The Unfinished Child Read Online Free PDF Page A

What did Barry know about guilt, anyway? He never second-guessed himself. He set a course of action and didn’t deviate from his plan. So why was he seemingly calm about this new wrinkle in their lives? Had he even thought about it? Was it fair that Marie was pregnant again?
    No, it wasn’t fair, but she knew there was no such thing as capital-J justice. When she and Elizabeth had been in their early twenties, Elizabeth had often talked of how much fun they would have becoming parents together.
    “I can see them now,” Elizabeth had laughed. “Little girls with freckled faces who’ll refuse to wear dresses and run around with bed-head.” Her enthusiasm was infectious. It would be great. Their kids would grow up closer than sisters. And when Nicole was born, it seemed as if Marie was fulfilling a pre-ordained script, except that Elizabeth’s pregnancy never followed. Twelve years had passed and Marie had had two children while Elizabeth had had none.
    Back then, Elizabeth would flip her dark hair in a gesture of impatience. “We’re still trying,” she’d say. Marie didn’t really want to think about them going hard at the sex, even though she was happy with Barry, because every now and then she couldn’t help but feel a slight stirring when she remembered how she and Ron had enjoyed each other in bed.
    But as the years went by and Elizabeth “failed” to conceive, “trying” changed to mean they were making trips to the fertility clinic. “No luck yet,” Elizabeth always added.
    Marie closed her novel, which was a simple tale of love and regret. She’d read two pages without taking in a word, while Barry remained engrossed in his book. Would he never notice her silence? If she stayed downstairs much longer, he would get to bed before she did. But that never happened, did it? She used his predictability to his advantage and always made it upstairs before he did.
    She walked to the kitchen, rinsed her cup, and put it in the dishwasher. Upstairs, she quickly washed her face, applied cream with gentle upward strokes on the thinning skin around her eyes, and brushed her teeth. A few strands of grey hair stuck straight up like antennae from the part in the middle of her scalp. Grey hair and pregnancy. In Marie’s world, the two did not go hand in hand. Back in her bedroom she undressed, slipped her flannel nightgown over her head, and climbed into bed. Above her nightstand, the frost on the window reminded her of the puffy white mould that grew on food left in the fridge too long. Marie closed her eyes and tried to slow her heart. She imagined the mountain ash swaying in the icy blasts of wind outside her window and wondered how, in these frigid temperatures, the branches didn’t snap clean away from the trunk.
    Finally, Barry quietly came upstairs. Marie regulated her breathing and pretended to be asleep. They had performed this scene so many times in their married life—she pretending to be asleep, and he pretending to believe she was sleeping. But maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time he would apologize for his remark and seek some kind of reconciliation. It wouldn’t take much, just a light touch on the small of her back, or a brief kiss on her cheek. Just a small acknowledgment that this pregnancy was not simply hers to deal with, nor was it a way to measure her life against her best friend’s. Why didn’t he ever just say that she was doing a good job, that she was a good mother? But when he emerged from the bathroom he slid slowly into bed, careful not to bounce the mattress. Then he turned over, his limbs contained to his side of the bed, and within minutes began to snore.
    Sometimes loneliness was a physical pain that was worse than any cramp or contraction she’d ever had. She fought the urge to get up and steal quietly down to the kitchen to make herself something to eat, just to take the edge off the dreadful ache of feeling isolated from people who were supposed to love her.