The art of deception Page 10

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me. I guessed I’d have to suffer this on my own.’

  What could he say? He was telling the truth; surely she understood how it was for him?

  ‘Angie, that’s not fair. If it was an emergency or something really serious, I’d drop everything and come home …’

  ‘Of course. But morning sickness is only a minor illness, isn’t it? I mean, it’s affecting my whole life, but that’s a small matter.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s not an excuse. I’m just trying to explain how it is.’

  ‘Better go and eat your dinner.’

  It could have been worse, he thought, tucking into his food. Of course she wasn’t happy, but that was to be expected. At least he’d managed to avoid a row again.

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  He was finishing the washing-up when she came down. She gave him a little smile, poured herself a glass of water, and went into the living room.

  He sat by her and took her hand.

  She didn’t pull it away.

  ‘How have you been today?’

  ‘Would you believe it’s been nearly two days now without being sick? I might have turned the corner. I still feel sick nearly all the time, but I’ve actually been doing a few things today. I even went for a run this afternoon, like I used to.

  Quite enjoyed it. I ran over five kilometres, went down by the canal. I’m not as fast as I was, but it felt good.’

  ‘Angie, you must be careful. Can you imagine how you’d feel if something happened to the baby? You’d be devastated.’

  ‘I suppose I would. But if you expect me to sit around all day like a stuffed dummy, think again. I’m not about to let this baby stop me doing things I want to do until I absolutely have to. Women have run marathons while they were pregnant – I hardly think a half-hour jog is going to do any harm.’

  ‘I know. I just want you to look after yourself, that’s all, and not take any risks.’

  ‘I’m not stupid, John. And I object to you insinuating otherwise.’

  ‘All right, I’m sorry. Forget I said it, all right? I don’t need a fight, I’m beat as it is. A peaceful night is all I want.’

  ‘Stop saying nasty things about me, then.’

  John exhaled nervously, trying to bite his tongue. The atmosphere had changed and he wondered how to appease her this time.

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  Chapter 15

  t was Monday 15th February – the day of the twelve-week scan. John was up before the alarm, his heart already beating faster at the thought of seeing his baby. He was fascinated to see how it had developed. But Angie didn’t seem I bothered. As he put on his dressing gown, he wondered about waking her, but as it was only six-thirty he let her be.

  After eating his breakfast, he brought her a cup of tea and shook her gently by the arm.

  ‘Angie, time to get up. We have to get to the hospital by nine-thirty.’

  ‘Oh,’ she mumbled, rubbing her eyes and yawning, ‘what time is it?’

  ‘Just after seven,’ he told her, putting her tea on the small chest of drawers by the bed.

  She sat up. ‘All right, I’m coming,’ she said. ‘Another waste of time.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ he said. ‘Don’t you want to see our baby? And even if you’re not bothered, it’s important for the doctors to see that he or she is developing correctly – they can spot all sorts of things on scans these days. I’ve been reading up about it.’

  ‘I suppose,’ she conceded.

  ‘And don’t forget we’ll be able to see a picture of our baby! How good is that?’

  She sighed. ‘Great.’

  He wished she’d be more enthusiastic, but decided it was best to leave her be and hope that in time her attitude would change.

  By eight-forty they were ready to go.

  ‘Have you got everything?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure have,’ she said as she put on her dark woollen winter coat; it was freezing cold outside again.

  ‘Wish this bloody weather would change,’ she moaned as they stepped out.

  ‘Don’t think it’s been above five degrees since Christmas.’

  ‘I know, but there’s nothing we can do about the weather. Never mind –

  another few weeks and it’ll be spring, and by the time the baby’s born it’ll be summer. That’ll be lovely,’ John said as they got into the car.

  Still shivering when they arrived at the hospital, Angie reached for John’s hand as they followed the signs to the antenatal unit. They took a seat in the waiting room.

  Within ten minutes, a nurse appeared and shouted Angie’s name. She had a large jug of water and a couple of plastic cups.

  ‘Hallo, Mrs Greaves. I’m Nurse Jordan. Have you had much to drink this morning?’

  ‘Only a cup of tea before I came out,’ Angie said.

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  ‘We need you to have a full bladder for the scan to work. Drink as much of this as you can, and don’t go to the toilet until afterwards.’

  Angie grimaced at John.

  ‘OK,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll call you in about twenty minutes, all right?

  Angie nodded.

  When the nurse had gone, she frowned at John. ‘Can’t say I feel like drinking right now, but I suppose I’ll have to.’

  ‘You will.’

  It took a while, but finally she managed it.

  ‘Ugh. I feel really bloated now, and if I need a wee, I don’t know what I’ll do.’

  ‘Hold it in, as best you can.’

  ‘What if I have an accident?’

  ‘You won’t.’

  They sat around for some time, and finally Nurse Jordan came for them.

  ‘Right, Mrs Greaves, we’re ready for you now. If you’d like to follow me.’

  ‘About time,’ Angie murmured under her breath.

  John hoped the nurse hadn’t heard.

  They went into a dark room with a large bed which had been propped up at one end and covered in a paper sheet. There was a machine with a monitor at one side of it.

