Thank you to anyone who read part 1 of this and hopefully this part is ok :)
It starts with a text
Jac sits, round bellied and uncomfortable, on the one chair that she still dares use. The sofa has been out of the question for a number of weeks, having found herself in the awkward position of not being able to pull herself in to a standing position from it. The more comfy overstuffed chair, that she now shoots the occasionally longing glance at, had been useable for far long but within its confines she had suffered the same fate the previous week. So now she has relented, and uses the chair which doesn't really do much for her constantly aching spine but does at least allow her to get up when she has to make one of her far to frequent trips to the toilet.
At that point she is having a staring contest, though she is unequally matched to her opponent – the mobile phone which sits on the arm of her chair. She isn't sure how long she has been sitting here, occasionally pressing her finger to the screen to keep it awake. If she let it slip in to standby, she'd win, she'd be the stronger one – the battle of wills won, and yet she cannot seem to let it happen instead as the screen darkens her finger moves on instinct causing it to become bright once more.
She isn't quite sure that she's seeing what's on the screen anymore, but that no longer matters it is burned in to her head. It's not the most interesting screen, it is not one of those childish games which he insists on downloading on to the tablets at work, and his own mobile nor is it a photograph of a loved one. On his phone, with the swipe of a finger you can cause a scan photo to appear on the screen, and she is certain he loses himself staring at the picture. He knows every inch of those photographs, the silhouette of their child not yet born.
At the thought of her baby, a hand slips to her abdomen and so rubs the spot at which her baby had most recently kicked. Beneath the taut skin, you can make out the baby's movements now. She is tired of being pregnant. She has begged in the quiet for her child to make an appearance the coming day. She has pleaded with the unborn despite her protestations when the father has tried to communicate with the baby that it cannot hear in-utero. She had done that so many times, tried to prevent him talking with the child, unable to bear the way her heart pulled as she heard the tone of his words. The love he already held for someone who had not yet lived in this world, someone he had not yet met. Oh she is certain she loves the child too – despite her frustration at the baby's already apparent stubbornness – but she isn't sure she sounds quite that way when she talks of it.
Those around them, they get gooey eyed to hear the father talk of his unborn child. They smile at his excitement and the unbridled joy he cannot help but show. It is emotion like she has never known, to be wanted in such an obvious way and that is why she tries to push him. That is why she stops him talking to the bump, because it is all she can control, because though she hates to admit it she is jealous of her unborn child.
And so now she is locked in a staring contest with his contact page. A stupid photo of him is smiling at her. He'd stolen her phone from her many months before, back when they'd been a couple and amongst other changes, he'd taken this photo and assigned it to his page. It was something she hadn't been able to bring herself to remove, that cheesy grin and sparkling eyes. Her fingers had hovered numerous times over the delete button before she'd closed the edit screen, and found herself staring at him once more, wondering how things had gone so very wrong.
And now everything about the page is taunting her. His number which on dialling would allow her to hear his voice, that beautiful voice that comes to her during her sleeping hours, fills her dreams until she finds herself awake cheeks streaked with tears. She blames her hormones, but knows it is more than that but the excuse is easier to accept. She knows she won't ring it, that she'd probably only reach his answer machine and even if he did pick up she doesn't quite know what to say to him. How do you tell someone you need them when all you've done for so long is push them away?
Even worse is not wanting to say those words, because she hasn't yet accepted it herself, that she does in fact need him, and more than that she wants him too. Those nights when he has appeared, and she has tried to get rid of him, even though she has wanted nothing more than to grab hold of him and never let him escape. But she cannot let herself do that, she has to ignore that tug of her heart, the quickness of its beat and the way her child responds to that.
She bites down hard on her lip as her finger hovers dangerously close to the screen, she can't do this. Seeing him makes things all the harder, and yet a part of her is trying to override everything. He has tried to help, come at her beck and call when she has been brave enough to call him with a demand only to leave him on the doorstep more often than not on acceptance of his offering. She knows it's wrong, that with each message she brings him hope before it is quickly dashed, that even when he makes it through the door she is cold and distant, talks only of the child and little of herself and her state, all the while making it clear that she wants him gone.
She wonders how much of this he sees through, but she rarely dwells on it for long. She blinks at the phone, breaking the game. Technology winning over her, but it is the change in the screen that scares her. She has switched to messaging, his name in the recipient box. A blank space waiting for her to type. So many words she could place within that box, things that need to be said but remain unspoken, unheard. But they are too big for a message, the screen too impersonal as a method of delivery and yet it is the easier option. But she cannot do it.
She stares at the flickering line that awaits letters. The screen taunts her lack of ability, her fear, her weakness. She curses herself for being this way, and wanting what she cannot have. And yet she is desperate. She is alone, and scared of things she cannot see or understand. Feels more than she has let herself feel in a long time, and for the most part she cannot understand the emotions that course her veins. She has forced them to lie dormant for so long that now that come with a vengeance, just as they always did when allowed to break free. Only this time is worse.
She feels the baby wriggle beneath her hand. This baby, the one who is coming, the one who will be with her and not leave. A person on whom she can rely and who will love her, though she fears she will muck it up. This little person holds the key to so very much, a future as a family of two. She hasn't known family for a lifetime, and the closeness of finally getting it is teasing. She can almost taste it, sweet – yet strange - on her tongue. The end of lonely nights, thanks to a bundle of cells given to her on a night that should never have been. A child that never should have come in to existence and yet is so nearly here. She places a lot on a baby not yet born, responsibility for rescuing her.
And yet the child refuses to come. She is waiting, and it stays nestled within her, constricting her organs and making daily tasks harder and yet she loves the child. The promise of what they will bring to her life. She is scared of waiting much longer, of another night of darkness. The echo-y walls of this impersonal space. It is not home, and yet soon it will be. The baby will make it her home. The first home she has known for years.
The screen has changed once more and with horror she realises her finger has slipped. An empty speech bubble had appeared on what had been a blank message screen. The reality of what she has done causing a shudder to run through her body. She hopes that he will think nothing of it, consider it a mistake and nothing more but this is Jonny and she knows he isn't like that. That he'll worry that there is something wrong with the baby and that has left her unable to type a message or ring. He will think of his child, and he will come for it.
She stares at the phone hoping he will respond and that she can put him off. Her fingers hover once more over the onscreen keys, and she knows. She knows she could type a message, tell him it was a mistake, the message sent by accident but her fingers won't move. They won't touch the screen, instead they hang in the air and she wills for them to move, prays that they won't.
And then she hears it the tell-tell rapping at her door. Soft at first, and then more persistent as she heaves her body from its perch. She hasn't moved for too long and her body protests now. Stiffly she walks to the door, knowing that if she doesn't get there quickly he will have knocked it down based on the sound of his fist. She slips it open and steps back as he almost falls through the doorway. She fights the urge to laugh at his comedic prat fall but then she sees the look on his face, the concern, the panic and the way now he has righted himself he looks to her, trying to puzzle out what is going on.
"I'm not in labour" she says finally, with a heavy sigh and a sad shake of her head. He twists his lips and tilts his head as if he is expecting her to say something more. Instead she gestures for him to sit on the sofa, as she tries to work out what on earth to do next.