Finding phoebe, p.14
Finding Phoebe, page 14
Reverend Collins started reading from Luke, Chapter Two, his voice clear and resonant, but I paid no attention. My brain was working overtime until the end of the service, by which time Bethany was calmer, though still visibly upset. As soon as the last note of the last carol had faded, she released my hand, slipped out of the pew, and exited the church. I didn’t know if she wanted me to follow, but I did. Even though I had very little to go on, I’d managed to formulate a fledgling hypothesis – the only one I could think of that made sense in the immediate context. And, if I was correct, it was a big enough issue to also explain Bethany’s erratic moods and behaviour over the last month or so.
She walked out of the churchyard and down towards the sea. It was a clear night and the moon was only one day past full, so there was plenty of light to negotiate the stony path down to the beach; and although she’d put on her dark jacket, the hem of Bethany’s dress was still easily visible at a distance of twenty metres. I caught up with her near the old lifeboat station, and we sat on the bench overlooking the bay. There was only a thin ribbon of distant water separating the island from the mainland, with the exposed sand stretching darkly before it.
Neither of us spoke for a while. In hindsight, I should have waited longer; she might have told me everything there and then if I had. Instead, I blurted out the question that had occurred to me at the end of the church service.
‘Have you lost your faith?’ I asked.
Bethany made a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh. ‘I don’t believe a word of it. I haven’t for a long time.’
I nodded but, in truth, I was a little surprised. Not at having my theory confirmed, but because she was so unequivocal about it. I had expected an admission of doubt, a creeping uncertainty. Not this. As I’d intimated to Will earlier in the term, Bethany and I had not spoken about religious matters for a while, and not properly since the infamous Easter of 2015. Don’t try to convert Bethany. That had been Daddy’s advice afterwards. In the meantime, she had apparently managed to convert herself, despite her upbringing.
‘How long are we talking?’ I asked. ‘When exactly did you stop believing?’
Bethany shrugged, as if the details weren’t all that important, which was confusing, given that she’d been so distressed in the church. ‘I’ve been doubting for at least a year. But it was over the summer that I basically stopped believing.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I almost did. Do you remember the last day of the holidays? I came over to see you but you were out. I texted afterwards but you didn’t want to talk.’
I did remember, obviously. It was the evening of the car in the sea.
‘You could have been a bit more persistent,’ I pointed out. ‘I mean, you know I would have dropped everything if I thought it was something serious.’
‘I know. But it’s... it’s just difficult to talk sometimes, isn’t it? You sort of ball up all your courage, then the moment doesn’t quite pan out the way you’re expecting... You end up telling yourself that it’s not the right time after all, or that it’s just something you need to deal with yourself.’
‘Is that what happened? You thought you could deal with it by yourself?’
‘More or less.’ Bethany shivered, hugging her jacket more tightly around her chest. ‘I had this... moment, that afternoon, when I just felt like I was seeing everything clearly for the first time in ages. I was praying – trying to pray – and it was the first time I’d tried properly in... I dunno. Maybe a month or something. My dad had been talking about prayer in his sermon that morning, and he finished with these famous lines from Matthew: “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” Well, that’s what I thought I was doing. I was alone in my room, and the house was completely quiet. And I sat with my eyes closed, and I... sought.’
I nodded, waiting for Bethany to continue.
‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘I just sat there, seeking, for however long, and it was just me in my room talking to no one. It was exactly the opposite of what I’d been promised. I’ve always been told that God wants to have a personal relationship with us, but if that’s the case, you’d think He’d do a better job introducing himself.’
Bethany looked at me, and after a moment, shrugged again. ‘Well, you pretty much know the rest. I decided I’d go and talk to you, even though I thought I knew what you’d tell me. That I was one hundred per cent right – of course there’s no one there listening to the thoughts in my head.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I mean, I hope I would have phrased it better, but other than that...’
Bethany nodded. ‘Right. But you were out, obviously, and it was clear you didn’t want to talk later on. So I thought, OK, leave it until tomorrow. Then the next day, the urgency wasn’t really there anymore. I told myself that I should wait a little longer. I suppose I had it in my head that I wanted to be absolutely sure about what I thought, and I wanted to get there on my own. Does that make sense?’
I nodded. ‘Perfect sense. You wanted to be free of outside influence. You wanted to make up your own mind without me telling you the hundred reasons you’re right.’
Bethany gave a very small smile at this, though her expression had not otherwise changed; she still looked very subdued. ‘Right.’
‘What about your parents?’ I asked after a moment. ‘Have you spoken to them? Are you going to?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why I asked.’
‘Of course not. It’s not the sort of conversation we could have.’
‘Oh.’ I thought for a while. It was difficult for me to relate to Bethany’s situation as nothing remotely similar had ever happened to me. Daddy and I had the same worldview on most philosophical issues, and when we did disagree, it was never a big deal. I couldn’t imagine our basic relationship changing all that much in the unlikely event that he suddenly became a devout Christian, or in the unlikelier event that I did. Clearly, it was different for Bethany, but it still seemed to me that the fundamental issue was indisputable. ‘You’re allowed to make up your own mind,’ I told her. ‘I don’t see how they could possibly object to that.’
