A Decision

A post doctorate researcher has a summer of self-discovery and a decision to make.

Photo by A. L. on Unsplash

This is an excerpt of back story from a novel I started to write some time ago - I am exploring a few of my possible novels and eagerly seeking feedback to help me choose direction. In that regard this is as far removed from Jiro Jones as my writing gets. I’m not asking “TELL ME WHAT TO WRITE” but engagement is encouragement, however you read it.

This is all character back story and virtually nothing of the plot is revealed here. ALL I will say is that it is part of a Cli-Sci-Fi mystery. probably. And there might be some horror-ish bits, here and there. No, really!

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She remembered the party, and some of the people there. She remembered the huge student cliché of a house on Cardigan Terrace. She remembered people had laughed when she’d asked Dr. Jay “Tell me, why are you called ‘the Doctor’ ?” because they thought she was joking, but she had just been a bit slow on the uptake. She remembered pretending that it was not the first time she had tried any drugs.

Helen knew a lot about how drugs worked, but it was more the sort of people that always seemed to have them and the state they got themselves into; that was what put her off and made her apprehensive. She’d avoided them completely throughout her time at university. Until then, until that party. There wasn't anything particularly different about that party, and she had been to her fair share. Weed and pills had been around, generally, as they were in university towns. It was the events in the recent weeks that had brought her to a different place, to some sort of epiphany. She had resolved that she would try them, all of them. Try everything.

She’d got her PhD, and two offers for research work from the faculty, starting with the new term. Almost everyone in her small circle had left Cambridge that summer to go back home, or abroad, or just somewhere cheaper. Then Michael had told her he didn't love her any more and that he wanted her to move out - it was his house after all. And so she had had to leave the place and the man that had been home for three years. She’d also somehow fallen out with a best friend on a weekend away walking - or her friend had fallen out with her - but she didn't know why.

Her mother had been ill and had called; something she didn't do often, because she didn't want to be a pest. Helen had been in the middle of something, was distracted, and her mother had sensed it. She cut the call short, asking Helen to call her later, but Helen had forgotten and the next day she’d woken with a strange, certain sense that her mother had really wanted her to come home, and she hadn't understood. Fretting that she had left it too long, she didn't call for a couple of days, then lied that she had been just too busy, too tired.

One day, as she sat on the top deck of a bus, she had seen a man fall in a pub car park as she passed. It was just the briefest glimpse but something in the way he had crumpled to the ground made her think that he had died. She’d spent a week almost entirely alone, dossing at a friend’s house that was empty for a month over the summer, while she looked for somewhere to rent. She realised she didn't know how to go about it, because she had never had to; Michael had done all the house stuff. She thought about the man in the pub car park, often, imagining his life, wondering if he was really dead. It gnawed at her. He hadn’t seemed that old, but then, he must have been, surely?

Michael had come round with some things that he said were hers, in a bin liner. He’d dropped it into the hall at her feet when she answered the door, but he hadn’t come in. He had just stood on the step and after an uncomfortable few moments had handed her an envelope, saying “Er, well, I suppose this is goodbye then.”

She had watched him walk away and turn up the street out of sight, then had gone into the lounge and sat on the sofa bed, pulling a throw over her. She stared at the envelope, preparing herself for some long, angst-filled letter of explanation. But it hadn’t been a long, angst-filled letter of explanation, or a confession, or any sort of letter. It was more a sort of invoice, for her share of the last few months’ bills. She scraped at something ingrained in the fabric of the throw with her nail and thought that she must have completely misunderstood what love was. Later, when she found out that Michael’s reasons for breaking up with her were intimately connected with those of her, now ex, best friend and the mysterious falling out, she had cried. It had hurt. This was love?

Her friend Georgie had come round to laugh at her predicament in that disarming way which, from anyone else, would have been intolerable, but from Georgie, had somehow made things better. He’d said there was going to be a massive party that evening at Dr. Jay’s. Georgie had thrown himself dramatically across the sofa bed, declaring that the summer was just too, too dull to bear and that there was no option but to get absolutely mashed out of their minds, constantly, until everyone came back in September. Starting now. Helen dried her eyes and laughed at him in acquiescence.

That party had been eight years ago but it was a time in her life that was clearer to her than many. She had re-run those past events so often, wondering, what if? She remembered how that evening had developed, how the cannabis had made her speech slow. The hardness of the yellow pill as she had rolled it in her fingers, before she knocked it back with a vodka shot. She remembered the euphoria and warmth that had gradually built, how the music had become irresistible and the sense of endless energy within her. “I feel like I’m in love” she had said to Georgie “but not with anyone. Just...in love.” “Then we must find you someone to love!” he said, whirling her about the room, “What good is love if you don't have anyone to give it to?” he’d said, suggestively.

