by Luana Lewis
Blackthorn Road is hushed as I begin my walk back to Cambridge Court. I pass a row of ivy-clad houses secured behind high gates and then a new build, still under construction, a board outside promising an indoor cinema and a basement swimming pool. The night is milder than it should be at this time of year and the air is lush with the smell of wet earth.
As I reach the corner, I see a woman walking towards me. She’s looking down at the pavement and the hood of her raincoat is drawn up over her head. We draw closer, we exchange a glance. And then we stop.
‘Rose!’ she says.
‘Cleo?’ I take a step back, not quite trusting my own eyes. It has been so many years since I saw her last that I wonder if I have conjured her up, my daughter’s oldest friend.
Cleo hesitates, then she holds her arms outstretched, before she rushes at me and enfolds me in an embrace. The vigour of her grip convinces me she is real.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says. Her voice is muffled, her mouth pressed against my shoulder.
We’re standing in front of a house with a low white wall and over Cleo’s shoulder, I can see inside, through the window and into a well-lit kitchen. A young woman is standing at the sink, filling a kettle. She carries on with her life as normal, safe and sound in her own home, her children asleep upstairs, no doubt.
Cleo feels me tense up and she lets me go. She tucks her hands back into the pockets of her raincoat. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, again. ‘I don’t know what to say to you.’
‘Don’t worry, there’s nothing anyone can say.’
Cleo fiddles with her hairline, pulling loose a strand of fine brown hair. She was the same way as a child, always fidgeting.
‘I can’t believe she’s not here any more,’ she says. ‘I remember being in the Reception classroom and looking at her and thinking that Vivien was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. She looked like a pixie, with her big eyes and her black hair.’
Her eyes fill with tears. Mine feel so dry.
Cleo’s family lived on the ground floor of Cambridge Court and she and Vivien were in the same class at St Leonard’s all the way through infant and junior school. Cleo was an intense, intelligent little girl, but I also recall stains on her school uniform, dirt under her fingernails, lice infestations. My daughter was the ballerina princess, her hair combed back in a tight bun and traces of glitter still lingering on her cheekbones.
You should be kind to her, Vivien, I hear myself say. I asked my daughter to take pity on Cleo, but Vivien went further; she genuinely liked her.
I was never sure how I felt about Vivien and Cleo’s friendship. Maybe it was the way the two of them would lock Vivien’s door when Cleo visited, as though there were secrets they wanted to keep from me. I worried, sometimes, that during the hours spent in Vivien’s bedroom, behind closed doors, my daughter might manipulate Cleo, might take advantage of Cleo’s adoration. I suspected Vivien would copy Cleo’s homework and that several of Vivien’s school projects might in fact have been the result of Cleo’s best efforts.
‘I’m surprised to see you here,’ I say. ‘I thought you and Vivien lost touch years ago?’
‘We did, but I needed to pay my respects.’
‘So you’re on your way to see Ben?’ It’s not my intention, but my words come out sounding like an accusation.
Cleo doesn’t appear to notice. ‘I’ve thought of you, and of Ben and Alexandra, every single day since she died,’ she says.
Although the diffuse orange streetlight is forgiving, something bothers me about Cleo’s face. Something’s not quite right, though I’m not sure what it is. Perhaps it bothers me that she’s wearing rather a lot of make-up for a condolence visit. Her lips are a deep red, her eyebrows drawn in in a dark brown and her eyelashes are thick with mascara.
‘I’m sorry, Cleo, I’m tired and I need to get home. It was good to see you.’ I take a step away from her.
‘Are you still working such long hours?’
‘I’ve cut back. I stood down as manager of the unit.’
‘Please,’ she says, ‘I want you to call me if there’s anything you need.’
Cleo has a messenger bag across her chest and she opens it and pulls out a leather card holder. She slips out a business card and hands it to me.
Cleo Baker. Translator.
I tuck it into my coat pocket.
