and the hospital. I looked up as I passed, up at the closed, opaque windows. I half-expected to see Spencer’s leathered features staring out. But the windows were blank, reflecting the dull glare of the sky. As I passed, I thought of Harry. Our argument had been patched up, and yet something remained, like a lingering smell.
I reached the hospital and was directed to a prefabricated building behind an archway—the clinic I would be attending for my checkups. At first glance it seemed a flimsy, temporary structure, not weighty enough for the serious business of having a baby. Inside, a hassled woman whose hair had been scraped back in a ponytail took my details and then set about putting together a folder for me. I watched in amazement as she amassed a sheaf of variously colored pages, hastily leafing through and stabbing different sheets with labels in the harried yet bored manner of someone who has done this a thousand times. Then she handed it to me, along with an appointment card, and asked me to wait. Several minutes later, I was taken to a cramped office, where a brisk but cheerful woman proceeded to register me in more detail.
“First baby?” she asked brightly.
“Second.”
“Ah, so you know what you’re about, then.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Boy or girl?”
For a second, I was confused, and she looked up at me and said, “Your first child. Is it a boy or a girl?”
“Boy.”
“Ah. How old?”
I swallowed hard. After all this time, I am still not good with questions like that. My mouth went dry, my tongue sticking to my palate. I thought of Dillon, an involuntary memory of him in those last days before we lost him. His soft hair, how it curled about his neck; his chubby limbs, dimples on the knuckles of his fleshy little hands. That was how I thought of him—how I remembered him: a little boy, forever trapped in childhood.
“Three,” I said.
She smiled warmly, then directed her gaze from me to her computer monitor.
“I’m sure he’ll be very excited to find out he’s going to have a brother or sister.”
“Yes,” I said weakly.
“Now then. You’ve opted for combined care, so you’ll need to fill out this form and send it off to the Health Service Executive.”
The rest of the appointment was a blur, for I spent the whole time worrying about how I had lied about Dillon. Not an outright lie, but a lie of omission. Why had I done that? Because I could not bear to watch her face losing its brightness and taking on a mournful, sympathetic look, that’s why. I have been treated to that look more times than I care to think about. But then, throughout the course of the interview, I began to worry that the lie might have consequences, later on, throughout my visits here. I began to imagine coming in here and bumping into this kindly woman and having her ask about my pregnancy and did my son know about it yet, asking me in a corridor crowded with expectant women and their partners, all half-listening, watching idly, and then I would have to explain that Dillon had died, and the very thought of mentioning a dead child in front of a group of pregnant women seemed outrageous.
“—and that will all happen at your first appointment. Now, let me write the date down on your appointment card, so you won’t forget.”
I handed it to her, watching her neat writing fill up a white square, still thinking I should say something to clarify things, something about Dillon.
“So, when you come back for your appointment, go straight up the stairs there, and the nurse will see to you. Okay?”
“Right. Thanks.”
I left her to her cheerful administration, still chewing my lip with indecision and regret, and that is when I heard my name being called.
“Robin? Is it you?”
A woman in a blue dress with a neat, round bump like a Christmas pudding was approaching me with a hesitant, timorous smile. Her auburn hair was swept over one shoulder. Her face was crazy with freckles. It was a face I
I reached the hospital and was directed to a prefabricated building behind an archway—the clinic I would be attending for my checkups. At first glance it seemed a flimsy, temporary structure, not weighty enough for the serious business of having a baby. Inside, a hassled woman whose hair had been scraped back in a ponytail took my details and then set about putting together a folder for me. I watched in amazement as she amassed a sheaf of variously colored pages, hastily leafing through and stabbing different sheets with labels in the harried yet bored manner of someone who has done this a thousand times. Then she handed it to me, along with an appointment card, and asked me to wait. Several minutes later, I was taken to a cramped office, where a brisk but cheerful woman proceeded to register me in more detail.
“First baby?” she asked brightly.
“Second.”
“Ah, so you know what you’re about, then.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Boy or girl?”
For a second, I was confused, and she looked up at me and said, “Your first child. Is it a boy or a girl?”
“Boy.”
“Ah. How old?”
I swallowed hard. After all this time, I am still not good with questions like that. My mouth went dry, my tongue sticking to my palate. I thought of Dillon, an involuntary memory of him in those last days before we lost him. His soft hair, how it curled about his neck; his chubby limbs, dimples on the knuckles of his fleshy little hands. That was how I thought of him—how I remembered him: a little boy, forever trapped in childhood.
“Three,” I said.
She smiled warmly, then directed her gaze from me to her computer monitor.
“I’m sure he’ll be very excited to find out he’s going to have a brother or sister.”
“Yes,” I said weakly.
“Now then. You’ve opted for combined care, so you’ll need to fill out this form and send it off to the Health Service Executive.”
The rest of the appointment was a blur, for I spent the whole time worrying about how I had lied about Dillon. Not an outright lie, but a lie of omission. Why had I done that? Because I could not bear to watch her face losing its brightness and taking on a mournful, sympathetic look, that’s why. I have been treated to that look more times than I care to think about. But then, throughout the course of the interview, I began to worry that the lie might have consequences, later on, throughout my visits here. I began to imagine coming in here and bumping into this kindly woman and having her ask about my pregnancy and did my son know about it yet, asking me in a corridor crowded with expectant women and their partners, all half-listening, watching idly, and then I would have to explain that Dillon had died, and the very thought of mentioning a dead child in front of a group of pregnant women seemed outrageous.
“—and that will all happen at your first appointment. Now, let me write the date down on your appointment card, so you won’t forget.”
I handed it to her, watching her neat writing fill up a white square, still thinking I should say something to clarify things, something about Dillon.
“So, when you come back for your appointment, go straight up the stairs there, and the nurse will see to you. Okay?”
“Right. Thanks.”
I left her to her cheerful administration, still chewing my lip with indecision and regret, and that is when I heard my name being called.
“Robin? Is it you?”
A woman in a blue dress with a neat, round bump like a Christmas pudding was approaching me with a hesitant, timorous smile. Her auburn hair was swept over one shoulder. Her face was crazy with freckles. It was a face I
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