An Original Short Story By Ella Piazzi
When Jo found out she was pregnant, she was disappointed. She had been on the pill since William was born. He was applying for universities. A handful of weeks and Jo would have had her house for herself. She looked forward to it, she itched for it. William was a wonderful son and never stopped her from living her life, but he was an extra burden on top of her fundraising parties and socialite gatherings planning lists. Her husband, Archibald Theodore Coltrane, was an MP, and divided his time between Westminster and his surgery office, leaving her in charge of the day-to-day chores as well as his incessant networking events.
Sitting on the edge of her Italian marble bathtub – “It cost me a fortune to have it shaped and shipped, but look how it perfectly harmonises with the double vanity” she heard herself say to Jaquie, her best friend, who nodded in approval – Jo stared at the pregnancy test in her hand, a miniature Little Boy with no reason to exist. She did her math to pinpoint the exact date.
That morning was spent in the community: Archie was crowdfunding for a primary school sport pitch in a degraded area of the city, and Jo was the one in charge of talking to the mothers and their ‘little angels’, listening to their needs and complaints and translating them into material for Archie’s next speech. Being in close contact with women who believed they deserved the brute they married, stank of garlic and sweaty polyester and spoke a broken English, took a toll on her, more than usual. So, when she got ready for the evening gala with her people, with experts taking care of her make-up, hair, nails and drinks, she could breathe again.
“Make sure my eyes stand out” she said to the make-up artist. She talked more with their green colour than with her mouth.
When the first guests flooded through the main door, Jo was in a comforting wine stupor that made her smile brighter, her manners friendlier and her ears more receptive. Her emerald satin gown complemented the green of her eyes, and was perfect with her blond French twist hairstyle and her diamonds; she turned more than one head. Archie and she had a simple agreement: do whatever you want, but keep it out of the press. That night made no exception. She noticed him as soon as he arrived: his grey suit was impeccable and hugged his sculpted body, charisma came off him in waves, he was attentive and a brilliant conversationalist. And his eyes had a magnetic ember brown shade. But he was used to be obeyed. He wouldn’t provide a name no matter how much she pushed. Not that she cared much when she came for the third time, or when he finished and left her to take care of herself, hungry for more. It became an issue later, when she scanned the room and couldn’t find him. She couldn’t ask if someone noticed sex on two legs walk around without raising eyebrows.
“It was a good night” said Archie, taking off his shirt. She looked at him through the mirror, while she untied her thick hair. His chicken-like breast and his pale skin were a far cry from the solid ridges and the bronze tone of mystery man but that would have to do.
And now, sitting on the edge of her bathtub, she dreaded to know the father’s identity.
First, she went through denial: the test was wrong; the doctor said it wasn’t. Then came the anger: it was the pill’s fault. And her doctor, who never changed it. Of course it stopped working after so many years! She tried to find an acceptable solution: it was too late for a legal abortion, so maybe she could give it up for adoption. Lots of families desperately wanted a baby and this one was going to have top notch genes. Then depression hit, and with it the morning sickness, that was more of a whole day affair. She finally resigned to have another baby that she didn’t want. But she wasn’t going to get out of bed until it was out of her traitorous womb. No one was going to see her in such a state.
“Darling, what’s wrong?” asked Archie, noticing his wife’s unusual behaviour.
“I am fucking pregnant, that’s what’s wrong!” she busted.
“Oh, but that’s… that’s marvellous!”
“I was on the fucking pill! This” she pointed at her belly “wasn’t supposed to happen!”
“What do you mean?”
“Why do you think we didn’t have other children after William? And now it’s too late for an abortion, so I am stuck with this… thing! Me! I am the pregnant one! Not you!”
It was a hard blow for Archie, but once he absorbed it, he and Jo sat at a table and discussed strategies. A baby can be a gift or an asset, depending in what family they are born. And while he promised to have a more active role in his or her life, she obtained three nannies and nursery school as soon as she could send them. She was this close to her goal, and nothing, nothing was going to cripple her well deserved and long overdue freedom. That thought made her happy. Not the big, round belly that she couldn’t hide anymore, like everybody else wanted to believe. She wasn’t particularly happy when she was pregnant with William either, but after the initial shock and the long negotiations with herself, she had accepted the idea of becoming a mother, and lived the last months as a blessing, despite the discomfort. But this time it was different. It was beyond the shock. It was beyond her age and the uncertain paternity. She had no feelings for the cluster of unwanted cells growing in her womb. She felt like a human incubator.
Her due date was around the 20th of December, and that made her almost feel sorry for the newborn, who was highly likely to have a combined birthday and Christmas celebration.