And then to the last part of the night, the longest part, the part where everything slowed down again and she felt she had floated outside of her body. Two guys she barely knew became irresistibly good looking. She had wanted to kiss them and she had told them both just that. And so, together, in one of the vacant-for-the-summer bedrooms, in the orange glow of cloth covered lamps, they had kissed, all three of them, then undressed. She had wanted them both, told herself that she could - she would - take them both and that they would do what she wanted them to do.

After some unmeasured passing of time when she had not wanted to stop, but they had had to, she had sung good morning to her two lovers, and to the sun, as it rose, to a tune that made itself up. Gathering her clothes, and dressing, she hadn't stopped singing. She’d looked for Georgie, but he’d gone. She’d rung him repeatedly as she danced down the street to a bus stop but he hadn’t answered, so she left him message after message, which he played back to her later. She found she was unable to stop moving until she had got home and was hit by sudden thirst and tiredness.

Fighting the urge to crash on the sofa bed and cry again, as she had been just 24 hours earlier, she took a blanket to the park and lay on the grass. The colours and sounds felt ultra crisp even as the drugs worked their way out of her. She listened to music. She hummed, she read, she made mental plans for the rest of the summer. She revisited moments in the last years with Michael and recognised the inertia that had seeped into everything except her studying. She called Georgie and her mother until her phone died. When it began to get cooler as the evening drew in, she had realised how long it had been since she had eaten and she bought a pizza from the local takeaway; something else she had never done before. Michael had always chosen.

Now, Helen stood in the doorway of her daughter’s bedroom, quietly watching her sleep, recalling the past and contemplating the beauty of her daughter, in a life that was the consequence of that night. A new future miraculously, silently unfurling inside Helen, had gone unnoticed for three months. She had never been that regular and with everything else that had happened that summer, it had not registered that she was late until she realised that she didn't know if she was two or three months late. She had agonised for a week and then called Georgie to ask what night exactly had that party been on. She counted the weeks on her fridge calendar, dotting them with a red marker pen. Three months late, Three and half now.

Georgie badgered her until she told him what was going on and he had joked “Imagine if you’re pregnant, Hells! Nightmare! Have you seen him since? Was he called Carl or something, that one you were chewing the face off? Or was it Chris? Or was he the other one?”

“No. I haven’t seen anyone since the party.” she breathed in deeply. “Georgie… the thing is... I slept with both of them.”

Georgie had shrieked at her down the phone, but once he had calmed down he had insisted he was coming round. He would get a pregnancy test on the way and she would do it and it would be negative and she would be fine. And wasn’t she a dark horse. And an absolute sex goddess.

When he arrived, he bundled her upstairs with the pregnancy test, propelling her into the bathroom. She sat on the loo. “Georgie, please go downstairs, I can’t go with you hovering about, you’re putting me off.” Eventually she had managed it then stared at the little clear window of the tester, watching as the second pink line materialised, Georgie shouting up “Have you done it yet?” She eventually unlocked the toilet door. Georgie had rushed up and started banging on it to be let in when he had heard her begin to cry.

“Shit, Hells, how will you know which one’s the dad? What if it's twins? Could be one each?” Georgie had babbled as he took the test from her gingerly to study. “Has it still got wee on it?” he passed it from hand to hand, not knowing which end was which.

“I don’t even know their names, let alone which one of them is the dad, Georgie!” she had sobbed into his shoulder. They went to the chemist to get another test, just to be sure, and, of course, it was also positive. She slumped onto the bathroom floor, leaning against the side of the bath. “Oh Christ! What am I going to do, Georgie?”

“Hells, I know it's awful and everything, but you just can’t have it. You can’t. I mean, think about it: you've just started your post. I mean, will they do mat. leave? And what about the father? Fathers? You’d have to speak to them. Would you even want to? I’ll call Dr Jay. Maybe he’ll know who they were. Or even one of them.”

It was all true, but none of it helped. Georgie made her a cup of tea. She called her mother. It was a reflex she regretted.

“Are you going to keep it darling?”

“I just don’t know mum. It feels like it would be too much.”

“Don’t make any hasty decisions, Helen, darling, but promise me you will think very carefully about whether an abor… whether you might not come to regret not keeping it. Every child is a blessing. I know a few women - you’ve met some of them…well, I’ll just say they regret they didn't keep their first. Your dad and I would be here for you. What does Michael think?”

It’s not anyone’s child, mum, not yet. Not even mine.

