Page 26 of The Pieces of Us

I slept in and I’m rushing to leave for work, and after another few days of not now, Mum , Ruby is ready to talk.

‘It’s my scan on Friday,’ she says.

‘I know,’ I tell her, and I also know, from that deep place where a mother’s intuition lies waiting, what she’s going to say next. It was that tiny two-letter word. My scan, not the scan. ‘Come on, let’s sit down for five minutes.’

Lena and Minnie are doing a jigsaw at the kitchen table, so I steer Ruby into the living room.

I drop my bag on the floor and send Pete a quick text – Sorry, will be a wee bit late!

Be there ASAP xx – without the slightest feeling of guilt.

Despite single parenting, despite Minnie, this will be the first time I’ve ever been late for work.

If my pregnant teenager finally wanting to talk about it isn’t a legitimate reason, I don’t know what is.

‘I’m not going to have an abortion. I’ve made my mind up. I don’t want to have a big discussion about it.’ The relief on her face is unmistakable, and I wonder how long she’s been working up to this moment.

I reach for her hand.

She pulls it back, just a fraction, before relinquishing.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I am,’ she says, but there’s a definite wobble in her voice and she turns her head away from me.

‘Ruby, do you really want to have this baby? Do you want to be a mother at your age? It’s not the only option. Please think about this. Your whole life is ahead of you.’

She turns back to me, tears pooling on her lashes. ‘I know what my options are. I listened to the doctor. I watched the Women’s Aid video. I felt sorry for girls who had to make that decision. And now I’m one of them.’

‘Sweetheart, I know your scan is coming up. But you have more time to think about this. To talk it over. With me … with Sean … the doctor. Whoever you like.’

‘Sean and I have talked about it. He knows it’s my decision. He’ll support me.’

‘OK. Well … that’s good. Listen …’

‘Mum, I told you I don’t want to have a big discussion about this.’

‘Ruby, you’re pregnant. If there was ever something to have a big discussion about –’

She pulls her hand away from mine. Her face is tight, her jaw clenched, lips clamped together. Only her eyes betray her true emotion. Terrified dark clouds on the verge of a downpour. A sound escapes from her mouth – little more than a moan.

‘Ruby, let me help you.’

The storm that’s been brewing for days – probably weeks – erupts. ‘You can’t help me!’ she screams. ‘There’s absolutely nothing you can do. I’m terrified to be a mum at sixteen. I don’t want any of this. I’m shitting myself .’ She sinks against the back of the couch, pulls her knees up to her chin.

I put my arm round her shoulders. ‘I still don’t have that magic wand, love. But I’ll be here, right by your side, every step of the way. Every day, for as long as you need me. That’s how I can help you.’

She’s sobbing now, her shoulders shaking.

I pull her towards me and hold her, the way I did years ago to calm her down during her epic toddler tantrums. She might not be screaming or rolling around on the floor or kicking the wall right now, but going back to the very basics of motherhood still works.

Grounding arms and comforting words for as long as is necessary.

‘I’m here, Ruby,’ I tell her, over and over, as her noisy sobs turn into muffled whimpers, until the rhythm of her breath returns to normal.

‘I don’t know if I want to be with Sean – and not just because of this. We’re sixteen . I know there’s so much to think about, Mum. But I also know I’m not going to have an abortion.’

‘What about adoption? Would you do a Juno ?’

My attempt to lighten the mood falls flat, but she gives me a tiny smile through the tears. ‘I don’t know, Mum.’

‘OK. One big decision at a time,’ I tell her. ‘And you and Sean will figure your relationship out. This is more important right now.’

She nods and wipes her eyes with her sleeve.

I rummage in my bag for a packet of tissues. ‘Here.’

‘I’m very late for maths,’ she says, and we laugh.

‘And I’m late for work,’ I tell her. ‘Come on, I’ll drop you off at school on the way.’

We try to talk about other things in the car, half-hearted attempts that fail to take our minds away from the decision she’s made.

‘The baby’s the size of a kiwi fruit now,’ she tells me, looking up from her phone.

‘Wow,’ I say, not quite sure what to do with my face. I pull up outside the school, keeping the engine running. ‘Veggie pasta for dinner? I’ll go to Aldi after work. Text me if you think of anything you want me to pick up.’

‘OK.’ She unfastens her seat belt but doesn’t move. ‘Will you come with me on Friday? To my scan?’

‘Of course I bloody will.’ I lean over and kiss the side of her head and allow myself a couple of seconds to savour my favourite combination of smells: coconut-scented shampoo and Marc Jacobs Daisy.

