Number twelve

1

Pear. It is a plentiful word. So many variations. Without the ‘r’ you are left with pea. Write it down and you think of a squishy little vegetable. Loved by some, hated by many. Say it, and you think of a wee. Then you have the word left without the ‘p’ - ear. Most of us have two. Some work. Some don’t. Mine don’t hear like they used to. Come to think of it, my ears don’t really work anymore and I struggle to ‘pea’ and, just to add another layer of confusion, my name is Bee.

Do you know how boring it gets lying in a bed, staring out the window at the same static view? A tall, ugly building, littered with square windows. Some acting as washing lines, others totally forsaken and depressed, smudged with grey dust. The only thing that moves in the view outside my window are the leaves on the pear tree. They greet the wind, they wiggle and shimmy, but sometimes they give up and fall off.

I like those leaves the best.

I love that pear tree and I hate it all at once. How come that tree can shed its layers when the season tells it to? How come that pesky little tree can grow new life, new juicy fruits that bring joy and delight to people? Pears that bring nourishment and health. And all while still looking beautiful, vibrant, appealing. Why can a small, accidental pear tree do all of that but I can’t even get up to brush my teeth?

Did you know that pears are recommended for pregnant or nursing mums? They contain folate. Folate helps make DNA and other genetic materials.

I was pregnant. I have been pregnant. I have been pregnant eleven times.

Do you know how many pears I ate a day? Three. I ate three pears a day, sometimes off the tree, sometimes from the supermarket. Three pears a day to make the perfect DNA, to make my belly as efficient and homely as possible. And not a single baby wanted to stay.

I fucking hate pears.

2

My bed is hot, the sheets feel suffocating, like they are mauling me to death. But I keep them there, in case I want to feel like it is all coming to an end. In case I want the panic attack to overtake me and just finish me off. It wouldn’t be a strenuous job. I would take the hand of death willingly and walk away from the world of the ‘living.’

3

Yesterday was a good day. I made a cup of tea in the morning and told myself I would go for a walk at some point. Try some breathing techniques. Take in some fresh air. It will be good for me, I repeatedly said to myself as an irksome mantra. I even put a spoonful of honey in my tea and relished the sweetness it sent swirling around my mouth. You could go as far as to say I enjoyed it. My bed felt slightly less consuming because I had this cup of tea in it too, protecting me from sinking back into the depths of the mattress and mental oblivion.

Today, that same teacup which I held so maternally in my hands the day before repulses me. I am repulsed by my sheer indulgence and the fact I allowed myself a moment's happiness. I don’t deserve that when I have ruined everything good life put in my path. I am angry at myself for letting my guard against my own misery slip. I let contentment storm through the gates. Never again.

Oh, and I didn’t go on the walk. I could have sworn, when the wind blew, that the pear tree was laughing at me. A belly laugh. A mocking laugh. A loud, intrusive laugh. It knew, as well as I did, that the commitment to walk would materialise into nothing.

I exist in a world of intentions. I intend to have a shower, he never intended to hurt you when he cheated, that was not the Doctors intention, we never intended to give you false hope about this pregnancy, I intend to return to work within the next week. I intend, they intend, we intend.

I am sure Chris intended to love me till death did us part when we stood on the altar together, hands entwined tightly, saying yes to loving each other in sickness and in health. He didn’t know then how impossible it would be to love me ten years on did he? He never intended to cheat on me with the woman upstairs, who he has now moved in with.

I hear them. Pounding on the ceiling. I hear them wake up - together. I hear them move to the kitchen and turn the coffee machine on. I hear the bath running. I hear laughter. That last one is the thing that slices like I am being slowly pushed through a guillotine, leaving my head till the very end so I can still hear and see it all happening.