She didn't know what she would do for a while. Fifteen weeks. Far too late for a medical termination. Your foetus is as large as an orange she read online, but she didn’t feel any symptoms or any different in herself. It seemed unreal. She went to the doctors and had another test. They talked about screening and terminations, symptoms and next steps. If she didn’t want to have it, the Dr. would make a referral, but sooner was better. She left with various pamphlets but still without knowing what she would do. What she should do stood, like the shadow of some other, more adult self, behind her. She felt its presence, in the background, a knowledge that there really was only one option, and she would take it soon enough and that would be that. She felt the weight of this knowledge like a firm hand, resting on her shoulder.

Term started at university, as did her first “proper” job. Her role as a research associate and junior lecturer was both familiar and new. She lost herself in it during the day. In the evenings, she swung between tired and energised and avoided her mother’s increasingly frequent calls. Georgie came with flowers and non-alcoholic fizz “Just in case.” He’d spoken to Dr. J. He was asking around about a Chris or a Carl, but he didn't even remember Helen from the party.

Georgie did his best to impersonate Dr. Jay’s laconic estuary drawl

“I know a lot of Chrisses, George, me old mate. A lot of ‘em knockin’ abaaht. I’ve got your moby, though. I’ll let you know if anyone in the house remembers ‘em. But we operate an open door policy, very welcoming. The Dr. is usually in. They coulda just crashed in off the street, and nobody’d know.”

“You know,” said Helen, after a while “I don’t think the Dr. is going to be much help finding them, is he.”

“Shagging randos,” said Georgie, shaking his head, passing mock judgement.

“I’m not sure I want to find them, you know. And anyway, I don’t shag randos, Georgie, that’s what makes this so bloody unfair.”

“Well perhaps if you had shagged a few more, Hells, you’d have thought to have some protection with you, like all us sensible slappers. I’ve always got two - one for me, one for him.”

“I never needed to think about that when I was with Michael. I’d literally just stopped taking the pill as well, after he dumped me. The bastard. All his fault.”

Another week passed. Your baby is now 11cm long, which is the size of an avocado, she read. The weight is around 100g, which is the same as a medium bag of salad leaves. Your baby is starting to pull faces now, but any smiling or frowning will be completely random, as there's no muscle control yet.

Last week it was a foetus, she thought. Today it's a baby. You are a baby. She smoothed a hand over her belly. Maybe there was just the beginning of a bump.

At the start of the 17th week, her team began a new testing protocol for a promising compound. It used rabbits. Very young rabbits. The drugs were to be tested to monitor effects on their development. The testing phase would be 21 weeks. There would be 5 groups of rabbits tested. A third of each cohort would be harvested every 7 weeks and then euthanised. Killed. Someone else would be testing on rats at the same time. They had significant funding for a 2 year rolling programme working on a promising anti-inflammatory compound. By the time she got to 38 weeks she would have killed 165 rabbits. A lot more would have been killed by the end of the study. Even though she had been in favour of a different approach, and had hoped the team would be led more towards the use of phytochemicals, it would always involve animal testing, once anything promising was found.

That evening she called her mother again.

“What a lovely surprise, Helen”.

“You always ring first, mum.”

“That’s what mums are for.”

“No, but I should call more often.”

“You’ll have a lot on your mind, won’t you, what with your new job and...and everything else.”

“I’ve been thinking about myself too much recently, mum. I wanted to ask how you were. And dad.”

“Oh I don’t want to talk about my creaky old bones, dear. How are you? That’s more important right now.”

“Is Dad ok?”

“Oh you know Dad. He’s fine. I’ll put him on in a minute, he wants to chat.”

“Not like him.”

“Well, Helen, even your Dad is worried about you at the moment. I know! Can you imagine?!”

“Hmm”

“Can’t you come home this weekend, and see us? Have a proper chat? I just feel so distant from you, Helen. We both do.”

“I’m fine, mum, really. Sorry I haven’t called sooner. It's been hard getting things straight in my head.”

“Of course. Just come home, let us look after you for a bit?”

“It's not how this year was supposed to go. I’m still working out how I feel about it.”

“Upset your schedule a bit, I expect? I can hear your father talking.”

Helen laughed “Look, mum, I’ll see about the weekend, but can we talk about something else just now? Please? I really did want to know how you’re doing. How are your hands, mum.”

“My hands?”

“Yes, your arthritis Mum. How is it?”

“Same as ever, I suppose. The Doctor wants to put me on some new tablets, but really, the last lot didn't seem to do much good. I’m taking garlic and glucoso-something or other, and I've got some cream that’s supposed to be good. All the things one is supposed to do.”

“Does it help? Are they any better, less painful? More mobile?”

