‘Woo, get you, Dr Kildare.’
‘Thanks. The Batman costumes were all gone.’
There’s a sound like heavy Dralon curtain fabric being cut, and the bed starts to rock around suddenly, making the green curtain in front of me flap. We both stare at it disconcertedly for a moment.
‘How did you think Sarah looked?’ I ask quickly, changing the subject.
‘When I saw her, she had Glenn there, so probably better than when you did.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. I hope they’re all right.’
‘Me too. When I came down here they were hugging and saying how much they had missed each other, so I’m hopeful.’
‘Oh, thank God.’ There’s a loud sucking sound, like a Hoover pipe sucking water out of a bowl. Hector clears his throat loudly.
‘So does this mean that the false contractions you were getting earlier on were probably real after all?’
‘Well, I certainly hope so. I don’t want to have to do all this again on Thursday.’
‘Good point. I’m busy on Thursday anyway.’
‘Are you? Doing what?’
‘Sitting by the bed of a heart and lung transplant first thing; then hysterectomy at half two.’
‘Heavens, you are in demand. Maybe you ought to go full time.’
‘Nah, there’s no money in it.’
‘Job satisfaction, though.’
‘Here we are then, Rachel, look who’s here!’
It’s the surgeon talking. We both fall silent and our eyes move upwards to the other side of the curtain. The surgeon is just visible, in a mask and a scarf like Hector’s, and he’s holding something up, something blue and pink and red and white and I realize suddenly, all in a rush, that this is my baby, this is the little life I had inside me, this is my Plum, my precious little Plum. The surgeon’s hands are under the arms and around the chest, his fingertips almost meeting in the middle; the little pink legs are bent up, the knees round as peaches, the feet dangling, ankles crossed; and the head is lolling to one side, the face screwed and red. There is a giant blue hose coming out of the belly and down, disappearing behind the curtain and as I watch, one of the arms raises slightly, jerkily, then flops down again. My baby waved at me.
The surgeon cuts the blue hose and passes my baby to someone behind me who does things out of my sight. Then she hands a heavy, warm little bundle to me and lays it on my chest.
‘There she is, Rachel, your new baby. Isn’t she beautiful?’
‘She?’
I stare into the miniature face, inches from mine, and can just feel tiny hot breaths touching me like prayers. She is all closed up, sealed against the world and my breath catches in my throat.
‘Oh, my little daughter. My precious little daughter. Hello, my gorgeous darling. I’m your mummy.’
Chapter Twenty-four
REMEMBER AGES AGO when I said that I was happy last year, with my fabulous, flirty life full of parties, clothes and hairdos? Did I say ‘happy’? That’s not really what I meant. It would be closer to say fucking stupid. The fact that I thought I was living a perfect life didn’t actually mean that there wasn’t something wrong; it just meant that I hadn’t spotted it.
I don’t particularly want you to stay and watch me being stitched together again, so let’s move forward a couple of hours, to the post-natal ward.
Picture a darkened, quiet area, populated by bay after bay of sleepy mums gazing into cribs at their snoring babies, gently lifting a blanket to cover the little bodies, softly stroking a perfect tiny cheek, touching a velvet head.
Post-natal is nothing like that.
There are never less than two babies crying at all times, because when one starts, it wakes up the one nearest to it, which in turn wakes up the next one along, and so on, creating a domino crying effect. This never happens in reverse; one satiated tummy sending its owner swiftly off to the land of nod does not, unfortunately, send the others. And, of course, the more babies that are awake, the more mums are awake trying to calm them. The air is filled with the deafening roar of low, soothing voices.
The ward is in semi-darkness, leaving just enough light for the nursing staff to move around safely and keep everyone awake.
‘You doing overtime this weekend, Abby?’ says a loud voice walking past, accompanied by the slosh of a bedpan.
‘Not sure yet. Mark wants to go to Monster Trucks.’
