Victoria Morris clutches the test results in her fist, the paper damp with her sweat. The hallway of the Manchester women’s health centre is so packed she cant even inch forward.
Victoria Morris! a nurse bellows.
Victoria rises, slips into the consulting room. The doctor, a robust woman with tired eyes, snatches the file from her hands and scans the sheets.
Sit down, she says, giving the results a detached glance.
Everything looks normal. You should have your husband examined.
Victorias skin goes cold. Victor? But he
At home, Eleanor, her motherinlaw, hacks cabbage for a stew, her knife flashing as if she were slashing enemies.
Whats the news, love? Eleanor asks without looking up.
Im fine, Victoria mutters, pulling off her coat.
Then why? Eleanor finally meets her gaze, a flash of worry in her eyes. Victor needs a checkup.
The knife freezes above the board. Eleanor straightens like a taut string.
What nonsense! My son is healthy. Your doctors are clueless. In my day women gave birth without any tests.
Victoria retreats to the living room. A blue sock and a black sock lie tossed on the sofa; she absentmindedly gathers them and tosses them into the laundry basket. Over three years of marriage those mismatched socks have become a metaphor for their livesnever quite a pair.
Victor arrives late.
Whats with the funeral face? he grumbles, flopping into his armchair.
Victor, we need to talk.
What about?
She slides the papers across the coffee table. He flicks them aside.
So?
You need to get examined.
With what excuse? Victor leaps to his feet, pacing the room. Im a healthy man! Look at me!
He looks fitbroadshouldered, dark hair brushing his foreheadbut health isnt always visible.
Please, Victor
Enough! he snaps. If you dont want kids, just say it! Why all this drama with doctors?
The clatter of slippers echoes from the kitchen. Eleanor lurks in the doorway, breathing so loudly each inhale seems audible.
I want children more than anything, Victoria whispers.
Then why arent there any? Are you hiding something? Have you had abortions and now cant?
The accusation stings. Victoria recoils.
How could I
Tell me, how am I supposed to? Three years and zero results! And now the doctors say Im He cuts off, fists clenched.
The bedroom door flies open. Eleanor barges in like a tank.
Victor, dont listen to her! Its all laziness. If she worked more, she wouldnt be running to doctors.
Victoria looks at her husband, who turns toward the window.
Victor, do you really think I
I dont know what to think, he snarls through his teeth. One things clear: a healthy man doesnt go to the doctor.
Eleanor nods triumphantly.
Exactly, son. Its not a mans job to be hopping round hospitals.
Victoria feels something inside snap, like a stretched string.
Fine, she says evenly.
The next day feels like a war. Eleanor nitpicks every little flawsalt overpoured, pots not rinsed, dust on the dresser. Victoria bites her lip, teeth clenched.
Maybe you shouldnt be staying at home at all, the motherinlaw snaps over dinner. Get a job instead of traipsing to doctors.
Victor chews his meat patty without looking up.
Im working, Victoria reminds him.
Three days a week isnt work, its a hobby.
What does my job have to do with this?
Its got everything to do with it! My sons fine, and you want to paint him sick! When there are no children, its the womans fault! Its always been that way!
Victoria rises from the table, legs wobbling.
Whats wrong with you? Eleanor asks, surprised. You eat and then bolt?
Im exhausted, Victoria whispers.
Exhausted? From what? You only work three days a weekwhat kind of load is that!
Victor finally looks up, a flicker of pity in his eyes, but says nothing.
That night Victoria lies awake, the sound of Victors snore filling the room. It used to be soothinga reminder of a loved one nearby. Now it irritates her. How had she never noticed his stubbornness?
In the morning she packs a small backpack: a couple of dresses, some underwear, her makeup bag.
Where are you off to? Eleanor stands in the kitchen doorway, tea in hand.
To Grans.
For how long?
I dont know.
Victor steps out of the shower, spots the bag.
Vicky, whats that?
Its what you see.
You serious?
What else? You wont get checked, and my mother blames me for everything. Why should I stay? He leans in, voice low. Dont be daft. Where are you going?
To Gran Frances.
To that tiny flat? Its only a few minutes away!
In a cramped place, but Im not angry.
Eleanor snorts.