“Less hassle for me” she said in front of the mirror. Like every other night, she brushed her teeth, ran her routine skincare, took one last, disgusted look at her ginormous belly and switched off the bathroom light. Then, with some effort, she laid down on her bed beside a light-snoring Archie, but sleep didn’t come, and with the baby moving fast and convulsively all she felt was discomfort and increasing pain, as if it was deliberately kicking her internal organs.
It’s inside a sack that is inside another sack. Yes, my organs shifted, but my body is programmed to do so. It’s just an impression, amplified by the darkness and my lack of empathy. It can’t be deliberately kicking my kidneys from a very privileged position.
Are you sure?
A low rumble rolled towards them, followed by a rapid sequence of lightning bolts, thunder and hail that didn’t bother Archie’s sleep but were the last drop for her.
Jo kicked the duvet aside and walked barefoot to the kitchen, the lightning offering a strobe effect that made her head spin. She poured herself a glass of milk, warmed it up in the microwave and carried it to the living room, where she settled on the sofa. Maybe a TV show could distract her from the weather mayhem and the football match in the uterus. After endless minutes of not user-friendly scrolling, she settled for a re-run of Friends, hoping that that and some stupid arcade game on her tablet worked their magic. She pressed play but she couldn’t go past the theme song because a loud thunder caused a stupid blackout.
Jo cursed, partly for the fright, partly for the new situation, that pushed her one step closer to a sleepless night. Outside it was pitch black, except for the few moments when lightning stroke, turning everything a blinding white. The rain fell in buckets against her tall windows and the wind howled around the chimneys and underneath the porch. More lightning fell, producing a deafening delayed crack. It reminded her of watching the news when she was a child: when the correspondent was in a foreign country the images arrived before the sound, and for a few seconds the journalist resembled a goldfish in a bowl.
Another lightning illuminated her yard and she saw him: he stood straight, his grey suit hugging his impeccable shape, with the same charming smile and the expectation to be obeyed. The rain didn’t wet his clothes, the wind didn’t ruffle his hair. He waved hello, then stretched his arm and turned the palm up toward the sky, index and middle finger protruded in her direction, ring and little fingers slightly bent, in a silent offer to join him and take his hand. Jo took a step back, then another, hit the coffee table with her calves and spilled the glass of milk, now cold again, which shattered on the floor. He bent his head backwards, releasing a silent belly laugh. Then the darkness enveloped everything once again and the thunder rumbled. By the next lightning, Jo’s yard was empty.
Hormones. It must be. No one can stay out in the rain without getting wet. I’ll have my eyes checked too.
Your head too, while you are at it.
A kick stronger than the others forced her focus back on the here and now. She felt nauseous and her legs felt heavy and weak. She needed to pee.
“I just wanna sleep until this thing is 18” she mumbled.
Stumbling carefully because of the glass, Jo walked towards the stairs, but changed direction when the phone in Archie’s office rang. With both her hands in front of her to survey the darkness and helped by the frequent lightning, she located the desk and picked up.
“Hello?” On the other side only an electric crackling. “Hello?” she tried again. But again, she was answered by the cracking. “I can’t hear you; I’ll hang up.”
“…s…om…ou…e…dy”
“What?”
A piercing buzz forced her to push the receiver away from her ear.
“Our Lord’s successor is coming and you better be ready to welcome Her and provide to Her needs or it will be the end of life as you know it” said the voice on the other side, loud and clear.
She was about to reply when another kick forced her to bend over.
“Do all you can to protect Her. On her 18th birthday she will take Her place beside Her Father.”
An unpleasant wetness ran down her legs and pooled in between her feet.
And I peed myself. Fucking great.
“It’s starting. Don’t fuck it up.”
Tu tu tu.
A sharp pain crossed her abdomen and forced Jo to kneel, her breath sewing in and out rapidly.
“No, no no no! It’s too early! Archie! Archie!” she shouted.
By the time her husband reached her, she was ready to push.
It takes hours, sometimes even a whole day before something happens!
But it’s happening.
“Call an ambulance… now!” she shrieked, holding herself up with one hand, while holding her belly with the other.
“What… I mean… it’s not…” he stuttered.
“Fuck sake, Archie! Call a fucking ambulance right now! This shit is coming out!” Archie looked at her in shock. “Move, you turdish copy of a man!” That finally got him in motion.
“999, what’s your emergency?”
“An ambulance, please! My wife is about to give birth!”
“When did her waters break?”
“Honey, when did your water break?”
“Ten minutes ago…”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Then there is plenty of time befo-”
Another scream pierced the darkness, promptly followed by lightning and thunder.
“Tell them to fucking move, you useless cunt!” she shouted.
