down to stress, but there was another, very remote, possibility.
The pregnancy test was still in the drawer where I’d stuffed it yesterday. I was thankful I’d forgotten to throw it away. The rubbish was much more unpleasant these days with all of June’s cigarette butts.
I went into the bathroom and read the instructions through twice. It had been a day of revelations. I hoped I wasn’t about to be subjected to another.
I peed on the stick and then carefully put it down on the edge of the sink. Wait three minutes, it said, and then look for the number of pink lines.
I wanted to hover over the plastic stick watching every nuance of its changing from white to pink. Instead, I forced myself to sit on the toilet seat and look at the blue bathroom tiles.
Had June done something like this twenty-six years ago - sat and waited in dread? How much had that moment changed her life?
How much had I changed her life?
I stood up and left the bathroom and the pregnancy test. Gently, I knocked on the spare-room door.
‘June?’ I called softly. ‘June, can you help me with something? I’d like your advice.’
When she didn’t answer, I pushed the door open.
The room was dark, the curtains were drawn, and it looked less cluttered than it had been that morning. It took me a moment to notice that June wasn’t there, and another moment to realise that the room was less cluttered because none of her belongings were there, either.
I turned on the light and had a good look round. Her dresses, her tobacco, her make-up had all disappeared, along with the big duffel bags she’d brought with her.
‘June!’ I called, although I knew she wasn’t anywhere else in the house, and I went downstairs. The stuff she’d strewn around my kitchen and living room was gone, too. There was no sign of a note, no forwarding address or phone number left behind.
My sister had turned up, stayed a week, slept with my best friend, told me she was my mother, and then disappeared.
‘Son of a gun,’ I said.
I turned around and went back upstairs. The little white stick was still on the side of the sink. From a distance you could mistake it for a toothbrush. I wondered whether in 1980 the pregnancy tests were so small and discreet, or whether June had had to go to the doctor. Wasn’t there something about a rabbit dying if you were pregnant?
I realised I was hanging around in the door of the bathroom and made myself go to the sink and pick up the test.
There were two pink positive lines in the plastic window.
12
‘Two Mr Tasty’s lunches in two weeks,’ Hugh commented, tucking into his watery green chicken curry. ‘This is a record, isn’t it?’
I stirred my Tom Yam Gai. Over the past ten days, in the moments that I wasn’t feeling nauseated, I’d had a craving for hot, spicy, citrusy soup. I figured it was my body’s way of telling me I had to haul Hugh to Mr Tasty’s and tell him about the positive pregnancy test.
But now that I was here, both the soup and the idea of telling Hugh made me feel sick.
‘It’s been quite a two weeks,’ I said.
‘So what do you have to tell me?’
I spooned up a piece of chicken and let it fall back into the bowl, scattering drops of spicy broth on the table. I took a paper serviette from the dispenser and wiped it up carefully.
‘Do you want me to guess?’ he asked.
‘You never will.’
‘Well, let’s see. You’ve been moody as hell for the past week.’
‘I haven’t been moody.’ In fact, I thought I’d done a pretty good job at concealing my worry: I’d shown up at the pub every night with a smile plastered on my face, and I’d tried to be breezy and normal with Hugh. Neither one easy when the smell of the Mouse and Duck made me want to retch.
‘You nagged Jerry so hard that he spent his day off scrubbing floors on his hands and knees, you grimaced all
The pregnancy test was still in the drawer where I’d stuffed it yesterday. I was thankful I’d forgotten to throw it away. The rubbish was much more unpleasant these days with all of June’s cigarette butts.
I went into the bathroom and read the instructions through twice. It had been a day of revelations. I hoped I wasn’t about to be subjected to another.
I peed on the stick and then carefully put it down on the edge of the sink. Wait three minutes, it said, and then look for the number of pink lines.
I wanted to hover over the plastic stick watching every nuance of its changing from white to pink. Instead, I forced myself to sit on the toilet seat and look at the blue bathroom tiles.
Had June done something like this twenty-six years ago - sat and waited in dread? How much had that moment changed her life?
How much had I changed her life?
I stood up and left the bathroom and the pregnancy test. Gently, I knocked on the spare-room door.
‘June?’ I called softly. ‘June, can you help me with something? I’d like your advice.’
When she didn’t answer, I pushed the door open.
The room was dark, the curtains were drawn, and it looked less cluttered than it had been that morning. It took me a moment to notice that June wasn’t there, and another moment to realise that the room was less cluttered because none of her belongings were there, either.
I turned on the light and had a good look round. Her dresses, her tobacco, her make-up had all disappeared, along with the big duffel bags she’d brought with her.
‘June!’ I called, although I knew she wasn’t anywhere else in the house, and I went downstairs. The stuff she’d strewn around my kitchen and living room was gone, too. There was no sign of a note, no forwarding address or phone number left behind.
My sister had turned up, stayed a week, slept with my best friend, told me she was my mother, and then disappeared.
‘Son of a gun,’ I said.
I turned around and went back upstairs. The little white stick was still on the side of the sink. From a distance you could mistake it for a toothbrush. I wondered whether in 1980 the pregnancy tests were so small and discreet, or whether June had had to go to the doctor. Wasn’t there something about a rabbit dying if you were pregnant?
I realised I was hanging around in the door of the bathroom and made myself go to the sink and pick up the test.
There were two pink positive lines in the plastic window.
12
‘Two Mr Tasty’s lunches in two weeks,’ Hugh commented, tucking into his watery green chicken curry. ‘This is a record, isn’t it?’
I stirred my Tom Yam Gai. Over the past ten days, in the moments that I wasn’t feeling nauseated, I’d had a craving for hot, spicy, citrusy soup. I figured it was my body’s way of telling me I had to haul Hugh to Mr Tasty’s and tell him about the positive pregnancy test.
But now that I was here, both the soup and the idea of telling Hugh made me feel sick.
‘It’s been quite a two weeks,’ I said.
‘So what do you have to tell me?’
I spooned up a piece of chicken and let it fall back into the bowl, scattering drops of spicy broth on the table. I took a paper serviette from the dispenser and wiped it up carefully.
‘Do you want me to guess?’ he asked.
‘You never will.’
‘Well, let’s see. You’ve been moody as hell for the past week.’
‘I haven’t been moody.’ In fact, I thought I’d done a pretty good job at concealing my worry: I’d shown up at the pub every night with a smile plastered on my face, and I’d tried to be breezy and normal with Hugh. Neither one easy when the smell of the Mouse and Duck made me want to retch.
‘You nagged Jerry so hard that he spent his day off scrubbing floors on his hands and knees, you grimaced all
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