It feels good to sit here, with her, and quietly remember. It is a relief to be with another woman who understands that it wasn’t exciting, like the uplifting scenes in a disaster movie, heroism bravely performed against the backdrop of a sweeping orchestral soundtrack.
It was terrifying, and painful, and some of the dust from that night has never washed off. Good as it temporarily feels to be here with Em, do I really want her, or anyone else, to go digging beneath that rubble again? Do I want to excavate the past? Will the anaesthetic begin to wear off if I do?
I am scared at the thought. I am excited at the thought. I am … relieved, perhaps, at the thought?
‘You and Harry settled in Cornwall, didn’t you?’ she asks. I frown, wondering how much about us she already knows, and nod.
‘Don’t worry!’ She grins. ‘This is just a conversation. This is just two people talking, not an interview. I’m not secretly filming you with my spy cam … I just … well, it’s a relief, isn’t it, to chat to someone who was there?’
‘It is,’ I reply firmly. ‘It really is.’
‘Did you go back into teaching? I googled Harry and found out about him pretty quickly, but not you … did you have any kids of your own?’
‘No, and no.’ My hand creeps to my stomach. She has unintentionally touched upon a painful subject, and I see a look of concern flicker across her face.
I have never discussed the baby we lost with Harry. I vowed I would, when the time was right – but it simply never seemed to be.
To start with, we were never alone – we were always surrounded by his parents, by nurses, by doctors. Then he was in rehab, and it was beyond tough – physically and mentally. At the beginning I kept it from him because I wanted to protect him from more pain – and now, somehow, I have allowed years to pass. The longer I have left it, the harder it has become to do.
I have carried it alone for so long, and now I have a strange urge to tell Em – to share this hidden sadness with her. Of course, I don’t – I can’t tell her before I tell him.
‘We haven’t had kids, no,’ I reply. ‘It’s … more complicated, with Harry’s condition. By no means impossible; lots of paraplegic men become fathers, but … well, like I say, complicated.’
She is clearly curious, and I understand that. I shake my head and smile, not intending to go into any more detail. It’s private, it’s personal, and it’s complex. Sex itself is more complex, and Harry’s little swimmers aren’t as good at swimming after the injury.
We looked at various options, ranging from ways to increase the chances of it happening at home through to supremely romantic procedures involving sperm collection andIVF. Making a baby together would be possible – but it would also take time and determination. For whatever reason, neither of us has been that determined – so far at least. Harry’s condition aside, I am older now, and I suppose it is something we need to figure out. A conversation we need to have, like so many others.
Harry, when we were younger, never seemed that keen. I assumed he would eventually mellow about it, but I also suspect his apparent lack of enthusiasm about fatherhood is one of the many reasons I’ve never told him about the baby at all.
What if he reacted badly, and told me it was for the best? What if he just didn’t care? What if he was relieved? I wouldn’t be able to blame him for his reaction, but I know it would have hurt.
‘You?’ I ask, amused at the look of horror that crosses her face.
‘Goodness no! I’m still figuring out how to look after my inner child, never mind an outer one … I do have someone though. Ollie. The love of my life.’
There isn’t a trace of sarcasm as she says that, and it leaves me feeing oddly envious.
‘I’m glad,’ I reply. ‘And … why are you putting so much effort into convincing me, Em? You don’t really need me, poster girl or not. Harry would definitely do it, as long as I was okay with it …’
She smiles, and a flash of the much younger her flickers across her face, making her look like a teenager again.
‘I need you because you meant so much to me back then.’
‘What? How? We barely crossed paths …’
‘That’s what you think. I remember you so vividly, Elena. I was miserable on that trip. It was hot, and I’m a ginger, and I was angry with my parents for making me come, and at the world for existing.’
‘Really?’ I say. ‘But you hid it so well!’
‘No, I didn’t. And joking aside, don’t believe I haven’t tortured myself with that – that the last few conversations I ever had with my dad were grumpy and monosyllabic.’
I feel my emotions surge upwards like bile, and my heart breaks a tiny bit for her. For the broken girl she was, and the patchwork woman she is.
‘That’s … that’s harsh. You were a teenager. Most teenagers are grumpy and monosyllabic.’
‘Och, I know!’ she says, waving her hand in the air in an attempt at dismissal. ‘And he thought it was funny anyway … it’s just one of those things. The logical part of me understands it’s no big deal, but the squishy part of me still sometimes bursts into tears about it while I’m standing in a self-service-till queue in the supermarket, you know?’
‘Yes. Those self-service tills make me cry as well.’
