If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things

I expected her to be angry, or disappointed.

She says oh you know your dad’s always wanted a grandson. I wasn’t expecting this, the things she’s saying now, the politeness, the indifference.

I’d prepared myself to be defensive, argumentative even, to have to listen to criticism and not be crushed by it.

She says and of course you’ll be okay for money won’t you.

I say I don’t know mum.

She says and what about names, have you thought of a name?

I say no mum, not yet, it seemed a bit early for that, there was, there’s other things.

She says oh it’s never too early to think of a name, and then she gives me a list of names, none of which I would have thought of, and none of which I like.

Instead of the shock and dismay and disgust I was preparing myself for, I’m finding out what I might have been called, if things had been different.

I don’t ask her what she means by if things had been different.

I wonder if my dad can hear her end of the conversation, if he’s listening, if he can tell what’s going on.

I wonder what he’ll say when she tells him.

She runs out of names, and without pausing for breath she says and will you be using terries or disposables?

I feel like when I was fifteen, when I got a tattoo and I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t been grounded.

I thought she was going to ask the questions, the ones that start do you and have you and stumble into silence.

Do you know who the?

Have you thought about having a?

But she doesn’t, she says actually I really should call your Aunt Susan back, she was finding out about train times she says, and she’s waiting for me to say okay then but I don’t want to.

I say will you tell dad then?

Oh I will she says, he’ll be very pleased she says.

And I say mum, will you call me, tomorrow?

If I get the chance she says, and I can tell she’s looking at the clock.

I say well okay then I’d best be going give my love to dad, and I put the phone down and I lay a hand on my belly.

I imagine her putting the phone down and picking it up again to dial Sue’s number.

I wonder if she’s hesitating, if there’s a thickness in her throat she won’t be able to speak through, if she is blinking back a slight wetness in her eyes, having to slowly sit down and bite the knuckle of her thumb to stop herself from crying.

She does that, sometimes, biting and biting, leaving a pair of small pale bruises like ink on folded blotting paper.

She did it once when we were at the cinema, and when I asked her about it she said she’d trapped her thumb in the seat.

I wonder if she’s sitting there now, waiting for my dad to look up, to notice.

I imagine him turning off the television and moving towards her.

Saying, love, what is it, what’s wrong love, reaching out a hand.