Poppy Miller was gripping the test results so hard her knuckles turned white. The paper was damp with sweat. The hallway outside the womens health clinic was jampacked you could barely squeeze past anyone.
Poppy Miller! a nurse shouted.
Poppy stood up, trudged into the consulting room. Dr. Helen Clarke, a plump woman with weary eyes, snatched the file from her hands and flicked through the pages.
Sit down, she said, giving the results a bored glance.
Everything looks fine. You should have your husband checked.
Poppys stomach dropped. Victor? But he seemed
***
At home, Margaret Thompson was chopping cabbage for a stew, the knife moving like she was slicing through an army.
So, love, any news? she asked without looking up.
Im fine, Poppy muttered, shrugging off her coat.
Then why? Margaret finally lifted her eyes, a flicker of worry flashing across her face.
Victor needs to go for a checkup.
The knife hung in the air. Margaret straightened up as if a rope had been pulled taut.
What nonsense! My sons perfectly healthy. Its your doctors who dont understand anything. In my day women gave birth without any of these tests.
Poppy slipped into the living room. On the couch lay a pair of socks one blue, one black. She absentmindedly gathered them and tossed them into the laundry basket. After three years of marriage those socks had become a sort of metaphor for their life: mismatched, never quite a pair.
Victor came home late.
Whats with the funeral face? he grumbled, flopping into his armchair.
Victor, we need to talk.
What about?
She handed him the papers. He skimmed them, then shoved them onto the coffee table.
And?
You need to get checked.
Why on earth? Victor sprang up, pacing the room. Im a healthy bloke! Look at me!
He did look the part broadshouldered, dark hair, the sort of fellow who seemed fit as a fiddle. But health isnt always obvious.
Victor, please
Enough! he roared. If you dont want kids, just say so! Why all this drama with the doctors?
The clatter of slippers came from the kitchen. Margaret lingered behind the door, breathing so loudly you could hear every sigh.
I want children more than anything, Poppy whispered.
So why dont you have any? Are you hiding something? Did you have an abortion and now you cant?
The accusation hit hard. Poppy recoiled.
How could you?
How could I? Three years together and no result! And now some doctors say Im He didnt finish, his fists clenched.
The door burst open. Margaret stormed in like a tank.
Victor, dont listen to her! Its all because youre lazy. Work more, stop traipsing to the doctors all the time.
Poppy eyed her husband. He turned toward the window.
Victor, do you really think I
I dont know what to think, he muttered through clenched teeth. One things clear: a healthy man never goes to the doctor.
Margaret nodded triumphantly.
Exactly, son. Its not a mans job to be in hospitals.
Poppy felt something snap inside, like a stretched string finally breaking.
Fine, she said evenly.
The next day felt like a war. Margaret nagged at every little thing salt not refilled, pot not washed, dust on the sideboard. Poppy kept her mouth shut, grinding her teeth.
Maybe you shouldnt be staying at home at all? Margaret sniffed over dinner. Get a job instead of running off to the doctors.
Victor chewed his meatloaf, eyes glued to the plate.
I work, Poppy reminded him.
Three days a week isnt work, its a hobby.
What does my work have to do with this?
It does! My son is healthy and youre trying to make him look sick! When there are no kids, its always the womans fault!
Poppy rose from the table, legs wobbling.
Whats wrong with you? Margaret asked, surprised. Youve just eaten and youre already bolting?
Im exhausted, Poppy said softly.
Exhausted? From what? Three days a week isnt a load!
Victor finally looked up, a flicker of pity in his eyes, but said nothing.
That night Poppy lay listening to Victors snore. It used to be soothing, a sign of a loved one nearby. Now it grated on her nerves. How had she never noticed how stubborn he was?
In the morning she packed a few essentials into an old sports backpack a couple of dresses, some underwear, a makeup bag.
Where are you off to? Margaret asked, teacup in hand.
To Grans.
For how long?
Dont know.
Victor emerged from the shower, spotted the backpack.
Poppy, whats that?
Its what you see.
You serious?
As if Id lie. You wont get checked, your mum thinks Im to blame for everything. Why am I even here?
He moved closer, voice low:
Dont be daft. Where are you going?
To Gran Fayes.
To that tiny flat? Its only a few minutes away!
Itll be cramped, but Im not bitter.
Margaret scoffed.