She looks as though she’s about to embrace me again, but I draw back, raise my hand in a half-wave and walk on. After a few steps, I stop. I turn back and watch as Cleo walks towards my daughter’s house. She presses the buzzer on the side of the gate. Pushes it open. Disappears inside.
Chapter 4
Inside the Intensive Care ward the lights are dimmed and my blue-gloved hands are pushed through the holes in the side of the incubator as I tuck little Kelsey back into her nest. Kelsey was born yesterday and I’ve been with her since my shift began. A twenty-five weeker, she’s ventilated, with a blue tube strapped down across her cheeks and obscuring most of her face. Her head is the size of a peach and her lobster-red body is covered with bubble-wrap. Her eyes are still fused shut and her ears, without cartilage, curl in on themselves.
It’s been an eventful shift. Kelsey’s heartbeat has been erratic and she’s had a suspected brain bleed. There have already been endless X-rays and paediatrician consults. She is a sad case. Not often, but sometimes, I fear we do more harm than good. These babies teeter on the edge of life, scientific miracles – or perhaps experiments – facing futures that may involve suffering and disability. In truth, as I look down at Kelsey, and the needles and tubes that poke at her see-through skin, I wonder if it is cruel to keep her alive.
I’m tired, that’s all. Worn out. I don’t usually feel this way. Usually, I’m proud of what we do here. My experience over the last decades counts for something, and I believe that after each shift the baby I’ve been caring for feels better. I carry out many of the procedures myself: I intubated Kelsey and later I inserted the cannula for the antibiotic when her temperature rose, so she didn’t have to wait hours, deteriorating, until a consultant became available. I sense the best time for these procedures, I try to wait until the babies are calm and relaxed; it’s different from when the doctors do it, then it’s an attack, an assault by a stranger that comes out of the blue.
Here on the ward my thoughts are clear and my head free of pain. Work is my respite. But now, I need a break. Carefully, I withdraw my arms from the holes in the incubator and peel off my gloves.
Outside in the bright corridor the door to Wendy’s office, my old office, is closed. No doubt she’s in there behind her desk, working her way through a stack of paperwork. I don’t regret stepping down as manager. I don’t envy my old friend the administrative load that leeches this work of joy and human contact.
I think about going in to talk to Wendy, but I know she will ask why I have withdrawn from her. She will look at me in that way of hers that brings all of my pain right up to the surface and I’m in no mood to break down. So I walk a few steps further and place my hand on the aluminium door handle of the staffroom. But I can’t open that one, either. There are too many of Vivien’s gifts inside: the ice-dispensing fridge-freezer, the wall-mounted television, the deep sofas, the weekly deliveries of tea, coffee and fruit that somehow continue even after she’s gone.
Instead, I make my way down the corridor to the last door on the right, to Special Care, or Graduation Ward, as I always think of it. In here there are no ventilators and no X-ray machines; the lights are on and the curtains are wide open. By the time the babies are moved here, they are bigger and more robust.
Only one cot out of the six is occupied today, by Yusuf, our long-stay resident. Compared to the rest of our babies, Yusuf is a giant. He still has gastro-intestinal problems, and a yellow nasal feeding tube runs down his nose and through into his stomach. I walk over to him, say hello, and check that the tube is sited properly.
His head is elongated, flattened on each side so that his cheek
s and forehead bulge. He has been lying on a mattress for more than six months. I stroke his thick black hair as he looks up into my eyes. I can’t resist his serious face, so I reach in and lift him out of his cot. His misshapen head rests heavy against my chest as he cuddles into me. Yusuf knows me well.
He seldom has visitors to provide him with the stimulation and human interaction he needs. The nurses know this and we make much more of a fuss of babies like him, the ones whose mothers don’t come. The fluffy toy dog in his cot, with the long black ears, is a gift from Wendy.
I take him over to the window and I show him the view. ‘Look,’ I say, ‘see the cars. There’s a blue one. And a red one.’
He sucks on his fist as I rock from side to side and pat his back. I drift far away too and I jump when I hear the sound of Andrew Lissauer’s voice behind me.
‘Rose? Can we talk?’