Bethany didn’t say anything. I tried to press the point, as gently as I could.
‘It’s obviously causing you significant distress. It must be difficult sitting in church every week, with all these thoughts going round your head.’
After a few moments, she started sobbing again. I put a cautious hand on her shoulder, not knowing what else I should do. It took her a long time to calm down.
‘I’m not telling them,’ she said eventually. ‘It would ruin their life. It would ruin my life. Hopefully, they’ll never need to know.’
I was used to Bethany being somewhat dramatic, but this seemed excessive. I’d say it felt out of proportion to what we were talking about, but perhaps that’s just hindsight. I still didn’t have all the facts at the time, so it was impossible for me to have that clear a picture of what was going on.
‘We should probably be getting back,’ Bethany said. ‘Mum and Dad’ll send out a search party otherwise. Plus it’s freezing.’
‘Well, it is winter,’ I said.
It wasn’t a very profound note on which to end, but that’s where the conversation did end. Bethany took my arm and we walked back to the church, neither of us saying a word.
It was two weeks before I had the full story. In the meantime, the Christmas holiday passed quickly and unremarkably. Daddy took a week off work, but as always our celebrations were low-key, with minimum disruption to my usual holiday routine. We made and ate a small Mushroom Wellington for Christmas dinner, and afterwards we Skyped Gee. We opened a tin of chocolates and watched some festive films, such as It’s a Wonderful Life and Die Hard. Daddy drank some beer. I read and wrote, working out further details for the backstory to my parallel Earth – the historical events that would feed into the main plot. On days when I was struggling for ideas, I spent my time revising for my mock GSCE exams, which were scheduled to start the second week back. On days when the weather was good enough, I took Gladys for long walks around the island, which was mostly deserted.
During this time, I texted Bethany frequently, but it was clear that she was not yet ready to discuss her loss of faith in further depth. The messages I got back weren’t dismissive as such, but they were terse and guarded, and I got the strong impression that I shouldn’t push her too far at the present. It was frustrating as I kept thinking about what might have been if we’d started this conversation back in September, when Bethany had come to me of her own volition, actually wanting to talk. If it hadn’t been for the car in the sea and that first missed opportunity, then maybe the whole autumn term might have played out more smoothly. In retrospect, it was hard not to think that several pointless arguments could have been avoided if I’d known about Bethany’s crisis of faith, and the strain it had obviously caused.
In the present circumstances, though, I thought my best course of action was to give her space, while at the same time making a greater personal effort to understand what she was going through, so that when she was ready to talk, I’d be ready to help. It was difficult because I had been brought up without any religious beliefs; I couldn’t really imagine what it was like to have faith in the first place, let alone have it and lose it. I had not held any supernatural beliefs since I was six, when careful questioning of you and Daddy had exposed the truth about the Tooth Fairy. And this had come as no great shock. It was more the gradual realisation that a particular idea was unlikely, given how the rest of the world seemed to work.
I suppose this was also my default attitude when I tried to analyse Bethany’s situation. She’d reviewed the evidence and come to the only logical conclusion – that the universe doesn’t look like the creation of an all-powerful and benevolent God. It looks like animals eating other animals. It looks like natural disasters and periodic mass extinctions. And if you extend your horizon beyond Earth, it looks mostly empty and uninhabitable.
This was the attitude – the logic – that I had to work very hard to suppress. Because, clearly, it was not helpful when it came to understanding Bethany’s current feelings. She was experiencing a high level of distress – far higher than I would have expected, given her claim that she hadn’t believed for several months. My conclusion was that she was still struggling to adjust to her new way of thinking, which did make sense, from a psychological standpoint. Bethany had grown up believing. She had presumably been told things that were not easy to relinquish: that God had a plan for her; that life on Earth was just a temporary phase in her existence; that she had a soul that would live forever. And now she had to confront the likelihood that none of it was true. From this perspective, I could start to see why she was so upset.
When we returned to school in January, I felt that I had reached a position where I would be better able to support her, and I did not have to wait long to do so. On the first day back, I returned to our shared room after lessons to find Bethany curled in the foetal position on her bed. She glanced up for only a moment when I entered, but I could see at once that she had been crying again.
I hadn’t planned a speech, but I did have a broad idea of what I needed to say to help her through this. I had been talking for approximately three minutes when she told me to ‘shut the fuck up’.
I did, but not for long. I figured that if Bethany needed to vent some of her emotions in a safe space, I’d be here for that too. After a few moments of silence, I said: ‘Bethany, I don’t mind if you need to swear at me. It’s fine to be scared and angry. What you are experiencing is a major paradigm shift – an existential crisis, really – and this isn’t something you should try to suppress. Honestly, I think it’s best if—’
‘I’m not having a fucking existential crisis!’ Bethany shouted. Or rather, she did that weird thing where someone shouts but doesn’t actually raise their voice. If anything, her voice got quieter.
I waited. Calmly. Patiently.
‘I think I’m pregnant,’ Bethany said.
I sat down on the floor.