Fine, let her go. Shell learn how good it was for her there.
Victor shot a angry glance at his mother but said nothing.
Poppy slung the bag over her shoulder and headed for the door.
Poppy! Victor called out.
She turned. He stood in the hallway, damp hair from the shower.
When will you be back?
When you finally see a doctor.
The door slammed shut behind her.
Gran Faye gasped when she saw her granddaughter with a backpack.
Poppy! Whats happened?
Ive had a row with Victor. Can I stay with you?
Of course, love. Its a bit tight
Its fine, Gran.
The flat was indeed tiny a bed, a table, two chairs, a battered TV but spotless and smelling of vanilla, Grans favourite scent from her baking.
Tell me whats going on, Gran said, putting the kettle on.
Poppy spilled everything. Gran nodded, her grey hair swaying.
Oh dear Men are like that. Proud, and admitting somethings wrong feels like a death sentence to them.
So I have to wait forever for him to finally see a doctor?
No, love. You did right leaving. Let him think it over.
The first few days were quiet. Poppy set up a folding cot in the corner, helped Gran around the house. Victor called now and then, but she let it go to voicemail.
Then Gran started complaining about chest pain. An ambulance whisked her to the hospital.
Dont worry, love, Gran whispered as they wheeled her away. Im old, things happen.
Grans condition improved, and Poppy visited daily with homecooked meals.
Hows the husband? Gran asked one afternoon.
Not great. He shouted at the phone a couple of times.
Did you answer?
Once. The second time I hung up. No point hearing the same thing over and over.
Maybe hes finally gone to the doctor?
Unlikely.
In the hospital corridor, Poppy nearly bumped into a young doctor in a white coat, blond and friendlyeyed.
Excuse me, she said.
No problem. Who are you looking for?
Gran, in Ward Seven.
Oh, Mrs. Faye! Lovely lady. Im Dr. Dennis Harper, cardiologist.
Poppy.
He smiled. Nice to meet you. Dont worry, Grans in good hands. Shes just getting older, thats all.
His hands were steady, nails tidy, the kind of hands you trust.
Thanks for looking after her, she said.
He lingered a bit longer, then left. The next day, then the next, Poppy found herself arriving early, hoping to see him again.
One evening Gran nudged her, winking.
The doctors curious if youll be coming today, she said.
Curious?
He keeps asking about your granddaughter. Hes a decent bloke, by the way, and single.
Poppy blushed.
Gran, what are you on about Im married.
Pfft!
A week later Dr. Harper was transferred to another ward. On his last day he stopped by the corridor.
Ill miss you, he said simply.
Ill miss you too, Poppy admitted.
He handed her his business card.
If you need anything or just want to chat.
She took it, their fingers brushing.
Thanks.
And he hesitated. Youre very beautiful. And a bit sad. I hope that changes.
Gran was discharged and grew stronger, but Poppy still felt uneasy leaving her alone.
Victors calls became sporadic; sometimes she answered, sometimes not. The last time he shouted into the receiver, calling her a spoiled child. She hung up and never lifted it again.
A month later a strangers voice rang out:
Poppy? This is Denniss mother. He gave me your number
Is something wrong?
No, no! His birthdays tomorrow and hed love to see you. Could you come?
Poppy hesitated, but Gran, having overheard, waved her on.
Go on, love! When was the last time you had a good laugh?
The birthday went brilliantly. Dennis was charming, attentive without being overbearing. When they said goodbye, he said, Id love to see you again. Okay?
Okay, she whispered.
They started seeing each other, slowly, gently. No heavy questions, no pressure. Sometimes shed spend the night at his flat.
Then, out of the blue, Poppy discovered she was pregnant.
Will you marry me? Dennis asked when she told him.
Of course, she laughed, tears of joy spilling.
A year later Poppy was pushing a pram down the park lane. Dennis strolled beside her, cracking jokes. Their son, Milo, was snoring softly in the stroller.
Victor and Margaret appeared on the path, frozen as if nailed to the spot.
Poppy didnt speed up or slow down, just kept walking, head held high. In Victors eyes she saw every ounce of pain, regret, and understanding.
Margaret tugged Victors sleeve.
Lets go, Victor.
But he lingered, staring at the stroller, at the happy face of Poppy and Dennis, at the life hed missed. He finally realised his mistake, though it was far too late.
