by Luana Lewis
There is a rustling behind us, a tentative sound, and I turn to find a young woman standing beside Yusuf’s empty cot. She is slight, with a magenta sari drawn up to cover her hair. In all the months Yusuf has been on the ward, I’ve glimpsed his mother only once before. On that visit she was trailing, submissive and head down, behind her husband, a loud and corpulent man.
She smiles at me but does not try to approach me, or to reach out to claim her son. She’s very young and she doesn’t speak English. She doesn’t understand any of it: the hospital, the incubators, the feeding tube, any of what’s happened to her and to her baby.
Amanda sticks her head round the door. ‘We’re just waiting for the translator,’ she says, smiling.
Yusuf’s mother nods as though she understands. She stands next to his cot and waits. I tighten my grip on her baby. Yusuf is floppy in my arms, his muscle tone is low and he will need specialist care going forward. He’ll need to come back to outpatients for follow-ups with the paediatrician, for appointments with the physiotherapist and the speech and language therapist. It’s so important he comes back, or all of his suffering will have been for nothing.
I know Yusuf will never make it back here. She will not bring him to see the specialists, she’s overwhelmed already. I glance down and I see her belly is rounded and the shock of it makes me furious.
‘You don’t visit Yusuf often enough,’ I say. ‘Your baby is very sick. How are you going to look after him at home if you don’t watch how the nurses are feeding him? How will you help him with the exercises for his neck?’
Her face falls because my tone has worried her. She looks at me, doe-eyed and confused.
Amanda is back in the doorway with Andrew Lissauer beside her and they’re both looking at me with Yusuf in my arms, like I’m some sort of unguided missile. Amanda comes forwards and holds out her arms, but I don’t want to let him go. I hold him tighter, closer.
‘How can you send him home with her?’ I say. ‘She’s a stranger to him. She has no idea how to operate his feeding tube. He’ll starve if you let her take him.’
Amanda looks at Andrew. He takes a few steps towards me.
‘Rose,’ he says, ‘put Yusuf down. You know we have a great home-visiting team, we’ll make sure he gets the care he needs.’
I don’t budge. There’s so much we’re not allowed to say, but I hear myself saying it anyway. I’m so tired of pretending that everything is all right.
‘We provide twenty-four-hour care, day and night, for months, and then we send these babies home.’ I cradle Yusuf’s head because he’s begun to squirm as my voice rises. ‘We send them home to irresponsible, useless teenagers, or drug abusers, and we pretend we don’t know it. We send them home to people who can’t afford to have all the children they do. We pretend it’s all right when people insist on multiple IVF pregnancies when they know how high the risks are and then the babies are born early with all kinds of complications. I’m so tired of cleaning up other people’s messes.’
Yusuf’s mother looks between me and Amanda and Andrew. She is silent and frightened. I’m shouting at them and I don’t seem to be able to stop.
‘I’m sick of seeing these babies suffer. They grow up with detached retinas and brain damage and chronic lung fucking disease. And in all of that, she can’t even be bothered to visit. What are we doing this for?’
I retreat from them, my back up against the window. Yusuf is fighting me now, uttering small half-strangled cries.
His mother is so terribly young, her features so delicate. Her large, dark eyes stare out from under the bright-pink headscarf. She has a tiny gold stud in her nose. She doesn’t understand why I’m yelling at her. Her husband never comes. She has a three-year-old and an eighteen-month-old at home. I’m squeezing Yusuf and rocking him and he’s crying, a rough, gulping sound.
Andrew and Amanda rush forwards together, Amanda puts her hands under Yusuf’s arms as though she’s afraid I might fling open the window and hurl both of us through.
I loosen my grasp, I let Amanda take him from me.
Yusuf’s mother is crying now. Amanda goes over to her and shows her Yusuf is all right; she makes reassuring murmurings. Andrew grips my elbow and marches me out of the ward and down the corridor.
He’s still holding on to my arm as he shuts the door of Wendy’s office behind us.
Wendy is behind her desk. My old desk. Her in-tray is overflowing, her workspace messy. I used to be so organized, so competent.
When Andrew lets go of me, I clasp my hands together, digging my nails as deep as I can into the back of my left hand. I am trembling. I try but I cannot control the shaking. I shut out Andrew’s words, as he explains to Wendy what I’ve just done.
‘I don’t think Yusuf’s mother will file a complaint,’ he’s saying. ‘But she would certainly be entitled to do so.’
‘That child is neglected,’ I say. ‘We can’t just turn a blind eye.’
‘It’s the parents’ prerogative to leave him in our care,’ Andrew says. ‘We have round-the-clock nursing staff and you know there are older siblings at home. You know full well the difficulties some of our parents face. This is ridiculous, Rose. You don’t need me to lecture you about this. We all know this isn’t the real issue.’
He adjusts his glasses.
‘Yusuf has been on this ward his whole life,’ I say. ‘He’s in Special Care now, he’s fully conscious, he needs to be held and talked to and played with. He needs constant attention from his mother.’
‘Rose, that’s not for us to say. If you’ve got concerns, make a referral to the psychologist on the ward. But failure to visit is not considered child neglect. And whatever the situation with his parents, your outburst was completely unacceptable.’
