Page 47 of Road Trip to the Riviera
I ignore his tone and plough on. ‘And Summer? She’s OK? Not too much morning sickness?’
‘She’s good, Dad. Four months in now.’
‘Four months.’
‘Yeah,’ Louis sounds a bit abashed. ‘We had a scan. Didn’t realise. Stupid, right?’
‘Not at all. It happens.’
‘Yeah. So, it’s going to be December. You know. The birth.’
I look out over the sun-drenched campsite. In the heat of July, winter seems an age away. But I know that in a couple of months the weather will turn, the leaves will fall. And before I know it, it’ll be December and there’ll be a new member of the family. It’s exciting, I tell myself. It’s a good thing. But it’s also completely terrifying.
I wonder whether most men feel this when their partner or child announces a pregnancy. Are there really men who feel nothing but excitement and joy? Or does everyone also feel overwhelmed, terrified?
‘Great. Great. Have to say I didn’t expect to be a granddad at forty!’ I quip, trying to lighten the mood.
The mood remains borderline hostile. ‘Well, I’m sorry, Dad. Maybe you shouldn’t have had me at seventeen in that case.’
‘I was just… it was a joke, son. I’m thrilled. Really.’
I want to explain to Louis how, while becoming a dad so young wasn’t in my life’s plan, being his dad has been the biggest privilege of my life. That while I’d never have chosen the timing, I’d choose him again in a heartbeat. But somehow, I can’t find the words.
Ordinarily, Louis and I get on pretty well, so I try to put everything down to the wedding. The lad’s got a lot on his plate. Plus, he’s been living at Vivian’s for around a month now. If that doesn’t mess with a person’s head, I don’t know what does.
I’ve aired Betty out, washed the bedcovers. I’ve stocked up on healthy snacks and water and fruit. I debated whether to get a plant or a vase of flowers to put in the back there, but then imagined the smashed, muddy mess that would result if I took a corner too sharply and decided against it.
The route to the hospital is busy and occasionally I have to pull over to let an ambulance scream past. It makes me think about the rush we’d had to get Sarah there when she collapsed; how scared I’d been. I put on the radio and let a French stationcrackle through, to try to move my mind back into the present. It doesn’t help that they’re playing OutKast’s ‘Hey Ya!’ and it transports me through time to the back of the school bus, listening to Sarah’s iPod using one earpiece each. Just before it happened. Just before I messed things up for us.
I meant what I said to Louis about the baby. I’m excited to meet him or her. It’s just that I’m beginning to realise that despite my denial, I am now at middle age. I’m not the young guy I used to be. When you’re a kid, people who are forty seem ancient. But you also believe that they’re at peace with that. That they feel their age, have a sense of history.
But time isn’t like that, I’m beginning to realise. You accumulate experiences, but looking back, everything seems to have passed in a flash. It scares me to think that one day I’ll be sixty, eighty even, and still feel like a kid who’s waiting for his life to start.
They say youth is wasted on the young, and they’re not wrong. I remember thinking I had all the time in the world to make a life for myself when I was in my teens. Vaguely imagining a future with Sarah at some point, maybe. But also feeling excited at all the unknown things that may or may not happen in my future. Maybe I would be exceptional. Maybe my life would become special in ways that I couldn’t even yet appreciate.
You don’t realise, when you’re a teenager, how small you are. How insignificant you are to the universe. How, yes, great things might happen to you. But more likely lots of OK little things will occur, alongside some shitty things. And that these will knit together to form your unremarkable life. How quickly doors close and you’re left in a corridor you can’t remember choosing, with fewer and fewer doors ahead to try.
Back then I was a would-be musician, rock star, film star, model, celebrity, footballer. I had the kind of self-esteem that tipped into delusional at times. I thought I was special and thatthe people who’d gone before me had simply not had it in them to make more of themselves. It’s the same feeling kids have when they take risks – the parkour kids who jump between buildings, the boy racers who speed through the streets, the kids who decide they’ll just try this drug or that, but that they won’t get addicted. It won’t happen to them.
It was this exceptionalism that made me lax with the contraception. Because deep down I never thought it could happen to me. Sarah was on the pill; she told me she’d had a bit of sickness and we ought to use a condom. But we didn’t have one. And I was seventeen and horny as hell. And out of that misjudgement came a pregnancy test and a completely different life than either of us had imagined.
It’s odd to think how the worst thing that happened to me could simultaneously turn out to be the best.
In the hospital car park I struggle to get Betty into a space, but finally manage to fit her into one meant for a minibus. I pay for my ticket then walk into the hospital foyer. It’s wide and high-ceilinged and modern. People sit and wait to register with three receptionists, or pore over maps and signs, flowers clutched in hand, trying to find their loved one for a visit.
I’ve stuffed a few of Sarah’s things in a small bag, but after passing several people carrying flowers or gifts, realise I’ve not even thought to bring her something nice too. I make my way to the tiny shop, attached to a small café serving coffee in paper cups. I manage to buy a pink teddy for twenty euros, then think better of it and leave it sitting on one of the café chairs. Sarah would think I was mad if I gave her that thing. I hope some kid finds it and it makes their day.
In the lift, I study my reflection in the full-length side mirror and try to push my hair a little more into place. I look as dishevelled as I feel in my white T-shirt and jeans. There’s a littleblob of coffee on the front of the T-shirt and I wish I’d noticed it before I left.
For some illogical reason, I feel that if I don’t look responsible enough, they won’t let me take Sarah with me. And she absolutely has to leave this place today if we’re going to make it to Vivian’s in time.
When I reach her room, Sarah’s sitting on the edge of her bed. She’s changed out of the hospital gown and is wearing the T-shirt and loose trousers she wore at the night market. She’s got a small bag next to her and a printed sheet of paper in her hand; she’s clearly showered and her hair is glossy and a bit damp. But what strikes me most is her face; how pale she is, how pinched. It strikes me again just how lucky we were that her prognosis wasn’t worse.
Seeing me, her expression lightens. ‘Hi, Hal.’
I hold out the bag. ‘I brought a few… bits. You know, like, knickers and stuff.’ I find myself blushing bright red.
She puts out her hand for the bag. ‘Thanks, Hal,’ she says, glancing quickly at the contents. ‘That’s kind of you.’ She pauses, her eyes searching my face. ‘You know what though, I just want to get out of here – is that OK? I’ll change when we stop.’