The ward is made up of four beds on each side of enormous bays, of which there are three or four. I have been assigned to the first bed on the left in the third bay along from the door. Go past the nurses’ station and head into the bay almost opposite. Look, there I am, lying wide-eyed and exhausted on my back. Two of the other beds in the bay are empty and all but one of the other babies and their mums are asleep at the moment – one is being fed – so our bay is blissfully peaceful. For now.
Come a bit closer to me. Right in. Now look at my daughter. Isn’t she just the most amazing, the most beautiful, the most miraculous thing you’ve ever seen? Her face is so perfectly oval, her lips so full and kissable. She is going to have the boys queuing up at her door, just like her mum. And have you ever seen eyelashes like that?
Don’t say, ‘Yes, on Nick Maxwell.’ It’s not helpful.
The mum opposite is looking at me as her baby suckles – perhaps she wants to chat – but I can’t sit up yet, so I’ve turned my head to gaze unwaveringly into the Perspex crib at my sleeping daughter, watching over her, protecting her from harm. My legs are still paralysed, so if harm comes this way I will shout very loudly.
It’s four a.m. I’m pretty much immobile for the next three hours, so let’s move on and have a look at how everyone else is doing on my daughter’s birthday.
At six o’clock, Hector is up, singing in the shower. There he is, look, cheerfully rubbing shampoo into his hair, eyes shut tight as white foam runs down his face, drips off his chin on to his chest, trickles down his belly . . . OK, stop there – no need to see where the foam goes next.
‘I get knocked up, but I get up again, you’re never gonna keep me down!’ he’s singing loudly. That makes me smile – it’s like our song, isn’t it? He hasn’t slept much since he got into bed three and a half hours ago, with all the events of the day running ceaselessly through his head. Suddenly he stops himself singing and his face becomes grave and concerned. And there’s a flicker of guilt, too, isn’t there? I bet he’s thinking about Jake at that moment, feeling bad for feeling so good.
He’s out now, rubbing himself dry, so I think we should leave him some dignity and see what news Sarah and Glenn have got. Hey, come on – leave.
Here they are, slumped on plastic chairs either side of Jake’s huge bed. The intensive care unit is everything that post-natal isn’t: peaceful, quiet, dark. But Sarah and Glenn have been kept awake by something else.
Look at poor Sarah’s face. She’s not so white any more – she’s now got dark circles under her eyes that give her face its only colour. She’s resting her head on the bed, her arm across Jake’s legs, and at intervals she jerks and raises her head suddenly, looks him up and down, checking every inch of him from the top of his bandaged head to the ends of his toes. Then, after staring at him for five solid minutes, she slowly lays her head down again. She is restive while he rests, stressed by his sedation, made anxious, for once, by his total inactivity.
Glenn has not slept at all. Right now, at six o’clock, he is back in the chair opposite Sarah, staring at his wife and son, hands clasped between his knees. At intervals during the night he has paced the room, looked out of the window, stood and gazed at his dozing wife, touched Jake’s foot. Do you think he feels responsible for all this? Well, he bloody well should.
Only Jake slumbers on, undisturbed.
Back in post-natal and it’s seven-thirty. The nurses decide it’s morning and open the curtains in every bay to the sound of ‘Good morning, ladies!’ as if we’ve all been snoring lazily in our beds well past the time that we should decently
have been up and about. Around the ward, eleven pairs of swollen, bloodshot eyes peer resentfully up from their pillows at the cheery greeting.
Here comes the mum opposite me, dressing gown on, for a chat hopefully. I’m still dead from the waist down – not in that way, cheeky – so if I want company or attention, I’m utterly dependent on people coming to me.
‘Keep an eye on Keanu for a minute, would you?’ she says to me, lying encased in concrete. ‘Just popping outside for a smoke.’
‘I can’t do anything,’ I say, but she’s already gone. As I watch the back of her off-grey dressing gown retreating towards the main door out of the ward, I am suddenly more sure than I have ever been about anything that her name is Michelle. But her friends call her Meesh.
God, this paralysis in my legs is so frustrating. I really want to go over and peer at the baby in the crib, just so I can make a mental note of how much prettier Plum is.
