A new friend upends an expectant mother’s life in Katherine Faulkner’s novel.
Protagonist Helen is finally pregnant after years of fertility struggles when things around her start going very wrong.
As Rachel pushes her way into Helen’s life, some long-buried secrets threaten to surface.
Read an excerpt from the book below, or listen to it above, as read by Laura Kirman.
What did you do that day, after I was convicted?
After the knock
of the gavel, the soft swish of silk and cotton as everyone else stood up?
I looked for you, wanting to find your face.
Where you went, what you ate.
Whom you spoke to.
How your life continued after I was taken out of it.
I close my eyes sometimes, so I can conjure it exactly.
I dress you in your green sweater, your hair twisted up on top of your head.
I make everything the same, just as I remember.
Are there birds in your magnolia tree?
Are the roses in bloom?
In my dream, they are.
I think you would find the food here the hardest thing.
The forks are plastic.
They snap off in the gray lumps of meat, the piles of instant
potatoes.
Some days the wardens will give you another, if you ask.
Other days they won’t, and we have to eat with our hands.
I find it difficult sometimes to believe I am really here.
A danger, someone who is not to be trusted.
But then, no one really thinks they are bad, do they?
Whoever we are, whatever we’ve done.
We all have our reasons, if anyone can be bothered to listen.
Perhaps you’ll never read this letter anyway.
Tear it up as soon as you see the postmark, toss it into the fire.
I don’t think so, though.
It’s
always been too much for you, hasn’t it, Helen?
The temptation of a sealed envelope.
If it weren’t, perhaps we wouldn’t have ended up where we did.
Don’t get me wrong.
I’m not saying you are to blame.
Whatever you did, you didn’t deserve what happened next.
I hope you know I never meant for things to end the way they did.
I suppose I just lost control.
Lately, I’ve been trying to trace it back, a trail of bread crumbs in my mind.
Trying to work out where it all began, where it all started going wrong.
And I suppose the real answer is it started years before you could have ever imagined it did.
I almost asked you once when you were talking about it.
Had it really been like that?
The sun so warm, the scent of the grass so sweet?
Are you sure, Helen?
I wonder if you knew that those Technicolor memories could ruin youforever by their perfection.
That they could cast so many other things in shadow.
I hope you didn’t.
And I’m glad you didn’t know the truth about that day.
I suppose I hoped you never would.
But you oughta hear it now, Helen.
So here it is.
Just at this moment, a girl walks in, slamming the door behind her.
Sorry, everyone," she announces loudly.
She slips a metallic-gold backpack off one shoulder and drops it down on the floor with a thud.
It lands inches from my foot.
She grins, one hand on her bump.
“This chair taken?”
I hesitate, then shake my head.
“Anyone else?”
The flip chart charade continues for a few further minutes.
The women begin to shift in their chairs, exchange raised eyebrows, un- comfortable glances.
I give a shot to concentrate.
The girl next to me, the late- comer, is chewing gum.
She catches my eye, grinning again, as if the whole thing is hilarious.
Finally, Sonia surrenders, pulling the back of her arm across the moisture on her brow.
“OK,” she says.
“Shall we take a short break?”
A murmur of relief goes up.
All the women waddle toward the jugs of juice, and I quickly follow them.
Soon they are grouping up, the room
filling with the noise of chatter.
I am being left behind.
I feel a plummeting panic.
No Daniel, no Rory, no Serena.
How do people make friends?
What would Serena do?
I hover on the edge of a group, trying to look casual, waiting to be included.
But there never seems to be a good moment to interject.
I open my mouth to speak a few times, but on each occasion, someone else speaks first.
I end up closing my mouth again, like a fish drowning in air.
I am uncomfortably warm.
Can’t someone get that window open?
The girl who came in late appears at my side.
“Do you want one?
I thought you looked like you might need a real drink.
One a day can’t hurt, surely.”
She holds out the glass in front of me.
Her painted fingernails are short and chewed.
She looks very youngperhaps she just has one of those faces.
Round, dimpled, babyish.
“What’s the deal, then?”
I blink at her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just wondered what the setup was.”
Then her face snaps back at me, her eyes wide, her fingers pressed to her mouth.
“You’re not a surrogate, are you?”
“That would be typical, wouldn’t it?
Didn’t even want it, and now you’re left holding the baby!”
I look over her shoulder, take a stab at catch the eye of one of the other women.
But none return my gaze, so I am forced to reply.
I clear my throat.
“No, um.
I’m not.”
I venture to laugh.
“It’s just that my husband, Daniel, couldn’t make it tonight.”
I shake my head slightly, as if it’s just one of those things, doesn’t matter.
I pause, before realizing she is waiting for an explanation about the two other empty seats.
“The other couple is my brother and his wife.
They’re expecting in the same month as us.
We’d been planning to do the classes together, as a foursome, but .
obviously decided against it in the end.”
The girl smiles sympathetically.
Never mind, you’re free to team up with me, can’t you?"
She picks the glass up again.
“Shall we have this drink, then?”
“Thanks,” I say hesitantly.
“But I’m not sure .
Why am I incapable of completing my own sentences?
I should just say no, thank you, I would rather not drink.
I mean, I’m pregnant.
Surely I don’t have to spell it out?
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?
The way they change the advice all the time!
I clear my throat, unsure how to answer.
“Well, fuck doctors,” she continues.
“Our mums all got smashed when they were pregnant.
We all bloody survived!”
She is speaking far too loudly.
The room is silent, and people are starting to openly stare.
She holds the wine- glass aloft to toast her own sentiment.
She brings the glass to her lips.
“Fuck the NHS,” she spits.
“That’s what I say.”
She tips the glass to her lips and drinks.
As she does so, I notice one or two of the other mothers actually wince.
The girl picks up the drink she has brought for me.
She holds it out, like a threat, or a dare.
“Come on,” she hisses.
Her eyes flick down to my name badge.
“You know you want to .
Later, after everything, I will come to wonder why I act as I do in this moment.
For even now, there is something about this girl.
Something that makes me want to edge away, to look for a place of safety.
But I don’t step away.
I take the wine.
But they are already looking the other way.
“Thanks,” I say weakly.
“Nice to meet you, Helen.
I’m Rachel.”
