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I also need to sort out Kathy and Roy. I have to get this sorted, or it’s going to be an unbearable burden for me. I go with her to her doctor’s appointment, and she doesn’t argue when I suggest I go in to see him with her. I tell the doctor how bad she is and that she needs help now. He does everything he can. He takes it seriously. Ups her meds. Talks to her about the importance of taking them every day. Tells her she needs to look after herself with diet and exercise. Refers her to a psychiatrist. Recommends a new therapist. Gives me a phone number to call if things get bad.
But none of it seems to get to the root of the problem. It’ll be weeks, if not months, before she gets her appointments. She’s overweight and miserable, with terrible self-esteem. She’s in no position to think about diet and exercise, and she forgets her meds unless someone is there to remind her to take them. How do you make someone care about themselves?
I should be angry with Roy for leaving me to deal with it, but on Wednesday evening, after the doctor’s appointment, I sit down with him to tell him about it, and for the first time he opens up and begins talking. He tells me how she’s been like this for most of their married life, which is over thirty years. He’s spent much of that time managing her, trying to get her to take her meds, encouraging her to eat well and exercise, and she does well for a while, then hits one of her bad patches and plummets, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Without him having to say it, I can tell they have no physical relationship, and I can see he’s lonely and he’s reached the end of his tether. And how can I criticize him for that when I feel the same?
“Cam takes after his mother,” Roy says, surprising me. “I’m sorry about that.”
We study each other in the quietness of the evening. The sliding doors are open, and I can smell grass from where he mowed the lawn earlier today.
“This is hard on you,” he says. “And it’s not fair.”
I swallow hard. “It’s not your fault.”
“It’s nobody’s fault. Not even Kath’s. But it sucks.” He finishes off his beer. “You should get out while you can.”
I stare at him, shocked, as he gets up and goes out, down to his shed.
Is he right? Is this going to be me in thirty years if I stay with Cam? He doesn’t suffer from depression in the same way as his mother, but there are definitely similarities. It’s only now that I realize how I’ve had to handle him for seven years. How I tread on eggshells sometimes to try to keep the peace. How hard I’ve worked to keep our relationship going. How I’m the one who gives, and all he does it take. And if I complain, he gaslights me and says I don’t understand him and I’m unsympathetic.
I was so close to leaving him. And now, even if I walk out, I’m tied to him for the rest of my life by the mistake we’ve made.
I lean back on the sofa and rest my hand on my belly. And it occurs to me then for the first time. I could terminate the pregnancy.
I sit there for a moment and let the thought settle over me.
It’s too late for the morning after pill—the last time I slept with Cam was back in December. I know that because it was on my birthday—December the tenth. So it would have to be an abortion.
I could do it without telling Cam or Henry. Just go down to the clinic, pop a pill, and let nature take its course.
I cover my face with my hands. Ahhh….
Hindus believe in the principle of Ahimsa, or nonviolence toward all living things. Abortion is only allowed to save the mother’s life. But I don’t consider myself a Hindu. Or a Christian. Or a pagan. My DNA, my culture, and my faith is a mish-mash, and I pick and choose the bits from it that I like and that I feel fit me. So where abortion is concerned, I’ve always been pro-choice. I believe it’s better to terminate a pregnancy than to bring an unwanted baby into the world.
But now? It’s one thing to tell others what you believe. It’s another to carry out the act yourself.
I’m responsible for this baby. If I terminate the pregnancy, it’ll be my choice. What was it that Henry told me that Rangi said? I made a baby, and he won’t get to be born. What would Jesus say about that?
I press my fingers to my lips as tears well in my eyes. It’s just baby hormones, I tell myself. Pull yourself together. You’re a fucking professional woman with a career. You’re in control. You’re not one of those women who cry at the first sign of trouble.
But just the thought of there being baby hormones in my system is enough to make the tears impossible to stop. My body is already preparing itself to have this baby. Do I have the right to end the pregnancy?
Oh jeez, I can’t think like this. Anyway, I know that something like forty percent of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. Women often think they’re late and then their period starts, and they don’t realize they’ve actually miscarried. It’s still very early for me. There’s no point in panicking yet.
But Cam’s home tomorrow. If I’m going to terminate it without telling him, I need to make the decision before he gets here, because I know what I’m like. I can’t keep a secret, and I’m going to have to talk to him about it.
So I sit there, going around and around in circles, while it slowly gets dark and I have to get up and shut the doors to stop the moths flying in.
*
The next day, Cam arrives at ten a.m.
He’s exhausted. Alan came home yesterday, and Cam was busy all day, ensuring their cupboards were stocked, making his brother comfortable, and reassuring them that he’d be back soon.
“I’ll have to go back next week,” he tells me. “Em just can’t cope, and the baby’s going to come real soon.”
“What about your job?” I ask, frowning. “You can’t keep taking time off work.”
He doesn’t reply for a moment. Kathy is in bed. Roy is in the shed. It’s just me and Cam in their living room.