“If I’m honest, Helen, it's hard to tell. It's always there, if I think about it. Some days worse than others, when it’s raining. But short of moving to Portugal…”

“We are NOT moving to Portugal” Helen interrupted, imitating her father’s voice.

“Yes, short of moving to Portugal, I’ll just have to live with it. Get your Dad to peel the carrots, open jars. Earn his keep. You’re not working on a miracle cure are you?”

“We are testing something that has potential. Made me think to call you.”

“Oh, that’s nice Helen, you need a guinea pig, do you? Is that why you called?”

“Rabbits, actually. 165 of them.”

“Oh Helen! Don't, don’t! I don’t want to know. I don’t know how you can do it.”

“Mum, if it wasn't for animal testing...”

“Well that’s not true these days, and you know it.”

“And that moisturiser you like, where do you think that comes from?”

“Helen. Helen, please! Let's not start this, we’ll never see eye to eye on it. I’m going to pass you to your father. You two murderers can catch up. And he still eats meat, I know he does. Pork pie crumbs in the car, and he thinks I don’t know. Anyway, say you’ll come at the weekend. I’ll make up your bed.”

Helen weighed up how unbearable her mother might be with how much better she would definitely feel about herself if she went. “Ok mum. I’ll come. It’ll be good to see you both.”

“Oh that’s lovely, Helen. I can’t wait. Here’s your dad. Love you.”

“Love you too. Bye mum.”

She took the train up at the weekend, and her dad met her at the station. He hugged her apprehensively, looking down at her stomach first, sizing her up. Conversation was easy, it always was with her dad; more matter of fact. Shorter sentences.

“Whatever you decide, you’ll manage, Helen, and everything will be fine.” was all he felt it necessary to say on the subject of her pregnancy.

She asked him how her mum was really managing with the arthritis. He asked about her new job and they discussed the research she was doing. He was genuinely interested in anything to do with science; always had been.

“So, this anti-inflammatory research you’re engaged with...could it be of any use to your mother?”

“The study I’m working on will take two years. It’s possible another will be started if year one results are promising and the department can secure more funding. Then four years for pre-clinicals to start. Three rounds of those unless the second round is extremely good. I’d say 10 years dad. Minimum.”

“She probably wouldn't take it, even if you had discovered it. You know what she’s like.”

“We could pop it into a kale and spirulina smoothie. She’d never know.”

The smell of the house was like a gentle embrace. Objects and rituals that she had half forgotten gave a familiar comfort. It was true, there was nowhere like home and she realised she had not felt at home for years. It was just her and her parents. Briefly, Auntie Janice, her mother’s close friend and longtime neighbour, popped in before dinner for a glass of wine and to say hello. Her mother must not have said anything to her, either, or she had taken pains to brief Janice to say nothing.

That evening, as she undressed for bed, Helen was startled when she stood in front of her mirror; a faint but unmistakable dark line ran down her belly from her naval. She turned to the side, and looked at herself. Still barely noticeable, but a bump all the same. She got into bed. The clean linen smelled indescribably good and she breathed it in, again and again. Muffled sound of her parents getting ready for bed accompanied her to sleep.

Despite her apprehension, the weekend was wonderful; almost a cliché of a family get together, it might be said. She sat in the garden and read while her dad pottered about, then she escaped to the kitchen when he brought the lawnmower out. Her mum was determined to bake something for her to take back to Cambridge, and her questions seemed less intrusive without the emotional eye contact, the scales and food processor demanding more of her attention. As Helen recounted most of the events of the previous months - Michael, the party, the drugs, the unknown lover (one of them, anyway), the new flat, the job.

“You know, mum, I never thought this before, but before I left home for Uni, it didn't occur to me to talk to you like this. You and dad were, you know, the parentals and you just didn't tell your mum and dad anything. I’m so glad I came home. I feel as if I have just grown up. Last time I was here, properly here, I was a teenager. A child. Now, I feel that there is nobody - except possibly Georgie - that I would want to talk to more than you.”

They hugged. Her mum grew watery eyed. “Darling, you know I’m a bit of a fuss, and your dad doesn't fuss enough, but we love you so so much and you could always have told us anything. You know what I think about, you know, not having the child, but even so, I understand how hard it would be for you, given everything. I really would, and we will support you whatever you do.”

Helen took home with her some photos, a carrot cake and a profound sense of transition. At the department the next day, [ ] took the team through a power point of the experimental protocol they would be using. It involved rabbit pups. A cage of them sat on a bench, their pink, hairless forms quintessentially infant-like. They struggled slowly, blindly, adorably, to find their mother’s teat. Once the pups had weaned, the mother would be euthanized while the pups would get a little longer. Helen fled to the toilets to be sick. She changed her mind.