“I don’t think she has plenty of time” Archie said.
The operator clicked on her keyboard, the voices of other operators busy in other conversations in the distance.
“I am sorry, sir, but the weather is against us. I need you to stay on the phone with me while you wait and be ready to assist your wife.”
“Are you saying that I will have to deliver my baby?”
“I am saying it might be a possibility and we will do all we can to be prepared for it.”
“Honey, did you hear that?” said Archie with a crack in his voice.
“Don’t honey me, you fucking prick!” Jo grabbed the receiver. “I want a doctor! A real one! Not this stupid knob I married!”
“Yes, madam. But as I told your husband, the weather is not on our side and we need to be prepared for any circumstance.” Jo slammed the receiver against the desk, so hard that a crack appeared in the plastic. Archie put the call on speaker. Jo cursed him, all his ancestors, the day they met and even his electorate.
“Now, sir, I need you to look in between your wife’s legs and tell me what you see.”
“Oh my god it’s the head” he gasped.
“It means we are very close. Madam, next time you have a contraction, I want you to push as hard as you can, ok?”
The next contraction came, and Jo pushed. And pushed. And pushed again. All the way screaming and cursing and swearing and crying, while the thunderstorm continued to vortex on top of their heads in a dance of cracks and blinding lights. And then, a desperate cry filled up the room.
“The baby’s out” said Archie, holding this bloodied bundle of limbs and fluids in his hands, tears streaking his cheeks. “It’s a girl!”
“Is she breathing?”
The baby continued her desperate cry, while Archie wiped her face.
“Yes. She has strong lungs, just like her mother. Here. Hold her.”
Archie placed the little thing on Jo’s breast and as soon as he did, the baby quieted down, opening her eyes. She stared at her mother with her ember brown little accusatory dots, and when Jo looked away, she saw him, standing in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest and a satisfied smile on his lips. He nodded, his ember brown eyes full of pride. Jo blinked him away.
He’ll be back.
She looked at her daughter, who smiled the same smile of her father, and instinctively pushed her away.
“Jo, careful!” screamed Archie, grabbing the baby.
“Get that monster away from me!”
The baby resumed her desperate cry, no matter how much Archie tried to soothe her.
It’s normal, said the doctor who visited her hours later. The storm had left space to a sky so blue it hurt the eyes. What happened wasn’t normal. Delivery is a process that takes hours, sometimes even days, not a handful of minutes, and it usually happens in a hospital or with the help of specialised personnel, not alone in your house during a blackout. Giving birth is a distressing experience in the best of circumstances. The way Jo gave birth was traumatic, but resolvable with a couple of therapy sessions; after that she would be free to enjoy the joys of motherhood.
Those pleasures were not on the menu for Jo. The new-born, named Morgan after the emergency operator, always felt wrong in her arms. Jo constantly felt under the merciless scrutiny of those ebony brown eyes, everywhere, every time. If she put her down, she would start crying, if she left her with the nanny, she would pull her hair and pee in her face when she got changed, if she wasn’t fast enough to breastfeed her, Morgan would bite hard into her nipples until they bled.
“Nonsense! She doesn’t have teeth!” laughed the doctor. “Unfortunately, it’s normal for the skin to become cracked and bleed a little. Try with Lanolin.”
Jo switched to breast pump, instead, and let her two nannies take care of it.
“I think you should give it another go” suggested Archie. “Breastfeeding strengthens the bond between mother and daughter.”
“Did you grow a vagina in the last hour?” she replied. That marked the end of Archie’s suggestions. The only time Jo was willing to spend with Morgan was when it was functional to her fundraising, but as soon as Morgan blew her first candle, she was enrolled to the best nursery her parents could afford.
Jo’s relief was short-lived though. Other children in Morgan’s class began to have weird accidents, teachers got sick more than usual, nannies left after claiming they’d been attacked, showing scratches and bite marks, maids began to trip every time Morgan was nearby. And then it was Jo’s possessions disappearing, Jo’s appointments not in her diary, Jo’s hair turning blue before an award, Jo’s wardrobe ruined by a fox before an important gala presided by the Crown, Jo’s email hacked, Jo fined by HMRC for offshore bank accounts she didn’t know anything about. She became a bundle of nerves and elected the guest room as her personal unwinding space, where she could relax, sleep and often have dinner, away from Morgan and Archie.
You better be ready to welcome Her and give Her all she needs or it will be the end of life as you know it.
Morgan’s seventh birthday was approaching and with that an exclusive house gathering, with some of their closest friends, their children and two photographers who worked for the press. William promised to be there too.
“Late, as usual” whispered Jo, checking her phone.