Right! Let her go. Shell learn how nice it is to live with an old woman.
Victor shoots his mother a furious glance but says nothing.
Victoria hoists the backpack and heads for the door.
Vicky! Victor calls.
She turns. He stands in the hallway, hair slick from the shower, looking lost.
When will you be back?
When youve gone to the doctor.
The door slams shut behind her.
Gran Frances gasps at the sight of her granddaughter with a bag.
Vicky! Whats happened?
Ive had a row with Victor. Can I stay with you?
Of course, love. Its tight, but well manage.
The flat is indeed tinya bed, a table, two chairs, an ancient TVbut spotless and scented with vanilla, Grans favourite bake.
Tell me everything, Gran says, putting the kettle on.
Victoria spills the story; Gran nods, her silver hair shaking.
Oh dear Men are like that. Proud, and admitting somethings wrong feels like death to them.
Do I have to wait forever for him to finally see a doctor?
No, youve done right leaving. Let him think.
The first days pass quietly. Victoria sets up a folding cot in the corner, helps Gran with chores. Victor calls now and then, but she lets it ring.
Soon Gran complains of chest pains. An ambulance rushes her to the hospital.
Dont worry, love, Gran whispers as they wheel her away. Im old, things happen.
Gran recovers, and Victoria visits daily with homecooked meals and news.
Hows Victor? Gran asks one afternoon.
Not great. Hes shouted at me on the phone.
Did you answer?
Once, then I stopped. Nothing changes.
Maybe hes finally gone to a doctor?
Unlikely.
In the bustling corridor, Victoria almost collides with a young doctor in a white coatblond, kind eyes.
Sorry, she murmurs.
No problem. Who are you looking for?
My Gran, in Ward 7.
Oh, Mrs. FrancesKuznetsova! Shes a wonderful patient. Im Dr. Denis Irving, cardiologist.
Victoria, she replies.
Its a pleasure. Dont worry, your Gran will be fine. Shes just old.
He talks about Grans condition, treatment, while Victoria watches his long, tidy fingers.
Thank you for caring, she says.
He returns the next day, then the next, and Victoria begins to arrive early, hoping to see him again.
Vicky, the doctor wants to know if youll be coming today, Gran teases with a sly smile.
The doctor?
Yes, he says, Hows your granddaughter doing? Hes a good lad, single too.
Victoria blushes.
Gran, what are you saying
What? Youre almost free. That Victor of yours
Im married.
Pfft!
A week later Denis is transferred to another ward. On his last day, he meets Victoria in the corridor.
Ill miss you, he says simply.
And I you, she admits.
He hands her a card.
If you ever need anything or just want to talk.
Their fingers brush.
Thank you.
And also youre very beautiful, but also very sad. I hope that changes.
Gran is discharged and regains strength, yet Victoria still fears leaving her alone. Victors calls become occasional; sometimes she answers, often she hangs up. The last call ends with him shouting that shes behaving like a spoiled child. She hangs up and never picks up again.
A month later a strangers voice rings.
Victoria? This is Deniss mother. He gave me your number.
Whats happening?
Oh, nothing seriousjust that tomorrow is his birthday and hed love to see you. Could you come?
Victoria hesitates, but Gran, listening at the door, waves her on.
Go on, love! When was the last time you had fun?
The birthday party is lovely. Denis is attentive but never overbearing. When she leaves, he says, Id like to see you again. May I?
Yes, she whispers.
They start seeing each other slowly, gently. Denis never asks probing questions, never demands explanationshes simply there. Sometimes Victoria spends the night at his flat.
Then the unexpected happens: Victoria discovers shes pregnant.
Will you marry me? Denis asks when she tells him.
Of course, she laughs, tears of joy spilling.
A year later Victoria pushes a pram along a leafy promenade. Denis walks beside her, cracking jokes. Their son, Milo, snores softly in his sleep.
Ahead, Victor and Eleanor stroll arminarm. Spotting Victoria, they freeze, rooted to the spot.
Victoria keeps her pace, head held high. In Victors eyes she reads all the pain, regret, and understanding.
Eleanor tugs Victors sleeve.
Come on, Victor.
But he stands still, watching the pram, the happy faces of Victoria and Denis, realizing too late the mistake he made.
