Page 89 of Two Wrongs
‘Life usually is, but you could’ve confided in us, Ivy. You didn’t have to suffer this alone, especially after going back to see him. I mean it doesn’t take much to work out what went on there.’ She glances pointedly at the bump escaping my tank. What was that even about? I want to say closure, but even I don’t believe that. ‘And you didn’t tell him about the baby, did you?’
‘I-I couldn’t. I couldn’t say any of it. Ever, not out loud. Only in my head. ‘I wanted to—I wanted to tell you about him, about us. And I wanted to tell him about the baby, too! But he was supposed to have fallen in love again, and I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t—’ I begin to cry, great heaving sobs.I love him, and I’ve hurt him, and I’m having this baby alone.
And he hates me for it.
‘Hey, now, shush.’ Nat drops the phone receiver back, perching herself on the end of the bed. ‘You’re going to be fine,’ she insists quietly, taking my hand in both of hers. ‘You’ll get through this. You have us; you’ll always have us, and your parents and Mac, too.’ What she doesn’t say fills the room anyway.You’ll have us even if you don’t have Dylan.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘So silly, more like. Bottling stuff up is unhealthy, and the stress can’t be good for the baby.’ She leans over and pats my stomach, which she knows I’m not fond of, but I’m not in a state to make a fuss. ‘You know why people think it’s okay to rub a pregnant woman’s bump?’
‘Because we look like lucky Buddhas?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest,’ she answers. ‘That’s why I asked.’
‘I’ve already screwed things up for him before he’s born, haven’t I?’
‘You?’ She pauses, seeming to formulate her reply. ‘Yeah, you have, but don’t worry, with me as his godmother, he’ll be fine.’ I huff a watery laugh. She’s such a loop and lovely with it. She’s also slightly deluded. ‘Because I’ll steer that moral compass like a motherfucking Titan.’
‘Wasn’t that a ship that sank?’
‘And I’m supposed to be the uncouth, uncultured one,’ she says with a theatrical sigh. ‘Looks like I’ll also have to teach wee Vlad the classics. The Titans were Greek, philistine.’
‘The only Greek you know is your order from the kebab shop.’
‘I’m deep, me,’ she responds, reaching for the phone again. ‘Half a loaf and a gallon of tea?’
‘Oh, at least.’ But she doesn’t get as far as a connection before Fin explodes into the room.
‘Come quick. Something’s wrong with June.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ivy
We’veall heard stories or recounts, I suppose, of how during accidents and medical emergencies—matters of life and death—time slows. As I stand on the periphery of a room newly decorated and with the faint scent of paint lingering in the air, I experience this in real time.For the first time.And I’m struggling, my grip on this reality fragile and questioning. Why June? Why now?
‘June! June! For the love of Christ, open your eyes, you bloody stubborn woman!’
Nat bends over the bed, her hands wrapped around her grandmother’s shoulders, the expression on her face something frightening and pitiful. But me? I feel as though I’m watching this through a cloud, and the whole thing is a haze. My heart aches for my friend and weeps for June as she lies prone on the bed, her breathing laboured and something ancient.
‘Ambulance is on its way,’ Rory says, appearing in the doorway. A couple of long strides and he has his arms wrapped around Fin as she begins murmuring. ‘How will it get here during the high tide?’His reply is by helicopter. The air ambulance; the hotel has a newly installed helipad.
I don’t partake in the conversation; I’m on the outside looking in as his strong arms wrap around her waist, offering her his comfort and strength.
I tighten the belt on the plush hotel robe I’d grabbed at Fin’s distressed entrance and glance down at my bare feet and pink painted toes. I can’t seem to find tears. Numbness overload.
‘June,’ Nat cries—not a yell. A soft, terrified plea but she’s not responding, and I’ve no idea what actions to take.
Words and questions and we all stand, hovering around the edges of the bed, unsure of what to say or what to do.
‘Do we have aspirin?’ Fin asks.
I half expect Nat to complain that June’s suffering from more than just a headache.
‘Might she have had a stroke?’ she questions, but I can read what she doesn’t say. That it might be too late. How would she swallow? What can we do? How can we help? Murmurs and mutterings. Words hanging heavy in the air with hope and desperation.
‘The paramedics won’t be long.’