‘See you later,’ she says. I watch her walk slowly through the school gates and towards the front door. From the back she’s just a teenage girl with a ponytail and a rucksack.

Pete brushes off my apologies. ‘You’re just in time to make me a coffee,’ he says.

‘I’m on it,’ I tell him, hanging my jacket on the peg. I fill the FUCKING AMAZING FLORIST mug and join him at the counter. I can’t keep it to myself any longer. ‘Ruby’s pregnant. She told me just as I was about to leave the flat that she’s decided she’s not having an abortion.’

‘Holy fu– Oh, Cat.’ He puts down his scissors. ‘Talk to me.’

I give him the details, keeping my hands busy while I talk. I pick up the scissors, cut the stems of the roses on the countertop at a forty-five-degree angle. ‘I don’t know how to put my emotions into words right now.’

‘I don’t blame you.’ He holds a length of pink ribbon in front of me. ‘How’s Ruby feeling about it all?’

I slice through the satin. ‘She’s trying her best to keep it together.’

‘Trying to be strong,’ he says. ‘Just like her mum.’

‘I was twenty when I had her, Pete. Four years older than she is now, and when I look back … I was a baby . Thank God I had Minnie.’

‘Well, thank God Ruby has you. And, OK, so you were a baby. But you’ve done an incredible job with her.’

‘Pregnant at sixteen,’ I mutter, winding the pink ribbon round the base of the stems.

‘That’s not your fault, Cat. It’s how you – both of you – deal with it from now on that really matters.’ Always meticulously tidy, he clears the debris from the counter. ‘Has this changed anything for you … with the adoption stuff?’

‘It’s at the back of my mind constantly,’ I admit. ‘But I feel like I can only deal with one thing at a time.’

‘You’ve got no other relatives? Someone who could fill in the blanks for you?’

I shake my head. ‘There’s nobody.’

I’m not sure what has changed on my face, but Pete picks up on it.

‘Cat, it’ll be all right.’

I want to believe him but it might take a while.

Aside from the enormous impact this will have on Ruby – months of being pregnant, then giving birth and giving up her baby if she does do a Juno ; months of being pregnant, then giving birth and committing to a lifetime of motherhood if she doesn’t – the financial implications weigh on my mind.

I can’t work more than twelve hours a week because I need to be at home with Minnie the rest of the time.

I can’t remember what it’s like to not be overdrawn at the end of the month, to not have to compare the price of chicken breasts or laundry powder in the supermarket, to have the privilege of getting a takeaway pizza when it’s not someone’s birthday.

The arrival of a customer interrupts us, and business is steady for the rest of my shift. ‘Get yourself home,’ Pete says as soon as the clock hits 3 p.m. ‘Remember, you’ve always got a safe space here. Whether you’re working or not.’

I’ve got an hour before I need to be home to let Lena leave – just enough time to grab what I need for veggie pasta dinner. On the way there I try to visualize the contents of my fridge. Focus, Cat. Why don’t you ever write any fucking lists?

I wasn’t expecting a response from my otherwise empty car, but I get one: a loud sharp crack that makes me tighten my grip on the steering wheel. And then it appears: the tiniest of chips on the windscreen right in front of my face.

No. I stare at it, willing it to disappear.

A tiny chip I can live with. I actually could pretend it’s a floater.

A tiny chip will disappear – if not from my windscreen, at least from the forefront of my mind.

When daughters are pregnant and mothers are disappearing and my life’s truth is slipping through my fingers, tiny chips don’t matter.

But in less than three minutes, just as I’m indicating to turn left into the supermarket car park, the chip has yielded a fine, undeniable crack.

I find a parking space and take my frustration out on the car, snatching the handbrake harder than necessary.

I thump the steering wheel and slam the door behind me for good measure.

With one hand on a shopping trolley and the other on my phone, I take my bad mood into the shop, googling ‘can you drive with cracked windscreen’ and scanning the results while I toss items into my trolley.

‘Fancy meeting you here.’ I hear him before I see him.

‘Asim. Hi.’ I try to arrange my face into something that’s easy-going and under control but my features don’t cooperate. I need a spanner to unclench my jaw.

‘You OK? You look a bit … stressed?’

‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ I lie. ‘Cracked windscreen on the way here. No big deal in the grand scheme of things, but it’s tipped me over the edge I’ve been teetering on for … well, what feels like a long time.’

‘So … you thought a trip to Aldi would cheer you up?’

I laugh and feel my shoulders soften a fraction, despite my bad mood. ‘I shouldn’t be allowed in here with a trolley. I’m likely to ram anyone who dares get in my way.’

‘Well, I might be able to turn your day around.’

‘Oh yeah? Can you do windscreen repairs?’