The parents’ suite is adjacent to the Weissman Unit and consists of a double bedroom, a bathroom and a small kitchen area with a dining table. The space is decorated like a mid-range hotel, all neutrals and IKEA furnishings. Parents can stay here overnight, they can ‘room in’ when they’re too anxious to go home and leave their babies on the unit, when they fear the worst as their child teeters between life and death. Or, they can stay when they’re transitioning, getting ready to go home and spend their first night in sole charge of their still-fragile baby. In here, they can press the call button and a nurse will be with them in seconds.
‘How are you?’ Andrew says, as we sit across from each other at the table for two.
It’s the first thing people ask me. I dread this question.
‘I’m fine,’ I say.
Andrew looks sceptical as he adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses, pushing them higher up his nose. He’s the consultant neonatologist on our ward, a kind man. We’ve worked together for twenty years, during which time he married someone else and had three daughters, and his hair turned silver. In a few months’ time, he’s going to retire.
‘How is Alexandra doing?’ he says.
Another question I dread.
‘She’s all right, as far as we can tell, but I don’t think she fully understands what’s happened. On the surface, everything is normal. Underneath, I really don’t know.’
I’m annoyed that the table top is sticky and full of coffee stains. I stand up and move over to the sink, because I need some distance from Andrew and from his compassion. I wet a piece of kitchen roll, but I can’t find any detergent. I wipe the table, cleaning it as best I can, glad of something to do that doesn’t involve looking at him.
I must talk to Wendy, because the cleaning staff are neglecting this suite, they don’t bother to come in here unless someone complains. These rooms are important; they should be treated with respect. This suite is supposed to be our pride and joy, part of our cutting-edge facilities, a complement to our developmental care plan and our holistic approach.
These rooms are Vivien’s legacy.
I crumple the piece of kitchen roll and toss it into the small stainless-steel bin, which is of course overflowing. I sit down again and now I have no choice but to look at Andrew. He is a favourite amongst the parents, and amongst the staff, too. Over the years I’ve seen other consultants develop a certain detachment from their patients in order to deal with the emotional intensity of their jobs, but not Andrew.
‘I think Ben is completely lost without Vivien,’ I say. ‘They stayed in a hotel for a couple of days, while the police were busy at the house. But now he’s taken Lexi back to live there and I think it’s a huge mistake.’
As I look into Andrew’s gentle brown eyes, I well up. I dig my fingernails hard into the back of my left hand until the tears recede.
‘How is the police investigation going?’ he says.
‘They still aren’t sure about the cause of death.’
‘I talked to Mrs Murad,’ he says. ‘She’s been trying to reach you. She mentioned she had a difficult consultation with Vivien.’
‘I haven’t had a chance to talk to her yet.’
‘Fertility treatment can be so brutal,’ Andrew says. ‘And Vivien had such a rough time of it. All those rounds of IVF, then the loss of Lexi’s twin. Our treatments take their toll, don’t they?’
‘And then we send people home,’ I say, ‘as though nothing ever happened and we hope they’ll be able to get on with their lives.’
I infer, from what he’s said, that he and Mrs Murad believe Vivien took her own life. As Vivien’s doctors, they may have been more intuitive, may have known more about my daughter’s state of mind than I did myself.
‘Vivien adored you,’ I say. ‘She was eternally grateful that you saved Lexi’s life.’
I reach out and pat his sleeve. I notice how thin his wrists are, how the sharp bones protrude.
‘There’s something we discussed at the staff meeting,’ Andrew says, ‘and I hope you’ll be pleased.’
He gestures towards the door of the parents’ suite and my hand drops from his arm. I don’t think he noticed my touch, my fingers resting on the sleeve of his jacket. I pull my hand back into my lap.
‘We’d like to put up a plaque outside these rooms,’ he says. ‘We want to name this The Vivien Kaye Parents’ Suite.’
He clasps his hands in front of him on the now almost-clean birch-veneer table top. I tuck my hair back behind my ears and pat it down. I clear my throat. Andrew can see I’m too overwhelmed to speak and so he carries on talking.
