she was staying tight-lipped. I wondered what she was thinking on the days she watched me do my pregnancy stretches and repeat the stupid chants that Sheridan had made up. Daniel had kept his distance since we’d shared our first kiss, but I knew he was busy at work. For days after I hurt Sheridan’s nose, I had screamed for release. I even tried refusing to eat, but I could not deprive my baby for very long.
I never received the security pass to activate the lift that Sheridan had promised when I arrived. I dreamt about breaking through the locked door of my room and running out of the apartment to freedom. But all my efforts to escape were exhausted, and my tummy seemed to grow bigger each day.
Groaning, I rose from the sofa and waddled the short distance to my wardrobe. It held plastic hangers on one long rail, which was screwed tight to the inside. Beneath, two fat drawers housed my underwear. There were no belts, no ties, and even the cords in my hoodies had been removed. It had taken me a little time to figure out why I had no scissors, no cutlery, and why the mirrors were made of plastic. Solitary confinement did not suit everyone. It seems Sheridan had taken precautions in case I tried to top myself. This wasn’t a recent development. My room had been suicide-proof from the moment I arrived.
I ran my fingers over the hangers, stopping at my coat. I was grateful that at least Sheridan had left this behind. I remembered when I’d worn it to see my mother in the coffee shop in Dublin and how upset she had been when I left. Tears edged my eyelids as I recalled her need to put things on an even keel. I slid it from the hanger and shrugged it on. It gaped open over my stomach. There was no way it would button up now. But still, it felt nice to wear something from Ireland. I lifted the collar to my nose and inhaled. It was still there, a faint flowery trace of the perfume I used to wear. Sheridan had taken away all my toiletries, replacing them with some organic stuff that smelt like mud. The make-up I’d bought in Dublin airport had also disappeared.
It must have killed her to see my glowing skin, my fuller breasts, the shine on my hair. In an ideal world, women looked out for each other, harbouring empathy for issues our male counterparts could never experience or understand. Sadly, both Sheridan and I were lacking when it came to sisterhood. The identity of my baby’s father only served to prove how selfish I could be at times. I pulled the coat around me, as it offered some protection from the cold. I returned to the sofa, closing my eyes as I tried to imagine myself back in the coffee shop in Dublin. What would I say now, if I were sitting across from my mother? I could feel the strength of the bond between my baby and me. Was it like that for my mother, too? Shoving my hands into my pockets, my eyes snapped open as my fingers rested on a pointed edge. There was something behind the lining. What? I frowned as I delved my hand further, through the torn lining and into the innards of my coat. My heart fluttered as I pulled out the hidden treasure. I stared at the dove-grey envelope. It was the letter Mammy had given me, the one she had hastily shoved into my pocket and I had not had the heart to open. I clutched it to my chest and sighed.
It was a blessing that Sheridan had not found it. I imagined her delving into my pockets, not realising the lining had given way. Slowly, I tore the envelope open. Could I bear to read the words, for fear of what they might say? But I remembered the look on her face as I left. The love I couldn’t see before. My baby kicked, reminding me that I was almost a mother. That I had made my fair share of mistakes.
‘Do you want to hear from your granny?’ I said softly, as I talked to my little bean. Taking a deep breath, I pulled out the notepaper, smoothed it back and read the words aloud.
Dear Roz,
If you’re reading this letter then our meeting didn’t go as hoped. I only have myself to blame,