Page 40 of Statistically Speaking
I have been through tougher, and I have no real desire to go through it again.
Karim is sitting next to me, and his hand slides beneath the table, takes one of mine in his. I hadn’t realized how cold my fingers were until I feel the warmth of his skin. I hold on tight, more relieved than I could have expected beneath his touch.
“Thank you,” he says, squeezing my hand, “for telling me. It explains a lot about the last few weeks. And I see why it wasn’t something you wanted to share straightaway.”
“I’m not sure it’s something I want to share even now, truthfully,” I reply. “I wasn’t sure how you’d react.”
“I knew you had a past, Gemma. I didn’t think you were a virgin. What happened to you—it’s sad. It’s a small tragedy, in its own way. You were only sixteen—younger than a lot of the kids we teach. Can you imagine any of them being responsible enough to raise a child?”
I think of a few prime suspects, and I shake my head.
No. I can’t. Most of them still seem so young. Too young to even remember to bring a pen to class, or to study for a test, or to wear matching socks.
“I can tell it still affects you,” he continues, “and it’s probably affected the whole of your life. Maybe you should allow yourself a little bit of pride for what you’ve achieved, rather than a great big dollop of guilt for what you didn’t. Not many people from your background do as well as you have done.”
“I don’t think you can tell how well someone has done just from looking, can you? I mean, it depends on how you judge it. Health, wealth, happiness, whatever.”
“You’re right. You can’t tell from looking. But you got your degree. You’ve built a career. You’re building a life that is good and full.”
I look into his dark eyes and see nothing but understanding and support. It is almost as unsettling as seeing contempt and horror.
“I’m trying,” I say quietly. “But none of this comes naturally to me. I wasn’t raised to expect much of myself, or the people around me, and it’s hard to... unpick it, I suppose.”
He nods and replies, “Yeah. I can imagine. Have you ever thought about getting some help? You know, some counseling?”
I snort out a bitter laugh, and wonder why. It’s not exactly the world’s worst idea—but it’s also not an idea that I can ever see myself following up on. I am too self-contained, too boxed in, scared of revealing too much of myself.
“I think I’d end up lying to the therapist,” I say. “Making up easier stuff to confess to so I wouldn’t have to deal with the bigger issues.”
He smiles and rolls his eyes, like he can totally imagine that scenario.
“I had counseling, for a while, a few years ago,” he answers simply. He leaves it at that, opening the door but not shoving me through it.
“Why?” I ask. “And did it help?”
“It did help, and as for why—well, on the surface, it was because I lost a baby.”
I look up at him sharply, frowning. This is not what I expected him to say.
“Tell me about it,” I urge gently. “If you want to. But if you don’t, I understand—I’m hardly in a position to criticize anyone for keeping secrets, am I?”
He shrugs and gulps down some of his Coke. We both have plates of food in front of us, untouched, fries wilting, salad curling. The unloved burgers of the beer garden.
“You had your reasons for being secretive,” he responds. “And this isn’t something I talk about often either. When I was younger—twenty-two—I was engaged to a girl called Zara. We’d been together since we were sixteen, stuck it out through uni, and—well, we were going to get married. Looking back, we were way too young, and probably not even right for each other. But my sisters liked her, and our families were pleased, and I think we were both happy enough to go along with it.”
He pauses, and I give him the silence and the space to gather his thoughts.
“Sex before marriage, of course, was technically discouraged—but we were only human. When Zara found out she was pregnant, we didn’t tell anyone. We were shocked, and maybe, to be honest, a bit worried, and we had no idea what to do. So we kept quiet, and we—well, we adapted to the idea. Sometimes accidents can be happy, we decided. Once we’d got over the initial panic, we were both pleased. And then—long story short—she miscarried at eleven weeks.”
We are still holding hands, but now I am the one doing the comforting as I wait for him to continue.
“Nobody else knew, so we only had each other. And—well, that wasn’t enough. She was devastated, and I was too, but I had no real idea what to say or how to help her, and I was so sad myself, and we were both a mess for a long time. Eventually, we split up. We just couldn’t get over it, and maybe it made us realize that we shouldn’t be together at all. Now she’s married with four kids and I see her every now and then when I go home. Her older kids go to the same school as my nieceand nephews. I’m happy for her, I really am, but I carried that pain for a long time. I still do.”
“It’s hard for the dad, I’m sure,” I say, “when that happens. You’ve both suffered the loss, but she’s the one going through it physically.”
“Exactly that. I had to focus on her; it was the right thing to do. I was useless, but I tried. The problem is that to do that, I bottled up all of my own grief, and eventually I was angry.
“Not just about the baby but about everything. It felt like the universe was against me, and I was pissed off. When we ended things between us, I felt lost. I reacted by behaving badly. I moved away from home, I was drinking, even though I never really had before, and I was—well, let’s just say I was doing a lot of stuff that was out of character for me. It wasn’t making me happy, and it was scaring the heck out of my sisters, and it was threatening my career just as it was really starting. It was Asha who made me get help. You’ve met her. She’s a tough lady—and when she tells you to do something, you do it.”