  ‘All right, Mrs Greaves – if you’d like to lift up your blouse and undo your jeans and lie on the bed.’

  Angie did as she was told.

  A man in a white coat who had been reading some notes in the corner came over. ‘Hallo, Mrs Greaves. I’m the sonographer. I promise you this won’t hurt a bit. I’m just going to squeeze some gel onto your tummy, then I’ll pass this probe over your skin and take some measurements of your baby. If you’d like to watch, you’ll see the first pictures of your baby on that screen to your right.’

  The sonographer began his work and John watched, fascinated.

  The image was blurry at first, but soon became clearer and they were able to see their baby; arms, and legs, and head.

  ‘Wow! How big is it?’ John said.

  ‘About seven and a half centimetres – that’s a bit on the big side for twelve weeks, so we’ll need to adjust your due date by a week or so. Now, I just need to do something called a nuchal translucency scan – it measures some fat on your baby’s neck and helps us detect abnormalities like Down’s syndrome.’

  Angie sighed. ‘A waste of time, if you ask me. Will it take long? I’m bursting for a wee.’

  ‘Darling, it’s better to be safe than sorry,’ John said.

  Once he’d finished, the sonographer said, ‘All done. We just need to take a couple of blood samples from your arm, and then you can go.’

  pg. 71

  Nurse Jordan came over and took the blood, putting cotton wool and a plaster over where he’d taken it.

  The sonographer smiled. ‘Right, Angie. All finished. You should get the test results through within three or four days – your GP surgery will give you a call. Everything looks fine, but I should mention that the baby does have an increased nuchal translucency measurement, which is sometimes an indicator of Down’s syndrome or other problems. Given your young age, it’s probably nothing to be too concerned about. When the blood test comes ba
ck, your doctor will be able to tell you more about the risks and the options for further testing.’

  John’s face fell. ‘But you said the baby looks fine.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Greaves, it does … but it’s difficult to tell from the screen.’

  ‘This is unbelievable,’ John looked at Angie, whose hands were shaking as she fastened her clothes.

  ‘I knew it,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’m not destined to have a baby. I should have had an abortion weeks ago.’

  ‘Angie, don’t be silly. I’m not even considering an abortion. We’ll take what we’re given, and deal with it when the time comes. I won’t hear any more about it. This is our baby and no matter what happens, we will give it the best life we can, do you understand me?’

  Angie nodded, lip trembling.

  ‘Would you like a picture of your baby to keep?’ the sonographer asked.

  ‘Of course, yes. Thank you,’ John said.

  Angie didn’t speak.

  John took the grainy photo and put it in his jacket pocket.

  The drive home was quiet, and John kept feeling tears prickling in his eyes.

  Glancing across, he could see that Angie was a quivering wreck. How would she deal with this latest revelation?

  <><><>

  When Angie got home, she felt numb. To discover their child could have Down’s syndrome was a blow, another nail in the coffin; the thought of rearing a disabled child who might also develop bipolar disorder in later life made her even more determined to get rid of it. She must never tell John what she was planning, even though the baby’s disability might be so severe that he would agree with her decision. In his present frame of mind, he probably wouldn’t, and she simply couldn’t risk him saying no.

  They sat down on opposite ends of the sofa, both lost in their own worlds.

  Angie waited for John to speak. She didn’t want to hear what he had to say, as she knew how the conversation would end: with another almighty row.

  ‘Well, this is a blow,’ he said finally, rubbing his brow with the back of his hand.

  ‘That’s putting it mildly.’

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  ‘I never expected this. I thought it would just be a routine test and we could forget it and get on with our lives.’

  ‘Life is never that easy, is it, John? Looking forward to caring for your monster child, are you? We’ll be a laughing stock,’ she wailed.

  ‘Calm down. We don’t know that for sure. All right, so the odds are a bit higher – it still may not happen. It’s by no means a cast-iron certainty.’

  ‘Yes, but the evidence points to it. And what about the blood test results?

  If they point to the same thing, what then?’

  ‘We deal with it. But I can’t accept you having a termination. As I said before, that’s out of the question.’

  ‘It’s all right for you to say that – you’re not the one who’ll have to look after a disabled baby. I am. And the way I’m feeling right now, I’m not sure I can cope with it.’

  ‘You will. Once it’s born, you’ll love it, maybe even more than a normal child. It’s a mother’s instinct. Believe me, it’s true.’

  ‘And what gives you the right to say that? What do you know about a woman’s feelings? What do you know about children with disabilities? Nothing.

  It’s just you surmising.’

  ‘Anyway, there’s no point arguing about it, because we still have to wait for the blood test to come back. And then discuss it with the doctor.’

  Angie sighed. ‘I suppose so. And in the meantime, if you dare tell anyone, I’ll leave, John, and then you’ll never find out what’s happened.’

  John shook his head at her. Let him think what he liked – she’d do as she wanted. It was her body; the baby was inside her and only she had the right to decide.

  <><><>

  Three days later, she got a phone call from the surgery.

  ‘Mrs Greaves, we’ve had the results of your blood test through. If you’d like to make an appointment, the doctor will discuss them with you.’