And I’m still dying to cradle my new daughter properly in my arms. They placed her on my collarbone when she was first born, but she was far too close to my face for me to see her properly. From here, I can just reach out and touch her in her crib, and rub her back when she snuffles, although the side of the crib digs into my arm. Her back feels so solid, so complete. I can feel shoulder blades and the bumps of a spine and tiny ribs that go in and out with each gasping breath. My splayed hand is the width of her back, which curves and fits perfectly into my fingers.
Think back to that green two-dimensional image Hector and I looked at four months ago on the scan day. Isn’t it amazing that now it’s this firm, warm, breathing person, with her own bones and lungs, blood and hair? She will have her own personality, her own identity, she will like things and dislike things and make choices and feel happy or sad or disappointed or confused. It’s a life, a brand-new life, for her, and for me. She has made the jump with me into this new, fragile place and I wonder if she’s as glad to be here as I am.
My fingers are going numb. I wonder why that is. Maybe I’m having a massive allergic reaction to the anaesthetic and my air pipes are going to swell up and seal shut, suffocating me in my bed. It could even be a blood clot or something and it’s even now making its slow, emotionless way to my heart where it will block all the little valve thingies and give me a heart attack and I’ll be cold by the time the woman opposite comes back from her fag. I’m calling the nurse.
‘Take your arm out of the crib,’ she says two minutes later. ‘You’re cutting off the circulation.’
While there’s not much going on, just take a look at the windows of the bay. They’re all closed, and locked, would you believe? I asked earlier on if they could be opened as it’s so hot in here – apparently new-born babies are perfectly safe in blistering sub-tropical heat as long as you count the togs – and the nurse told me they weren’t allowed to open the windows ‘because of the babies’.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, we don’t want the babies falling out of the window, do we?’ she said, as if she has witnessed first hand the tragedy that ensues when one of these flaccid, unaware little beings get an idea into their head. She raised her eyebrows at me, as if I really should know better. I’m staring at her and all I’ve got is the Mission Impossible music going through my head to the image of a determined line of babies climbing on to each other’s shoulders to reach the window ledge so they can catch their first glimpse of the outside world.
I guess I’ve got a lot to learn about being a mum.
Ooh, did you see that? It’s weird, but I think I just spotted my toes moving. I can’t actually feel them moving, it’s more like I’m imagining that they’re moving. Wow. Oh, thank God for that. I might be able to get up in a minute.
Let’s move forwards an hour. It’s almost nine now and look at me, sitting up with my darling Plum in my arms! What I hadn’t thought about when my toes were defrosting was the white-hot, searing agony across my belly that would follow. I got some strong pain relief pretty quickly, and it didn’t come with a glass of water, if you know what I mean. The nurse pulled the curtain round the bed to give it to me, thankfully. I need to try and preserve the gram of dignity I have left.
Plum is warm and heavy in the crook of my arm. She’s had a bit of a feed and now she’s dropped off again. I love the fact that she obviously feels safe with me. Her body and mine fit together.
Have you seen what she’s wearing? It’s the little white starry sleepsuit that Hector gave me in the office canteen yesterday. It was still folded up in my handbag. She looks like a princess in it, doesn’t she? It’s so perfect. I’m holding her foot in my other hand. It’s as small as a mouse.
There’s someone standing at the end of the bed and it makes me jump. But it’s all right, it’s Sarah, looking pale and tired. I’m guessing she’s had a bad night’s sleep too.
‘Sarah! Hi. Come and sit down.’ She smiles as she looks at my daughter and gently runs a finger down Plum’s cheek.
‘She’s gorgeous, Rachel. Really beautiful.’
‘Thanks, Sarah. How’s Jake this morning?’
She sits on the chair and becomes more animated. ‘The doctor came first thing and took him off for a scan. He said that the swelling had gone down so much they would let him wake up.’ Her eyes fill with tears and I get a sick feeling. ‘He opened his eyes about twenty minutes ago and asked for some ice cream.’
‘Oh, Sarah, thank God!’ I half lean forward and embrace her with one arm. I’m grinning like a fool.
‘I know.’ She’s nodding but can’t speak for a moment. I hold her hand as she cries. ‘I can’t tell you . . .’
