Free The Decision: Lizzie's Story by Lucy Hay Page A

confirmed I was carrying a boy. My Dad beamed from ear to ear, telling everyone he knew the first Carmichael boy was on his way. My sisters all cooed over the scan pictures and Hannah even tried crocheting a blue cardigan for the baby, though all she managed in the end was a wonky over-sized square, which she wrapped up for me anyway. I watched them all get excited and wondered when I would. All I felt was despair, clutching at my insides as I contemplated the future. What would become of me and Mike? What would become of this child?
What would become of me?
    Then Mike was there for an extended visit over the Easter Holidays and Mum insisted Amanda move in with the twins in their bedroom for the duration, much to my sisters’ chagrin. The baby’s birth was imminent and I felt the size of a house. This did not seem to dampen Mike’s ardour for me, as if he was stamping his claim back on me, after losing out to my family for so long. And even though sex was the lastthing on my mind, I felt grateful Mike did not find me disgustingly unattractive, nor see the “whale” Sal did, which she cruelly muttered under her breath whenever Mum was out of earshot. But Mike’s desire for authority on what he could not control did not end there, as he began to badger me about the child’s name.
    “I think… Dylan.” He said one evening.
    Irritation coursed through me: yet again, someone was deciding things for me! We were out on the patio and it was a pleasant and unusually warm April evening. Mum had told the others to give us some space and had warned them to stay off the patio on pain of death. Even so, Hannah could be seen watching us from her upstairs bedroom window, her face pressed against the glass in what she thought was a comical pose.
    “I don’t like it.” I said out of sheer badness, even though I knew full well I had circled that particular name in the book Mum had given me.
    “Okay,” Mike said measuredly, “What about Jonathan?”
    “Boring.” I declared and meant it, this time.
    “You’re choosing his name, then.” He said, deadpan. It was not a question.
    “I’m carrying him. I have to give birth.” I said testily. “Think of it like my reward. It’s only fair.”
    A shadow passed between us at that moment and the balance of power shifted to Mike as he regarded me, grinding his teeth together. “The baby should have my surname, then.” He said.
    I had never considered the idea before that moment. I had figured the child would be a Carmichael. Same as me, same as my sisters. Mike had not revealed whether he would ever support me or the baby financially, never mind commit to us or even live with us. As far as I was concerned, now was not the time for stakes to beclaimed in the name of machismo. So intent on trying to regain control of my own life from him or my mother, I was incapable of seeing his point of view.
    “No.” I spluttered.
    “It’s only fair.” Mike echoed.
    “We’re not married, though.” I said, bewildered.
    “So?” Mike said, infuriatingly. How many times had I listened to him give that ridiculously childish retort to his own father?
    “The baby’s having my surname.” I asserted.
    The shadow that had passed between us the previous moment now seemed to leap out of Mike, enveloping us both. A bitter argument ensued and Mike kicked one of the patio chairs over. It fell onto the concrete with a metallic clatter that brought my Mother running. Not seeing her in the kitchen doorway, Mike grabbed my arm and pulled me towards him, his thumb and forefinger dug in my flesh, painful as I tried to struggle out of his grasp as he repeated his demand:
the baby would have his surname.
    “What do you think you’re doing?” My mother’s voice was low and dangerous.
    But Mike did not know my mother and merely let go of my arm. “Just a minor disagreement.” He said obliviously.
    My mother smiled, but I knew what was coming next. I had seen that smile dozens of times before. It had