Page 28 of Rock Paper Scissors
“Is there a more scientific way?” you replied, with a serious face.
My scissors cut your paper, just like always.
“You let me win!” I said.
“Yes, because I don’t really mind whether it’s a boy or a girl. I’ll love them either way, but I’ll always love you more.”
You opened the champagne—I only had a small glass—and we ordered a pizza.
“I didn’t forget our anniversary, by the way,” you said, gorging on your third slice of Pepperoni Passion an hour later.
“Is that so?” I asked, sipping lemonade from a champagne flute.
“I struggled with the linen theme, and this morning I was worried I’d bought the wrong thing—”
“So give it to me now. Then you’ll know.”
You reached inside the leather satchel I had given you the year before, and handed me a square parcel. It was soft. I’m normally so careful when I unwrap things, but I was aware the pizza was getting cold so tore at the paper. There was a linen cushion inside. It had my name stitched on it along with the following words beneath:
SHE BELIEVED SHE COULD, SO SHE DID.
I tried not to, but I cried again. Happy tears. It felt as if you’d already known I was pregnant. You believed in me, even when I wasn’t able to believe in myself.
I was about to thank you, when I looked up and noticed the strange expression on your face. You were staring down at my legs and when I followed your gaze I could see why. A thick trickle of bright red blood had made its way right down to my slippers. When I stood up in panic, there was more.
According to the first doctor we saw in the emergency room, I wasn’t pregnant long enough to call it a miscarriage. The gynecologist who examined me next was a little more sympathetic, but not much. Looking back now, I wish I’d never told you at all—you wouldn’t be able to grieve for something you never knew you had. And I’m sorry and broken enough for both of us.
I went straight to our bedroom when we got home, evenlet Bob stretch out on the end of the bed. I tried crying myself to sleep, but it didn’t work, nothing does. I might talk to the GP about getting some sleeping pills. I noticed that my watch had stopped at three minutes past eight, and I wondered if that was the exact time our baby died. I took the watch off my wrist and I don’t want to see it, or wear it, ever again. I’ll always remember what you said when you came upstairs and held me:
“I love you. Always have, always will.”
“Not almost always?” I asked, trying to make you smile, even though I was broken. But you didn’t. Smile. Instead, you looked more serious than I have ever seen you.
“Always always. I’m so sorry that we can’t seem to have children, because I know how much it means to you, and what a wonderful mother you would be. But it doesn’t change a thing for me. I’m with you for life, no matter what, because this is our family: you, me, and Bob. We don’t need anyone or anything else. Nothing will ever change that.”
But words can’t fix everything, no matter how fond you are of them.
Hours later, when you were sleeping but I still couldn’t, I thought I may as well get up and come downstairs. Bob followed me, as if he knew something was very wrong. I put the cold, uneaten pizza—which was still where we had left it when I started to bleed—in the bin, along with the linen cushion you had given me. The words stitched on it are too painful to ever read again. You believed that I could, then briefly I did. Now I’m not sure of anything. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be if I can’t be the me I dreamed I would be. And I don’t know what that means for us.
I have grown fond of writing letters I will never let you read. I find it cathartic. They make me feel better, even though I know it would destroy you if you found them.That’s why I hide them away. I’ll keep the scan from the hospital with this one. A reminder of what we almost had. I’ve already tucked it inside the envelope the clinic gave me with my name on:
Mrs. A Wright.
I’m holding it now. Can’t quite let go. The receptionist used swirly handwriting on my initial, as though it were something pretty. I remember when we got married, and I first took your surname, I practiced signing my new signature for weeks with swirly letters of my own. I was so happy to be your wife, but none of the wishes I’ve made since have come true. I think that might be my fault, not yours. I hope that if you ever find out the truth, you’ll be able to forgive me and love me no matter what. Always always. Like you promised.
Your wife
xx
AMELIA
I hear another noise downstairs in the chapel and I know I’m not imagining it.
I reach blindly for the light switch by the bed, but it doesn’t work. Either there has been another power cut—which seems odd if there is a generator—or someone has cut the power. I try not to allow my overactive imagination to make this experience even scarier than it is. I tell myself that there must be a rational explanation. But then I hear the unmistakable sound of a footstep at the bottom of the creaking stairs.
I hold my breath, determined to hear nothing but silence.
But there is another groan from elderly floorboards, followed by another creak, and the sound of someone climbing the staircase is getting louder. And closer. I have to cover my mouth with my hand to stop myself from screaming when the footsteps stop right outside the bedroom door.
