I’m sorry, I just assumed that you knew.
I breathed in deeply through my nose. I knew I could walk away from the table, but I didn’t know where to walk to. I couldn’t think of anywhere I would like to go. I stood up anyway and took my coat from the back of the chair. I could see Philip was uncomfortable, and that he even felt guilty for hurting me, but I didn’t want to stay there any longer. I buttoned my coat up while he said weakly: where are you going?
It’s okay, I said. Forget about it. I’m just getting some air.
*
I never told Bobbi about the ultrasound or the meeting with the consultant. By refusing to admit that I was sick, I felt I could keep the sickness outside time and space, something only in my own head. If other people knew about it, the sickness would become real and I would have to spend my life being a sick person. This could only interfere with my other ambitions, such as achieving enlightenment and being a fun girl. I used internet forums to assess if this was a problem for anyone else. I searched ‘can’t tell people I’m’ and Google suggested: ‘gay’ and ‘pregnant’.
Sometimes at night when Bobbi and I were in bed together, my father called me. I would take the phone into the bathroom quietly to answer it. He had become less and less coherent. At times he seemed to believe that he was being hunted. He said: I have these thoughts, bad thoughts, you know? My mother said his brothers and sisters had been getting the phone calls too, but what could anyone do about it? He was never in the house when they went over. Often I could hear cars passing in the background, so I knew he was outside. Occasionally he seemed concerned for my safety also. He told me not to let them find me. I said: I won’t, Dad. They’re not going to find me. I’m safe where I am.
I knew my pain could begin again at any time, so I started taking the maximum dose of ibuprofen every day just in case. I concealed my grey notebook along with the boxes of painkillers in the top drawer of my desk, and I only removed them when Bobbi was showering or gone to class. This top drawer seemed to signify everything that was wrong with me, everything bad I felt about myself, so whenever it caught my eye I started to feel sick again. Bobbi never asked about it. She never mentioned the ultrasound or asked who was calling me on the phone at night. I understood it was my fault but I didn’t know what to do about it. I needed to feel normal again.
*
My mother came up to Dublin that weekend. We went shopping together, she bought me a new dress, and we went for lunch in a cafe on Wicklow Street. She seemed tired, and I was tired too. I ordered a smoked salmon bagel and picked at the slimy pieces of fish with my fork. The dress was in a paper bag under the table and I kept kicking it accidentally. I had suggested the cafe for lunch, and I could tell my mother was being polite about it, though in her presence I noticed that the sandwiches were outrageously expensive and served with side salads nobody ate. When she ordered tea, it came in a pot with a fiddly china teacup and saucer, which she smiled at gamely. Do you like this place? she said.
It’s okay, I replied, realising I hated it.
I saw your father the other day.
I speared a piece of salmon with my fork and transferred it into my mouth. It tasted of lemon and salt. I swallowed, dabbed at my lips with a napkin and said: oh.
He’s not well, she said. I can see that.
He’s never been well.
I tried to have a word with him.
I looked up at her. She was staring down at her sandwich blankly, or maybe affecting a blank expression to conceal something else.
You have to understand, she said. He’s not like you. You’re tough, you can cope with things. Your father finds life very difficult.
I tried to assess these statements. Were they true? Did it matter if they were true? I put my fork down.
You’re lucky, she said. I know you might not feel that way. You can go on hating him for the rest of your life if you want.
I don’t hate him.
A waiter went past precariously holding three bowls of soup. My mother looked at me.
I love him, I said.
That’s news to me.
Well, I’m not like you.
She laughed then, and I felt better. She reached for my hand across the table and I let her hold it.
31
The following week my phone rang. I remember exactly where I was standing when it started: just in front of the New Fiction shelves in Hodges Figgis, and it was thirteen minutes past five. I was looking for a Christmas present for Bobbi, and when I fished the phone out of my coat pocket, the screen read: Nick. My neck and shoulders felt rigid and suddenly very exposed. I slid my fingertip across the screen, lifted the phone to my cheek and said: hello?
Hey, Nick’s voice said. Listen, they don’t have red peppers, but is yellow okay?
His voice seemed to hit me somewhere behind my knees and travel upward in a flood of warmth, so that I knew I was blushing.
Oh dear, I said. I think you have the wrong number.
For a second he said nothing. Don’t hang up, I thought. Don’t hang up. I started to walk around the New Fiction shelves trailing my finger along the spines as if I was still browsing.
Jesus Christ, said Nick slowly. Is this Frances?
Yes. It is me.
He made a sound which momentarily I mistook for laughter, though I realised then that he was coughing. I started to laugh and had to hold the phone away from my face in case he thought I was crying. When he spoke he sounded measured, his confusion genuine.
I have no idea how this happened, he said. Did I just place this call to you?
Yes. You asked me a question about peppers.
Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I can’t explain how I dialled your number. It really was an honest mistake, I’m sorry.
I moved over to the display near the front of the bookshop, which showcased a selection of new books from diverse genres. I picked up a science fiction novel and pretended to read the back.
Were you trying to get Melissa? I said.
I was. Yeah.
That’s okay. I gather you’re in the supermarket.
He did laugh then, like he was laughing at how absurd the situation was. I put down the science fiction and opened the cover of a historical romance. The words lay flat on the page, my eyes didn’t try to read them.
I am in the supermarket, he said.
I’m in a bookshop.
Are you, really. Christmas shopping?
Yes, I said. I’m looking for something for Bobbi.
He made a noise like ‘hm’ then, not quite laughing but still amused or pleased. I closed the cover of the book. Don’t hang up, I thought.
They’ve reissued that Chris Kraus novel recently, he said. I read a review, it sounded like you might enjoy it. Although I realise now you didn’t actually ask for my advice.
Your advice is welcome, Nick. You have an enchanting voice.
He said nothing. I exited the bookshop, gripping the phone tightly to my face, so that the screen felt hot and a little oily. Outside it was cold. I was wearing a fake-fur hat.