Page 25 of The Pieces of Us

My throat is sore from retching, the putrid smell filling my nostrils. I wrap my arms round the toilet bowl and rest my cheek against the cool porcelain – the only form of relief available to me.

‘I’m sick,’ I mutter, my voice barely stronger than a whisper. ‘Tell Mam I’m going back to bed if I can ever tear myself away from this toilet.’ Looking at Reenie makes me feel even more queasy, so I let my head drop again.

I hear raised voices from downstairs, a prolonged scuffle of feet, the front door slamming once, twice, three times.

Then my mother is in front of me, her apron bearing the splatters of stove top grease.

It’s Sunday, which means bacon, eggs, baked beans, black pudding and tattie scones.

The mere thought of this meal – normally my favourite – makes my stomach muscles clench again.

Sunday also means Mass, and missing this is much, much worse than rejecting Mam’s cooked breakfast.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ she asks, with a sharp edge to her voice.

‘I’m sick ,’ I croak. ‘I have nothing left to vomit, but I’m still vomiting. I want to die.’

She sighs. ‘Will you be all right here on your own?’ The only time she’s ever missed Mass was after Joe was born – ten days early – at 4 a.m. on a Sunday morning.

Until then, she had a perfect track record for giving birth on weekdays.

It was almost like she was being guided by the Lord Himself.

We both know that staying home to hold her eldest daughter’s hair out of the toilet bowl isn’t considered a just reason for dodging her paramount Sunday obligation.

‘Of course I will,’ I moan. ‘I can hardly go anywhere, can I?’

She rests a finger on my shoulder. ‘Keep drinking water, even if you’re not keeping it down. When you feel up to it, there are Jacob’s crackers in the cupboard.’

‘OK.’ I’m grateful that she isn’t dragging me to the chapel stinking of stomach acid.

I’m only half as Catholic as she is, so I assume my absence doesn’t qualify as a mortal sin.

You can lose an incredible amount of weight in five days if you can’t stop vomiting. My hip bones and ribcage are starting to protrude; my skin is cool and clammy.

‘I’m taking you to Dr Webb.’ My mother presses the palm of her hand against my forehead. ‘Something’s not right.’

She doesn’t drive and Father is at the factory, so we walk slowly to the bus stop, where Mrs Russell from across the road is holding court as usual.

‘I couldnae believe ma eyes,’ she tells the two women standing beside her.

‘There she wis, brazen as anythin’. As if nothin’ had happened.

As if the whole toon doesnae ken she’s been messin’ aboot wae her sister’s man.

’ She doesn’t lower her voice as we approach, such is the way of an oracle. She nods at my mother. ‘Mrs Muir.’

‘Mrs Russell,’ Mam says politely.

‘Mr Muir and the weans guid?’

‘Aye, very good thanks,’ Mam says. ‘And you?’

‘Cannae grumble, hen.’ Mrs Russell’s eyes shift to me. ‘You’re no lookin’ too braw the day, lassie.’

‘She has a sickness bug,’ Mam says. ‘We’re going to visit Dr Webb.’

‘Ah.’ Mrs Russell’s eyes light up. When the bus arrives, she’s still talking about the time Dr Webb’s elderly mother drank too much sherry at Ladies Day and passed out on the Rothesay Stand in front of the Provost of East Ayrshire.

‘Any other symptoms, Beth?’ Dr Webb peers at me over the top of his round glasses. ‘Increased urination? Fatigue?’

I shake my head. ‘I mean, I’m a bit tired …’

‘Do you menstruate?’

I feel myself blush. ‘Yes.’

‘When did you start menstruating?’

‘I was fourteen.’

‘So … about two years ago? Are your periods regular?’

‘I’m not sure …’ I glance at my mother. She nods. ‘Yes, I guess so. More or less.’

‘When was your last period?’

‘Um … I’m not sure … Sorry.’ I think for a moment. ‘Six weeks ago, maybe?’

He writes something on the pad in front of him.

I look at Mam, desperate for some reassurance that everything – whatever that everything is, because I’m not quite sure right now – is going to be OK.

But she won’t make eye contact with me, the stony expression on her face directed towards Dr Webb.

I don’t know if it’s Mam’s face, or Dr Webb’s questions, or the hard knot of anxiety that feels like it’s growing, spreading, forcing itself against the inside of my ribcage, but the air in the small examination room has suddenly become suffocating.

‘Beth, is it possible you could be pregnant?’

I pull at the collar of my shirt, the stupid big pointy collar on the stupid brown checked shirt I thought would make me look like Anni-Frid.

‘Mam, I feel dizzy,’ I gasp. It’s my mother who takes control.

‘Lean forward, put your head between your knees,’ she barks, then uses the same tone with Dr Webb.

‘I don’t appreciate where you’re going with this.

What a ridiculous accusation. Beth is sixteen years old. ’

‘And I am a doctor, Mrs Muir,’ he says curtly.

‘She is my daughter.’ Mam stands up, shoves the strap of her bag up over her shoulder. ‘Come on, Beth. We’re leaving.’

I’m going to be sick, but when I try to tell her this, my words are replaced by a strange sound, and then it feels like the entire inside of my body is in spasm, and I throw up on my shoes.

I freeze, tears coursing down my cheeks, vomit dripping down my legs, while they fuss around me.

Hands pull my hair back from my face, a towel and a plastic basin and a glass of water appear in front of me.

‘Deep breaths,’ Mam says, squeezing my shoulder – a brief gesture that’s devoid of affection but one I appreciate nonetheless.

When the mess is cleaned up, and the dizziness and nausea have been replaced by disbelief and shame – crushing, repulsive shame – I let Dr Webb take my blood pressure and check my heart rate.

‘Nothing to worry about there,’ he tells me.

‘Could you lie down on the exam table and I’ll have a feel of your belly? ’

My mother stands up again. Her hand is back on my shoulder, and this time it stays there. ‘It’s time to go home,’ she says in her no-nonsense voice. ‘Dr Webb, could you give Beth something for her nausea, please? Then we’ll get out of your way. You must have lots more patients to attend to.’

‘Beth, it’s important that I examine you, and then I’d like you to provide a urine sample so that I can confirm or rule out’ – he looks at my mother pointedly – ‘pregnancy. Is it possible that you’re pregnant? Are you sexually active?’

A sequence of images flash through my mind.

His arms round me, pinning me against his chest .

My legs spread wide and trembling . His piercing blue eyes fixed on mine.

And then a change. His eyes scrunched closed, no eye contact.

His bare leg not touching mine on the white bed sheet, so much softer than the one on my bed at home.

‘I … I don’t …’

Mam’s hand slides down to my elbow and she grips tight. ‘It’s time to go home,’ she says again.

‘Beth, would you like to speak to me on your own?’

I shake my head.

Dr Webb sighs but stays silent as we leave the room.

I feel sick on the bus home, but it’s not the same type of nausea that’s had me running to the bathroom every morning this week. This type makes my heart shudder and the hair on my arms stand up. I feel like I’m about to jump from a very high height without a safety net.