  Angie’s heart sank. This couldn’t be good news. She hurriedly made the appointment for that afternoon, deciding to see the doctor on her own. If John came, he’d try everything to stop her from having a termination, and she couldn’t have that – not when her mind was already made up.

  ‘Angela Greaves to Dr Harrison, Room 3 please.’

  She got up, took in a deep breath and ambled over to the door, then knocked and went in to sit in the chair. The doctor was glancing at the computer screen, obviously reading Angie’s notes.

  ‘Hallo, Angela,’ she said with a slight smile. ‘How have you been?’

  ‘Not too bad, but I still feel sick. Although I haven’t been sick as often –

  it’s once a day or less now.’

  pg. 73

  ‘Good. You’re making progress. Next week should see further improvement, but it may not go altogether. It should become more manageable, though, which will allow you to resume your normal activities and return to work.’

  Angie nodded.

  ‘Now then, we’ve had the results of your blood test. You’re aware that your twelve-week scan indicated your baby could be at a higher risk of having Down’s Syndrome? Well, I’m afraid the protein levels in your blood are a little outside the normal range, which also suggests that your baby is at a higher risk of having the condition.’

  ‘I see. How high is the risk?’

  ‘About a one in fifty chance. Many women in your position choose to follow up a higher risk result with an invasive test – a sample of the placenta or the amniotic fluid – which will give you a definitive result one way or the other.

  Is that something you think you might want to do?’

  Angie shook her head. What was the point in prolonging the agony, when she’d already decided what to do?

  ‘I don’t think so. But I wanted to ask something else, doctor.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Fire away.’

  Angie hesitated, took a deep breath. ‘To be honest with you, I’d already decided on an abortion before this happened. Now this has made my mind up even more.’

  Dr Harrison frowned. ‘Are you sure? Have you discussed this with your husband? I must say, I’m a little surprised he isn’t with you today.’

  ‘He couldn’t get away – but we’ve talked of nothing else. And we’ve decided a termination is for the best. He agrees with me. I can’t have a baby now and since we now have this added worry about the possibility of the baby being disabled, it’s out of the question. And we have our careers to think about. We can’t afford for me to not be at work. Please can you send me to a clinic?’

  ‘If that’s what you want, then of course, it’s your choice. I can’t tell you to terminate, or not to terminate the pregnancy. But perhaps you should wait another week; the sickness may well have improved further by then, and you might feel differently. You’re only twelve weeks pregnant, so there would be plenty of time to have the termination if you did still want to go ahead.’

  Angie shook her head. ‘Ever since I found out, I’ve been scared to death. I had hoped these feelings would go away, but they’ve grown even stronger. Could you make the appointment now?’

  The doctor sighed. ‘All right, if you’re sure. I’ll refer you. Now, are you having any other problems? Mood swings, depression or anxiety?’

  Angie couldn’t face going through it all again. ‘Yes, although this sickness feeling is getting me down, and being off work isn’t helping. I won’t take antidepressants unless there’s no other choice.’

  pg. 74

  ‘Well, if you’re feeling down, counselling is available, and there are organisations out there that could help – I’ll print you off a fact sheet and you can check them out. And I’ll give you some information about Down’s Syndrome and how the testing works. I’d like you to think about your options carefully, and some more information may help to set your mind at rest.’

  ‘I don
’t need help. Just an abortion as soon as possible. Once it’s gone, I’ll be fine.’

  ‘OK, Mrs Greaves. You’ll receive a letter in the post in the next few days.

  Just ring to confirm the appointment. They’ll examine and assess you first, before the op.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor,’ she said, trying to hold back the tears that threatened.

  Back in the car, she breathed heavily, head pounding – but at least now something would be done to take away the pain. Soon she’d be out of this mess.

  She’d have to face John, tell him she’d miscarried – he’d be upset, but he’d get over it – and then she’d go on the pill. And that would be that.

  <><><>

  The semi was the same house she’d lived in as a kid. She had lots of memories there, bad and good. Her father had been her rock after her mum’s death; without him she wouldn’t have got through the bad times.

  She rang the bell and he answered at once.

  ‘Hallo, Angie, lovely to see you! Come on in.’

  Thanks, Dad. Just thought I’d see how you are.’

  ‘I’m good, thanks. But how about you? You don’t look well. Sit down, I’ll get us a drink.’

  ‘Just a glass of water, please.’

  ‘Coming up.’

  While he got the drinks, she looked around the room, which had been the same since before her mother had died – the same photos of her and her mum on the wall, the décor unchanged apart from the odd lick of paint.

  He handed her a glass and sat opposite, smiling. ‘Why do I get the feeling you want to talk about something?’

  She burst into tears. ‘I can’t do it, Dad. You were right. I can’t have this baby.’

  ‘Because of what happened to your mum? I understand, Angie. You must be terrified, but deciding to get rid of your baby is a hard thing too, isn’t it? Ask yourself, though – is it worth risking your own health?’ He paused as though weighing up a decision. ‘At the end, your mum became a very dangerous woman, you know. She pulled a knife on me more than once. And used it on occasions.’