10 September 2006 - Ruth
When she'd had her MI-5 training, one of the instructors had suggested picking a date, like the first of every month, to perform a quick check of all emergency supplies so that they're always prepared, and thinking it a very good idea, that is what she'd done. Originally, she'd thought of choosing her birthday, but then she'd realised February doesn't always have 29 days, and it's not a very nice thing to have to do on one's birthday anyway – consider the possibility of having to flee one's home in a hurry – so she'd chosen the first of the month, Harry's birthday, though she'd not known that at the time. Since she's using the duffel bag everyday now though, she'd not thought it necessary to perform this monthly check, until she'd remembered that her wool coat and the other clothes she'd arrived in are in there, in addition to some money and extra passports tucked into the false bottom of the bag, and she should really check the batteries of her torch and little radio, as well as the state of her first aid kit. So she'd opened it up and emptied it, intent on seeing if there's anything missing and repacking it when she's done.
That had been three days ago.
She still remembers the horror, the shock of the packets of tampons and sanitary towels tumbling onto the bed, the realisation dawning as she'd sat down heavily, whispering, "No, no, no, no," over and over again, her hand pressing against her flat stomach, willing it not to be true as she'd quickly calculated the number of days and had come to the inevitable, unalterable conclusion that it's been six weeks since her last period and that the weird sensation she's been feeling in her breasts, the bouts of nausea she's had over the last few days, first thing in the morning, all point to one tremendous, disastrous thing – she's pregnant with Harry's child.
Three days later, and though the shock has warn off somewhat, she's nowhere near knowing what she should do, how she should deal with this development, other than to hope it will take care of itself and she'll have a miscarriage.
There have been times in her life when she's really wanted a child, and others when the idea has struck her as a very bad one. She's always liked children, but it's one thing to like them and quite another to decide to have one yourself, and as she's grown older and wiser, she's really understood the level of commitment a child involves, the effort, heartache, and responsibility one has as a parent, the work and infinite love and patience one needs to put into raising a child well, being a really good parent. She's never been one to do things by half-measures, so she's always known that being a mother would take a lot out of her for many years, seeing as she'd want to excel at it.
When she'd joined the Service, she'd set aside any lingering desire she'd still had to have a baby, knowing that her busy schedule and the risk involved in her work would not be compatible with the kind of parenting style she'd want to adopt. Having had the experience of growing up with a father who was a doctor and an extremely busy man and whose death had devastated her at a young, vulnerable age, she'd decided that she couldn't risk the same happening to her child and so she wouldn't have any. And if she's honest, it hadn't even crossed her mind to have one with Harry, feeling pleased that he's already had children and is unlikely to want more, thinking it a very good thing that they most likely agree on this issue, though she'd never discussed it with him to find out for certain.
So now, she's completely lost. The thought of having a baby, the daunting task of carrying it to term, giving birth, and taking care of an infant on her own while she's on the run is overwhelming. And yet, this is Harry's baby, perhaps the only piece of him she has left if he can't manage to clear her name and bring her home, or if – heaven forbid – something were to happen to him, some bomb or stray bullet were to end his life – a possibility she tries not to think about too much, but a possibility nonetheless.
She thinks about contacting him, telling him, asking for his advise, but she quickly dismisses the idea as madness. It's been barely a month since she left. She'd be landing herself straight in jail and everyone on the team who'd helped her escape in hot water if she was found out now, and that's not even considering what Harry might do if he knew. He's proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he's incapable of thinking and acting rationally when she's in danger, and God only knows what the knowledge that she's pregnant would prompt him to do – maybe attempt to bring her home prematurely or resign and come after her, which would completely defeat the purpose of her sacrifice in the first place and put them all in danger in the process.
Briefly she dares to contemplate what would have happened if she hadn't been forced to leave and she'd been safe and sound at home when she'd discovered her pregnancy, but she quickly dismisses the notion as she knows the only reason she became pregnant in the first place is her exile and the fact that no one had thought – herself included – to bring along the rest of her pills when they'd retrieved her bag from her house. She hadn't even missed them, so out of her sleeping and waking routine has she been since leaving home, and her mind so full of other things.
"Are you still there, little one?" she murmurs now, hand resting on her stomach as she looks down before smiling and lifting her face to the sun again. The weather's been beautiful these last few days, and she's taken advantage of it everyday by going for a walk through the fields and woods along the river in the little town of Eymet where she's been staying for ten days now. It's good for her, and if she's going to keep this baby, she's going to have to be fit and strong to carry it and give birth, not to mention produce enough milk for her son or daughter.
She smiles as she thinks of that, remembering the French woman she'd seen, just the other day, nursing her baby, the joy and love on the woman's face as her daughter had looked into her eyes, little fist clenched around her mother's bunched up blouse, her mouth working away, suckling at her breast. She'd almost melted at the sight and realised that the longer she puts off the decision about the abortion, the less likely it is that she'll want one or be able to carry through with it if she decides it's for the best.
So as she sits in the sun this morning, she takes out the notebook she's bought for just this purpose and begins making a list of the pros and cons of keeping Harry's baby on one page, and letting it go on the other.
By the end of the hour, the logic of it is clear. The problem is that her emotional response to said logic is not.