‘I know Vivien wanted to remain an anonymous donor, but we would like to give her the acknowledgement she deserves. We want to honour her memory. And when you and Ben feel ready, we’d like to have an official naming ceremony. What do you think?’
‘Thank you.’
Andrew keeps on talking in his gentle voice.
‘Many of the staff were here when Alexandra was on the ward. We all remember the family very fondly.’
He’s waiting for some sort of response and I manage to pull myself together.
‘This is incredibly moving,’ I say.
But I am an imposter. An actress, failing to play the part of Vivien’s mother and struggling in the role of Lexi’s grandmother. How do I explain to Andrew that the plaque is only going to serve as a painful reminder of my failings, of Vivien’s, and of everything else that went wrong, of a catastrophe that began right here, in my haven, my place of work?
Vivien
Eight years ago
Alexandra has been home from the hospital for seven days. She’s in her Moses basket, which is balanced on the sofa in the living room. She lies on her back with her little arms flung up above her head and her hands in fists. Every now and again she makes little sucking noises with her mouth. My mother has swaddled her in a cotton blanket, the one covered in giraffes; she’s left us alone together while she goes to stock up on baby formula.
I lean in closer. Alexandra smells sour, of curdled milk. There are patches of flaky, dry skin between her eyes and on her cheeks, from some sort of rash she always seems to have. I ease off the white cotton cap covering her head. Her hair, the little there is of it, is a strawberry-blonde fuzz. Her colouring is nothing like mine, or Ben’s.
She was in the Weissman Unit for three months, and somehow I still feel as though she belongs to the nurses, instead of to me. I feel as though I need their permission to touch her, as though I need to check with them that I’m handling her the right way, that I’m not doing any harm.
I watch my sleeping daughter and I remind myself how much easier my life will be from now on. No more injections, no more hormones, no more painful and humiliating procedures. No more scrutiny of my diet, or questioning looks from doctors. No more pumping myself full of food and struggling with that too-full, too-rich, sick feeling. My duty done.
I try to feel something. Love, fondness, anything. I try to tell myself she is mine. I don’t understand the blankness inside me. I know this is not the way a mother is supposed to feel. But then I don’t fee
l like a mother, I feel like a detached observer.
On impulse, I reach into the Moses basket and I loosen the blanket and lift her out. I hold her close. She tenses, drawing up her legs and screwing her eyes tighter shut.
I lay her back down on the sofa, not too close to the edge. Her eyes flicker open, then close again. She is making unhappy, niggling noises.
I open the poppers of her Babygro and I undo her nappy; perhaps it’s too tight. I examine every inch of her, convinced I’m going to find something wrong, some sign of my failure.
Her face contorts and she begins to scream. I manage to dress her again but it isn’t easy, I have to force her stiff arms and legs back into the Babygro. Her crying grows shrill; she’s panicking, like an animal stuck in a trap. I put her back in the basket and tuck the blanket around her, but she won’t stop.
I don’t know how to swaddle her, I can’t do it the way Rose can.
Her crying makes me anxious. Useless. Angry.
I lift her up again and pace up and down the living room, bouncing her harder than I should. She yells her head off, despite all the bouncing, and her crying drowns out my thoughts. I don’t know what to do. Her screams are so loud I think I had better put her down again, because I feel, just for a second, as though I’d like to throw her against the plate-glass window.
Back in her basket, her face has turned puce. Now some of her screams are silent, as though she’s choking.
As I listen to the sound of her unhappiness, I search inside my own heart but I find only a cold, empty space. I feel nothing, only a wish for her to be quiet. I cannot comfort her. She must hate me, I think.
I have to get away from her or I don’t know what I might do.
I leave her alone in the living room, just for a few minutes, while I go down to the kitchen to make up a bottle. Perhaps she’s hungry, again. Rose says I should use the sling, that I should carry Alexandra with me, close to my chest, but I don’t like that contraption and I can’t master all of the straps. Alexandra will be all right on her own until I get back. Crying never killed anyone.
