“So?” Kirsten said. “I’m assuming you patched that up as well.”
The doctor nodded. “Oh, yes. We had to close the lacerations, stop the bleeding. But as I said, it was an emergency patch-up.”
“Are you trying to tell me you made some kind of mistake because you were in a hurry? Is that it?”
“No. We followed standard emergency procedure. I told you. You were unconscious. We had to act fast.”
“So what are you trying to say?”
“Well, there was some tissue loss, and the damage could be serious enough to cause permanent problems.”
“Could be?”
“We just don’t know yet, Kirsten.”
“And where does all this leave me?”
“Intercourse might be a problem,” the doctor explained. “It could be painful, difficult.”
Kirsten lay silent for a moment, then she laughed and said, “Oh, wonderful! That’s just what I was feeling like right now, a really good fuck.”
“Kirsten!” her father snapped, showing the first signs of anger she had seen in him in years. “Listen to the doctor.” Her mother started crying again.
“There’s a chance that reconstructive surgery sometime in the future might help,” the doctor went on, “but there are no guarantees.”
It finally dawned on Kirsten what he meant-more from his tone than what he actually said-and she felt a chill shoot through her whole being. “This could be forever?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And a hysterectomy can’t be reversed, either, can it?”
“No.”
Kirsten turned toward the window and noticed it was raining outside. The treetop leaves danced under the downpour and the distant flats had turned slate gray. “Forever,” she repeated to herself.
“I’m sorry, Kirsten.”
She looked at her father. It was odd to be discussing such things as her sex life in front of him; she had never done so before. She didn’t know what he assumed about her activities at university. But now here he was, looking sad and sympathetic because she couldn’t make love, perhaps never would again. Or maybe it was the bit about no children that hit him the hardest, her being an only child.
She didn’t know which was worse herself; for the first time in her life, the two things converged in a way they never had before. She had been on the pill for two years and had slept regularly with Galen, only her second lover. They had never thought about children and the future, but now, as she remembered their gentle and ecstatic lovemaking, she couldn’t help but think of new life growing inside her. How ironic that it took the loss of the ability both to enjoy sex and to bear children to make her see how intimately connected the two functions were. She laughed.
“Are you all right?” her father asked, coming forward to take her hand. She let him, but hers lay limp.
“I don’t know.” She looked at him and shook her head. “I don’t know. I feel sort of empty inside, all dried out and dead.”
The doctor was still hovering at the foot of the bed. “As I said, there is a chance that reconstructive surgery might help. It’s something to think about. I don’t know if you understand this, Kirsten,” he said, “or at least if you realize it yet, but you really are very lucky to be alive.”
“Yes,” said Kirsten, rolling on her side. “Lucky.”
15 Martha
The next morning the honeymooners were gone, leaving one empty table, but Keith sat with Martha anyway. He made polite conversation over breakfast but demonstrated none of the ebullience and energy he’d shown the previous day, when he had first found himself at the table with her. Enforced celibacy, she guessed, had seriously dampened his spirits. It would be best to say nothing about last night, she decided. After all, it was Keith’s last day; perhaps tomorrow she would be able to eat alone.
A particularly near and noisy flock of seagulls had awoken most of the guests at about three thirty in the morning, and that provided a safe and neutral topic of conversation over the black pudding and grilled mushrooms that again augmented the usual bacon and egg.
Martha ate quickly, wished Keith a good journey and hurried upstairs. She hadn’t slept well. It wasn’t only the scavenging gulls that had disturbed her, but thoughts and fears about what she had to do next. For weeks she had planned it and dreamed of it, gone over it all so often in her mind that she could perform the act in her sleep. Now that it was close, she felt terrified. What if something went wrong? What if, when the time came, she couldn’t go through with it? Even the holiest have their doubts, she reminded herself. Faith would see her through.
Across the harbor, a few woolly clouds hung over St. Mary’s, but they were drifting slowly inland. The sun lit up the cottages that straggled up the steep hillside. Beyond St. Hilda’s, closer at the other end of the street, the sky was clear. A light breeze wafted through the window, bringing the salt and fishy smell of the sea.
Martha didn’t know what to do with herself all day. She couldn’t act until after dark, and she had already got the lie of the land. It would look suspicious if she stayed in her room, though, especially on such a lovely day at the seaside. Spells of warm, sunny weather were rare on the Yorkshire coast. Whatever she did, she would have to go out.
She waited until she had heard the other guests leave for the day, hoping that Keith was among them, then crept down the stairs and out into the morning sun. Already, courting couples strolled hand in hand along Skinner Street, content after a night of love set to the music of screeching gulls. Families paused and glanced idly at the racks of postcards and guidebooks outside the gift shops. Children in shorts and striped T-shirts, swinging bright plastic buckets and spades, demanded ice creams. Babies slept in their prams, oblivious to the noise and bustle of life going on all around them.
Martha went into the first newsagent’s she came across and bought The Times and a packet of twenty Benson amp; Hedges. The ten Rothmans, a brand she hadn’t liked all that much anyway, hadn’t lasted very long, and she had a feeling she wouldn’t want to be caught without. For twenty-one years she hadn’t smoked a single cigarette. Now, within about a year, she had become addicted.
She wandered down busy Flowergate, a narrow street crammed with shoppers, toward the estuary. Overhead, flocks of gulls screamed and flashed white in the sun. When she reached the bridge, she checked the high-tide times chalked on the board: 0639 and 1902. It was ten o’clock now; that meant the tide would be well on its way out. She jotted the times down in her notebook in case she should forget.
One problem with the guesthouse was that the manager’s wife made awful coffee. Martha would have preferred it to tea in the morning, but she had no stomach for a pot of powdered Nescafé. Now she craved the caffeine that only a cup of strong, drip-filter coffee could provide.
She crossed the bridge and turned left along Church Street, joining the procession heading for the 199 steps up to Caedmon’s Cross, St. Mary’s and the abbey ruin. A short distance along the narrow cobbled street, just before the marketplace, she found the café she had noticed before, the Monk’s Haven, near the Black Horse pub. The café was meant to look very olde worlde. A painted sign, much like a pub sign, in Gothic script hung above the entrance, and pots of bright red geraniums ranged along the top of the frontage above the mullioned windows with their white-painted frames.
Martha ordered a cup of black coffee and sat down to struggle with The Times crossword. While mulling over clues, she watched the ebb and flow of people beyond the windows: more couples pushing babies in prams; toddlers hanging onto mummy’s hand; stout old women with gray hair and sensible shoes. Outside the music shop opposite, a skinny young man clad in jeans and a checked shirt, who looked like he hadn’t slept for a month or combed his hair for at least as long, started singing folk songs in a nasal voice. Some people dropped coins into the hat that lay on the pavement beside him.