap, stuff that only came out at Christmas and Easter. She’d get the best table cloth in a minute.

She was wiping now-empty shelves when Tom got home, and didn’t straighten up to greet him.

“What are you doing.”

“Oh, hi. Packing.”

“We’re not going to need any of that stuff before..?”

“Obviously not.”

“Yeah. ‘Course. It’s not a bit early to start on that? I mean, let me help…”

“It’s seven and a half weeks. It’ll be crazy. Anyway, I’ve nothing better to do.”

“Yeah. I guess.” He shuffled his feet. “Anything you need me for?”

“No.”

“Okay. Um, yeah. I’ll…” he disappeared out of the room, in the direction of his study. Because yes, he did have something better to do.

Megan identified the biggest drip of sticky brown something and went to war - because she didn’t have anything better to do. Because her entire existence was about looking after a family, but what would she do when they moved on? What was she, apart from that, apart from cooking and cleaning and packing and waiting for the family to come home? What was she, apart from the housekeeper? She could, perhaps, fling the cloth down and storm upstairs, slam the bedroom door and refuse to come out until tomorrow. Let them look after themselves.

“Mum, what’s for dinner?”

“Pasta. With mushroom sauce. You’re getting hungry, love?”

Mika wrapped her arms round Megan’s neck from behind. “I love mushrooms! And pasta. Is it shells?”

“I believe so.”

“The best kind of pasta. Can we have peas for veg?”

“You’re easily pleased.”

“What are you doing?”

“Cleaning the cupboard.”

“Can I help?”

Megan smiled, though Mika couldn’t see it. “I’ve about finished. But you can help with the cooking if you like.”

“I know how to make pasta! That’s easy.”

“Excellent, you can be in charge then.”

It was later, lying in bed alone, that she looked back. “I have nothing better to do…” “Yeah, I guess…” And she couldn’t really protest that, because he was just agreeing with her, and it was true. Even Mika was starting to become self-sufficient. No job, no baby, no life. What did she have to do all day, except wait for husband and children to come home? How had Megan Fournier turned into a housewife?

And what would she do now? When even her husband saw her that way, when her children were growing up, when she was about to lose what little life she had here…

She trailed a hand across into Tom’s half of the bed and then drew it back. He didn’t mean it. He was just… struggling. She ought to be supporting him, really, helping him get through it, facing everything together. Grace was, after all, their baby – not his, not hers, but theirs. Together. They’d done it all together. They’d vowed on their wedding day to live their lives together, to share everything, to be one. She should be helping him deal with it.

A shiver ran up her body at the memory of the pain, the all-consuming agony tearing through body and soul. All that pain, for a baby who would never breathe. All of that, for nothing.

Tom’s hand in hers, the slightest grimace as she crushed it tight. His hands cool as hers were hot. The forced calm, the soothing words, you can do it, keep going, almost there, you’re so brave, keep going, I love you…

I love you. The last time she’d heard those words was just before her baby left her body. He did, of course, he’d said it so many times… so many times, but not since that day. Not since he’d seen the child she’d failed. His child which her body had killed.

Tomorrow, she’d make a start on that room. See how much she could manage. The kids would be out all day at school, no doubt Tom would have meetings, she’d wait until the house was empty. She could do it on her own, leave herself free to cry, to take her time. To get the job done, so that they could start moving on.

Though would she ever really be able to move on?

The stairs creaked. She rolled over onto her side, facing away from the door, and hid her tears in her pillow.

© 2022 E.G. Ferguson