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Le Monde de L'Écriture » Encore plus loin dans l'écriture ! » Textes non francophones » Fingers

Auteur Sujet: Fingers  (Lu 1325 fois)

Hors ligne Antenyx

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« le: 07 mai 2018 à 17:31:44 »


When I told him the news it was difficult for Lewis to accept the idea, what with his high-powered job and his athlete career and his dad who had liver problems and needed looking after. I said take all the time you need, I want this to be our thing – I would never have dragged him into it.
After a couple of days he came by and told me he would do everything to make us happy – me and you, the teeny-tiny aggregation of cells growing inside my stomach. After all, we loved each other, so everything would be okay. He decided to put his training on the back burner to spend more time with me. On the weekends I stayed at his place while he worked on preparing a new room just for you. By the time you were born, he had baby-proofed the whole flat and proposed to me. We would take long walks with you on the Thames banks or in Richmond, the place where we first kissed. Quite a few women stopped to admire you. You truly were a beautiful baby, with big black intense eyes – like your father – and full, bow-shaped lips – like me. We were deliriously happy.

None of this happened. Lewis talked me into going to that clinic in Hounslow, the borough where he was born. He took a day off to drive me there. He showed me the street where he grew up and we had a coffee and he told me how he would steal lollipops from the shop next to his house because his mum would never buy him any – said they would ruin his teeth.
Then we went to the appointment. I was greeted by a woman who handed me a leaflet, I thought it was information about the clinic but I was just presented with pictures of how foetuses look at the various stages of pregnancy. According to my calculations I was two months pregnant, so apparently you already had fingers.
The waiting part was awful. There were all these couples and I knew we were all there for the same reason. I thought it was kind of awkward. Three hours later I was ushered into a room to have an echography. The woman asked me if I wanted to keep the remains after the foetus was cremated. I said no.
I came back to the waiting room. Lewis was still there, eating a sandwich and checking his emails on his phone. He asked me if I wanted a bite. I had no time to answer. I rushed outside the clinic and puked in a bush. The woman with the leaflets was still there. “Are you okay?” “Yes”, I said. “There are other options, you know.” I didn’t have the strength to tell her to go fuck herself.
There was more waiting inside. Finally my turn came. I stripped down and struggled to put on the hospital gown. There was an Indian girl who was also waiting for the surgery. She offered to help me. “Is this your first time?” she said. I thought it was a weird question to ask. Although I suppose some women are so used to it they have their own punch cards and the nurses call them by their first names. God forbid.
We still had to wait for the doctors to get ready or something so I had a little chat with the girl – Anya or Anaya I think her name was. She came with her husband. She was still studying in business school so now was not a good time for her, but a baby was definitely on the bill once she graduated and got a job. I didn’t really care for that conversation but here we were and it would have been awkward to just sit there half-naked without exchanging a word, so I went along with it.
After the procedure Lewis drove me home. He said he couldn’t stay because he had to go training – couldn’t leave his coach hanging. He called me a couple of weeks later saying he had gotten a new contract with Nike. I said I hadn’t eaten in four days and he got angry. I was so self-centred, why couldn’t I be happy for him?
After a few days he sent me a text that said he couldn’t go on carrying the burden of consoling me and putting up with my anger and my sadness and my constant need for attention. What with his high-powered job and his athlete career and his dad who had liver problems and needed looking after.
I left London but I still think of the Indian girl I met at the clinic. If I believed in heaven I would hope her little brown unborn baby and mine met up there. I wonder if she and her husband went to scatter the ashes in Margate or Brighton, if they had a kind of ceremony or something.

I’m sorry you ended up as clinical waste. I’m sorry I had no place to bury you and no one to bury you with. And I’m sorry you had already grown fingers.
"Tout ce qui pèse doit s'alléger, tout corps devenir danseur, tout esprit oiseau"
Mon blog d'écriture et de bouffonnerie : https://lachouetteauberet.wordpress.com/


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