I look at Plum. She doesn’t have to tell me.
‘Have you spoken to him about why . . .?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, not really. Church Road is right near his school, so I can only imagine he was trying to get there for some reason. It’s so strange.’
‘Sar, you know where Church Road leads, don’t you?’
‘Yes, on to Yew Avenue. Why?’
‘Think about it. Yew Avenue turns into the bypass after the Hickman Roundabout, doesn’t it? And what’s on the other side of the bypass to Church Road?’
She stares at me for a moment, trying to work it out. Then suddenly her eyes widen and she pulls in a breath. ‘Mill Lane? Do you mean Mill Lane?’
I’m nodding. Do you remember when I drove to Hector’s house yesterday after work, we drove into a much more rural road that had fields on each side, and huge farmhouses glimpsed through the hedgerows? That’s Mill Lane. Very close to Hector’s house.
‘It’s just a theory, Sarah. You’ll need to speak to him about it, but it doesn’t seem likely that he would be trying to get to school in the middle of the night, does it?’
‘No, no. You’re probably right. Oh my God, he was just trying to get to his dad, wasn’t he? Christ, my poor little mite.’ She rubs her eyes roughly.
‘Do you know who found him?’ She shakes her head. ‘Nick Maxwell.’
‘Who’s he?’
I look meaningfully towards Plum.
‘What, you mean . . .?’ I nod and Sarah’s eyes widen further. ‘Jesus. Jesus. That’s incredible.’
‘I know. He witnessed the whole thing – the motorcyclist wobbling, Jake flying back . . .’ I get a sudden vivid slo-mo image of Jake’s little body falling on to the pavement, hitting the tarmac, skidding along it, his face, his downy cheeks torn and damaged by the rough surface. This is what has kept Sarah awake all night.
‘I know. Thank God someone saw it – hopefully they can prosecute the motorcyclist. He must have known he’d hit something.’
‘Of course he did. You’d know if you hit a hedgehog on a motorbike, let alone a child, even in the dark.’
‘That’s what I thought too. God, Rach, I hope your Nick can remember some details about it. I hope they catch the bastard that hurt my boy and lock him up for ever.’
I’ve got my doubts about that, but I’m not going to tell Sarah. ‘Yeah
, me too.’
Sarah falls silent for a moment, then looks up at me again. She seems calmer now, doesn’t she? More at peace than I have seen her for weeks. It’s a relief.
‘You know what, Rachel? Now I think about it, I’m not sure that I even care. Compared to everything else that’s happened, it doesn’t seem important. Jake’s survived, he’s fine. What else matters? Oh, yes, I know, he’s got injuries but they’re just physical, they’ll heal. I am just so relieved that he has no psychological damage, nothing that will affect him his whole life. I couldn’t have borne it if someone had . . .’
She doesn’t have to say it. I’m relieved about that too.
‘And Glenn’s coming home.’
She’s looking at me sideways, as if she’s expecting me to disapprove, but I think she’s right. I’ve always thought that men who cheat should be speared with hot barbecue tongs, dismembered – I mean separated from their member – and have their toenails and nasal hair pulled out with pliers on alternate days until there are none left. And dumped. Something like that, anyway. You can vary the details. But that was in my old life – my empty, selfish, pointless life. Now that Plum is in the world, I can see that nothing is as important as her happiness.
‘I’m happy for you, Sarah. Jake will be ecstatic.’
‘He will, won’t he? Particularly when we tell him he’s off to Disneyland.’
‘Wow!’
She looks shattered. She’s pale and has dark circles under her eyes and her limbs are too heavy to move easily. But her eyes are shining and she is bright inside. Sarah’s life is back in the place where it belongs. With Jake and Glenn, together.
Before my second visitor, I have to make a phone call. I’m still not great at walking but fortunately there’s a pay phone on wheels. Finally Meesh in the bed opposite is back, which is a relief because Keanu is squawking. She leaves him to cry and helpfully brings the phone over to me with a smile.
‘Guess where I am?’ I say, when the phone is answered.
Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell Page 39