16
Holding it Together
I didn’t say anything for a while. There was too much to process, and Bethany had started crying again. I stared at the small gap underneath her bed as question after question raced through my mind. How had this happened? Where had this happened? And when?
I realised, quite swiftly, that none of this was of immediate, critical importance; and the first question was just idiotic. I knew how this had happened.
When Bethany was no longer crying, I asked: ‘Is Will the suspected father?’
‘Of course Will’s the fucking father!’ Bethany hissed. ‘How many boys do you think I’ve been sleeping with?’
‘Until a few minutes ago I assumed zero. Now I assume one. I just wanted to make absolutely sure I’ve got the facts straight.’
Bethany didn’t respond to this. She had wriggled into bed while I was sitting on the floor and now had the duvet pulled up over her face. For me, this made it somewhat easier to think.
‘Have you taken a test?’ I asked. ‘You said you think you’re pregnant. You don’t know for sure?’
I had to wait for a while, but eventually Bethany lowered the duvet and said: ‘I’ve missed a period. At least one.’
‘Possibly more than one? You’re not sure?’
‘I had some bleeding but it was very light. I don’t know anymore.’
I nodded, slowly. ‘You need to get a test.’
‘I know I need to get a test!’
Bethany was getting worked up again. Which was understandable, all things considered. I gave her a few more moments, then said: ‘You know I’ll help you, don’t you? I’ll help however I can.’
So far, I’d had zero success at helping Bethany, so I thought her response to this offer was justified: she started crying again. But when she spoke, I was surprised to hear something else. Relief. Relief and gratitude.
‘Thank you. God, thank you!’
I didn’t know what else to do, so I got up from the floor and sat on the bed next to her. I put my hand on her back as she continued to cry. There was one more question I thought I needed to ask. I didn’t see how it could be avoided. ‘Does Will know?’
Bethany shook her head. ‘Phoebe, you can’t tell anyone about this. You understand that, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re the only person who knows. The only person.’
I nodded, and for the first time in the conversation I felt like I was standing on solid ground. As a friend, I knew I had many shortcomings, but untrustworthiness was not one of them. If Bethany needed me to keep a secret, I would keep it forever. Barring torture, or her life being in jeopardy, it really was that simple.
Bethany fell asleep just before five. I reasoned this was a good thing. She was emotionally exhausted and would probably find it stressful going to dinner. I found Suzi in the common room and told her that Bethany was ill and had gone to bed. It was not even a lie, really, so I had no difficulty sounding convincing.
‘You probably shouldn’t disturb her,’ I said. ‘She has a headache, but she doesn’t think it’s anything major. Mostly, she’s just tired. I can look in on her again as soon as I’m back from dinner.’
Suzi thought about this and then nodded. ‘Has she got plenty to drink?’
‘I left a glass of water on her bedside table. She said she’d come and get some aspirin if it gets any worse.’
This was enough to placate Suzi and I went down to the dining hall reassured that she would not be waking Bethany.
Needing as few distractions as possible so that I could recharge and reflect, I sat on my own, away from the other boarders. So it was somewhat ironic that this was the day that Hu attempted to sit down next to me and strike up a conversation about Red Rising, which he’d finished over the holiday.
I cut him off mid-sentence. ‘Hu, I’m afraid this is not the best time for me. I need to be alone with my thoughts. Perhaps we could discuss the book on a different occasion?’
‘Oh... OK, sure. I just wanted to say thanks, really. I enjoyed it a lot.’
I felt bad; Hu’s cheeks looked red, and I suspected I’d managed to offend him. But I couldn’t change my mind. I really did need time out.
‘I’m glad you like it,’ I told him. ‘And I honestly would like to talk about it with you. Just not now. Please?’
Hu nodded. ‘Yeah, of course. Not a problem.’
He left and joined another table. It was unfortunate, but I thought I had handled the situation as well as I could in the circumstances. My self-improvement plan was of secondary importance now; the best thing to do was to put it out of my mind and focus on the matter at hand.
Bethany was pregnant. Or possibly pregnant. And now that I’d got over the initial shock, and was no longer having to deal with the immediate emotional fallout, I felt weirdly calm about that fact. In some ways, it was easier to deal with than the existential crisis I’d misdiagnosed, in that it was at least less abstract. There were practical things I could do to help, things that Bethany would obviously struggle with in her current mental state. We’d agreed that she needed to take a test, but if this was going to happen without delay – as it definitely should – I was going to have to take charge of the logistics.
Back in our room, Bethany was still asleep. I placed a sandwich I’d collected from the canteen next to her water on the bedside table, adding a quick note.
Sandwich – in case you’re hungry when you wake up. It’s cheese so it shouldn’t deteriorate too much. I told Suzi you have a headache. If I’m asleep and you need anything, you can wake me up at any time. I honestly don’t mind.
I went to the common room to reassure Suzi that Bethany was still soundly asleep, and then excused myself for the rest of the evening, on the pretence that I was going to revise in bed while keeping vigil. In reality, I rescheduled revision for nine o’clock, after the phone curfew, and spent the next two hours on Google.