“He’s on his way” replied Archie. “Traffic must be heavy.”
But when the bell rang, Jo didn’t find her son on the other side.
“I am really sorry, Ma’am” said the man in uniform “there’s been an accident. Your son had a collision with a lorry and, unfortunately, passed away.”
Jo collapsed against the wall, while Archie screamed from the top of his lungs. The room froze, even the kids stopped their light-hearted activities. When Jo turned around, all she could see were Morgan’s ember brown eyes and her thin smile, standing on the threshold of the living room in her pink gown , just like
(Her Father)
the man she thought she saw on the night she gave birth.
“Morgan, why don’t you go to your room?” she asked.
“I don’t want to go to my room, mother. Can I have some cake?”
“Why don’t you ask Carmela?”
“I didn’t ask the nanny. I asked you” she replied, her piercing ember eyes fixed in Jo’s green ones. Jo fought a good battle, but lost it. After a long pause, she cut her daughter a slice of cake and dismissed her guests.
“There is something wrong with Morgan” she said to Archie, after putting her to bed.
“Mh?” her husband replied. He lulled the loss of his son with good whiskey, the £200-a-bottle one, and now he was in a stupefied numbness that made him useless.
“Ah, just leave it” she said.
Jo went to her room and pulled old photo albums from the shelves. William’s first Chrismas, William on his first school day, William completing his GCSEs, William on holiday, William and his girlfriend. Smiling, happy, alive, his green eyes a mirror of her own. They were so close when he was little, he loved to do things with his mommy and make her happy. And she was happy too. There were no pictures of her and Morgan, though. Not in the family album, at least. There was lots of pictures of them in the press. They were so different: Jo was naturally dark blonde, with green eyes and a rosy skin, while Morgan had these ember brown malignant eyes, reddish hair and a skin so pale it was translucent.
“I have Irish roots” said Archie, unbothered. “You know what they say, right? That red hair skips one generation.”
Sure. Whatever makes you happy.
Jo threw a couple of sleeping pills on top of her usual night cap, sleeping a black sleep. When she woke up, the following morning, confused and bleak, she was freezing, as if the room temperature had dropped of a good 20 degrees. She opened her eyes and fixed them into the ember brown ones of her daughter.
“Now you will have to provide for me” she whispered in her mother’s face and smiled. Jo screamed and pushed her away.
“What’s going on?” panted Archie, running inside the room.
“That fucking little bitch! It was her! She killed my son!”
“Mom?” cried Morgan on the floor.
“You little witch!” shouted Jo, charging in her direction “Why did you fucking do it? I have always provided to you, what more do you want, cunt!” She grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, hard.
“Mommy you are hurting me!” she wailed.
“Jo! Are you out of your mind?” shrieked Archie. He scooped his daughter up and pressed her tight against his chest, gently patting her back. “It’s ok, sugar, it’s ok. Don’t cry. Mommy is in shock.”
“I am sorry, dad…” Morgan hiccupped.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, love” said Archie, staring at his wife in disbelief. “What about pancakes for breakfast? We might have all we need…”
“Can we use cho-chocolate chips?” she sniffled.
“I am not sure there’s any, but I can guarantee there’s chocolate sauce.”
“I like chocolate sa-sauce” Morgan sniffled one last time.
“Me too, honey. Me too.”
Archie shook his head, disgusted, and threw one last glance at his wife, her green eyes fixed on their terrified daughter, and left. Safe, with her thin arms around her father’s neck, Morgan gifted her mother one more of her smiles.
“She just did it again! The little witch did it again!” Jo shouted, but Archie closed the door.
Jo began to laugh. A chilling sound that had nothing human about it. End of life as you know it. And it was. Her son was dead, her husband thought her crazy and she was stuck with this… thing she gave birth to and now regretted to not have attempted an abortion.
Do you really think you could have aborted her?
Probably not.
From then on, Jo refused to leave the spare room for any reason. She began the happy hour a fraction earlier every day – “Somewhere in the world is 5 o’clock” she justified herself – stopped wearing make-up and bothering about any form of fashion and social life. A maid took care of the housework once a week and all her meals were left on a tray outside the door. Jo stared at life going by sitting in front of the window, patiently counting the days.
4023, 4022, 4021.
The relationship between Morgan and Archie became symbiotic. When she wasn’t in school, she was with her father. She studied Latin and French to impress him, she became an exceptional violin player to please him and excelled at every sport she tried just because. She compared ancient history and modern warfare and read philosophy books before going to sleep just for fun.
3572, 3571, 3570.
“Didn’t you quit smoking?” Archie asked her one night. The maid was off sick and he brought her dinner instead. She sat in her usual armchair by the window, a cigarette puffing between her fingers.