I don’t blame him for leaving. But he didn’t have to close the door one year after my eleventh miscarriage. That bit seemed unnecessary. Maybe he couldn’t stand to look at my withered face anymore. I don’t blame him for that either. Sometimes (rarely) when I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, I wonder if I am already a corpse. Like all my little babies. Am I already existing in the land of the dead? Like those old greek heroes who were yet to be buried on land, so they wandered the underworld in constant lamentation and acute nothingness. They would have done anything to be ferried by Charon even further in the abyss of death. I would probably end up in the Mourning Fields, a space reserved for those who wasted their lives away on unrequited love. It doesn’t seem so bad. I had always liked Dido, Queen of Carthage. I think she would understand why I am the way I am.

4

Come to think of it, me being fully alive right now defies logic actually. How? I will tell you. With each miscarriage, a part of me died and stayed with my baby. I scooped up their tiny, unfathomable bodies and I cupped their barely formed hands. Then, I walked them to heaven to make sure they were safe. I found a quiet spot there, and I stayed so that they were always cradled and loved. The part that left with the baby never came back again. I have done that walk eleven times now. Looking at my former self, sat cradling a dead baby, with pity as I arrive again to do the same thing. Each time, I despair, at how the drain and agony has set into my face like a harrowing time lapse.

5

I have then effectively let eleven parts of me die. I am down to my last life. Things always happen in twelves don’t they? It is one of those cosmic, laden numbers that appears in all important things.

12 Olympian Gods and Goddesses

12 days of Christmas

12 months in a year

12 disciples of Jesus

12 hours on a clock face

12 people in a jury

12 ribs on an average human being

12 is the largest number with one syllable

12 men have walked on the moon

12 stars on the flag of Europe

12 Zodiac signs

12 basic hues in the colour wheel

I am on my twelfth bit, and I can’t wait for it to be over.

6

I awake again wishing that would stop happening. Today, my sheets feel crisp and cold. It makes me feel put together and in control. I get up, I brush my teeth, I make coffee and I put on the radio. Two minutes later, I turn off the radio, throw up the coffee and get back into bed.

7

The next day, nothing happens. Only the sounds of banging from upstairs, the soundtrack to a life I used to lead. It is funny because I know exactly how he swings his legs out of the bed. I know he is heavy footed and clumsy. I know how he walks, sleepily, to the kitchen in the mornings looking so kissable. I know he puts two coffee capsules in the machine in the morning because he likes his coffee strong. I know he likes a spoonful of honey eased in just as the froth starts to settle. He used to put a spoonful into my coffee too and say ‘honey for my very own hunny Bee.’ I wonder if he says that to Camilla as they sit together drinking their coffee. I throw up.

8

The next day, I stare at the pear tree for an hour. A pear drops to the ground and is picked up later by a hungry fox. I wonder if he enjoyed it. I wonder if he will come back.

I wonder, if I lay under the tree, if the fox would eat me too.

9

The next day I wake up with cramps in my stomach. I should eat, I have hardly eaten for days. But food will make me feel better and part of me doesn't want to feel better. My babies need me. I need me. The I's in heaven need me. I can take the little babies out of their arms and give them a break. I can help them let go of the weight of the dead baby for a while. I can free them. I just need to figure out how. How do I stop carrying the weight of the babies and the loss around?

10

The fox is back, he takes two pears this time. I climb out of my ground floor window and I rip a pear off the tree. The stalk clings on for a moment like an umbilical cord. I dig my nails into the flesh of the pear. The cold feels good under my nails. It feels liberating. I have no shoes on and it feels nice to have the cold beneath me. It is grounding. I, like the fox, am a wandering animal searching for things to sustain me.

11

I pick the most perfect pear I can find and I carry it back in with me carefully. This is a very special pear. I sleep, cradling it to my bosom.

12

When night comes, I crawl out of my bed and drag myself across the floor to the bathroom. I pull out all the strongest tablets I can find and then return to the bed. I straighten out my nightdress, comb through my hair and then place the pear in front of me.

But then, something stirs in my stomach. A feeling I know. A feeling I have felt eleven times. Could it be possible? The hope and surge of tangible life makes me lurch upwards. The pear tree wiggles outside. I am not done yet.