“I did” she replied, staring at the dark in front of her.
“So what’s this?”
2658, 2657, 2656.
“This is Morgan” she replied, not moving. He hadn’t seen her for a while, and immediately noticed that the fine lines around her eyes were now deep, and her thick hair, once her biggest pride, greyed and thinned, leaving the scalp exposed.
Morgan celebrated another birthday, and Jo spent the afternoon, as required, in a corner of the living room, drinking and smoking in silence.
Another year gone, eight more to go.
While Jo’s disappearance was blamed on debilitating health conditions, Morgan’s presence was on the rise: she was the only female figure in Archie’s life and the Parliament’s favourite child.
1396, 1395, 1394.
She was doing brilliant, even without expensive schools or private tutors.
742, 741, 740.
“When I grow up, daddy, I want to be a politician. Just like you.”
“Being a politician is a volatile career, honey” Archie replied. “You need a Plan B.”
“Like what, daddy?”
“Choose a profession that you like and will guarantee you a decent income.”
Morgan thought about it for a while, then she said: “I could study law.”
“Would you like to be a lawyer?”
“Yes. I would like to give everyone the opportunity to explain why they did or didn’t do something.”
“That’s very noble, honey. But what if you find yourself in the position of defending someone that did something terrible, deserves whatever punishment plus more but you still need to find a way to let them go scot-free?”
Morgan considered it for a long time, her eyes focused on a specific point behind Archie’s head, where a man stood in his impeccable light grey suit, his charming air and his ember brown eyes. He smiled his witty smile at his daughter and nodded. Morgan smiled back.
“Then I would become the devil’s advocate.”
4, 3, 2.
A light knock on her door made Jo turn her head. She was now going through three bottles of vodka a day and her life swung between headaches and tipsiness. She was counting down the days, but her brain was too pickled to remember why she started.
“Come in” she slurred, swirling the plain vodka in her glass.
“Hello, mother,” said Morgan. Jo hissed and bared her teeth. She tried to retreat from her armchair, but she only managed to knock off the lamp on her nightstand and tripped on a pile of dirty clothes the maid hadn’t cleaned up yet. “Goodness me, the air in this room. It’s stale, isn’t it. Let me open the window for you.”
“What do you want?”
“I came to pay a visit to my beloved mother” replied Morgan with her usual smile. “I know, I should have come more often, but our relationship has always been cold. At its best” she giggled. “Given your fragile state, I didn’t want to cause more damage.” Morgan sat on the floor and placed her hand on her mother’s knee. Jo tried to retreat, but her daughter’s grasp was of iron. “You have been chosen. And, with highs and lows, you made sure I reached the age of 18. In a week I will finally reunite with my Father, and I’ll take my place by his side. For this, I am thankful. And I will make sure you’ll be rewarded accordingly.”
“I don’t want to be rewarded. I want to be left alone.”
“But you can’t!” Morgan gasped in mocked shock. “When Archie will perish in a terrible accident – and that will be all too soon, unfortunately – the most popular kid in British politics will be left alone with her pain. Her lovely and selfless mother will do all she can to support her despite her own problems, and will help her continue her father’s work and carry on his legacy. And when that daughter will become a mother herself, her own mother will spoil her and her kids with all the love that only a woman who suffered incommensurably is capable of. So… how about we begin by stopping this?” said Morgan, pulling the glass from her mother’s fingers.
“You can’t!” screamed Jo, trying to fetch it back. Morgan pushed her and Jo fell back on her ass.
“Down, bitch.” Morgan emptied glass and bottle in the bathroom sink and swept the room looking for more. “I will send the maid to clean up, then we will check you into the best rehab centre. You will still make a brief appearance at my birthday party, though.”
“But…”
Morgan’s cold fingers wrapped around her scrawny neck and cold spread along her body, paralysing her.
“You’ll do what you are told. You’ll smile when it’s time to smile and cry when it’s time to cry, eat your greens, exercise regularly and live a long and healthy life. Are we clear?”
Jo looked out of the window. The last leaves were battling to hang onto the branches a little longer but one eventually lost its fight and fell to the ground, stopping at the feet of a handsome man, dressed in an impeccable grey suit, a charming air, an enchanting smile and ember brown eyes. He nodded.
“Crystal” she replied to her daughter.
The clouds parted for a brief second and a ray of sun hit her face. The fine lines around her eyes and her mouth smoothed, her hair thickened, the dark blonde covering white, her skin lost its greyness.
And her eyes, still of a bright green, now showed a hint of ember brown.
great storytelling, concise yet detailed, attention grabbing and good writing!