‘Fine. Duly noted.’
Andrew is fidgeting, adjusting his tie, which is covered in pictures of Mickey Mouse. He pushes his wire-rimmed glasses higher up his nose. As I watch this familiar gesture, I am filled with so much fondness and so much regret.
I stand in front of Wendy’s desk, my head down, a criminal waiting for sentencing. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I don’t know where all that came from.’
‘It’s my fault,’ Wendy says. ‘I should never have let you come back to work so soon. And if I let you stay on, you’re going to do something you regret.’
Wendy and Andrew exchange a loaded glance and I understand they’ve been talking about me behind my back.
‘We’ve had concerns,’ Wendy goes on, ‘ever since you came back to work, so soon after—’
‘What concerns?’ My stomach lurches. I know I’m not myself but I don’t remember doing anything to cause harm.
‘There have been problems with your handover notes,’ Wendy says.
‘What about my notes?’
‘The language you’ve used,’ she says, ‘to describe Yusuf’s parents, and a couple of others. It’s inappropriate.’
I breathe out, relieved. ‘Is that it?’ I say.
‘Well, it is a concern. The language you used is clearly derogatory. I’m not sure if you’re aware of it, Rose, but you’re carrying a lot of anger.’
‘You’re reviewing my case notes?’
She doesn’t trust me any more. I suppose her instincts are right, I barely trust myself.
‘Did you hear what I said, Rose?’
‘Is there anything else?’
I’m not going to talk about the anger. Not here.
‘Amanda reported the incident with the breast milk,’ Wendy says.
‘I see.’
‘It’s completely understandable,’ Wendy goes on. She jumps up and rushes around the desk. She puts her arms around me. I hug her back, with my weak, heavy arms.
‘Rose, you’ve worked here longer than I have,’ Andrew says. ‘You’re an incredibly devoted and talented nurse. We all understand what you’re going through.’
I know they hate what they are doing. I know they are on my side. Still, it hurts. ‘Being on this
ward is saving my sanity,’ I say. ‘Please.’
‘You know how much we care about you,’ Wendy says. ‘We would like you to take indefinite leave. If you don’t, we will have to suspend you.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Wendy says. There are tears in her eyes.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, I should be the one apologizing.
I’m so sorry I’ve put you in this position. I’ll go.’
Wendy leans across her desk and picks up a business card. She hands it to me. ‘This psychologist works with staff members in the Trust when they’re under severe stress. Please contact her.’
I push the card into the pocket of my uniform without looking at it.
I’ve been so proud of the work I have done in this unit. At the end of every shift, I believe the baby I’ve been looking after feels better, because of my care. And now Andrew is looking at me as though I am a danger to our babies, as though he has to keep them safe from me.
Wendy takes my hand in hers. Her touch is soft and tender. ‘We’re worried, Rose. We hardly see you any more. You don’t talk to us, you don’t return phone calls.’
‘I spend all my spare time with Ben and Lexi.’ I pull my hand away from hers.
‘Please don’t shut us out,’ she says.
For some reason I haven’t told Wendy about the time I spend with Isaac. She wants to care for me and I understand; I’d feel the same way. But at the moment all I can focus on is my need to be close to Lexi, and the closer I am to Isaac, the better my chances.
I can’t look at the two of them any longer. I don’t want to break down here. I walk over to the door and I try to open it, but my hands are shaking too much and my fingers slip from the handle. Andrew comes over to help me, and the look on his face is awful when he sees the half-moon bruises that run across the back of my hand.
‘I’ll phone you later,’ Wendy says. ‘As soon as I finish my shift.’
I nod but I don’t turn around.
Andrew follows me all the way to the door of the unit. I suppose he wants to make sure I actually leave.
‘We’ll be in touch,’ he says. ‘Go home and rest.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I won’t try to come back.’
With my back to him and with unsteady hands, I pull on my coat. I don’t bother to change my shoes. I haul my bag over my shoulder and walk, like an old woman, slowly down the linoleum-lined passage and past the parents’ suite.
Wearing a uniform changes a person. It gives me authority and it makes me brave. When I put on my uniform, when I’m at work, I am competent and confident; I lose myself. My uniform holds me together; the moment I take it off, I feel myself falling apart. I don’t know how I will manage without this hospital, without the smell of disinfectant, so sharp and strong and clean it wipes everything else from my mind.
I don’t have the energy for the stairs and so I wait for the lift. I can feel Andrew’s eyes burning a pity-shaped hole in my back.
Chapter 17
I wake at five thirty the next morning and I follow my familiar routine, as though it is any other working day. I wash, dress and make a cup of tea. I cut up an orange and a banana and sprinkle oats across the top. I sit in front of the television while I eat my breakfast. I pack my uniform into my holdall.
My legs carry me to the bus stop, where I wait for the bus that takes me to the hospital. I get off at my usual stop. It’s only then that I stop and think.
Across the road is the greying, pockmarked building, which I regard with so much fondness and so much pride. This hospital has been my true home. My daughter was born here, my granddaughter, too. I don’t know how to fill my days now I cannot return to the Weissman Unit.
I don’t want to go home.
I turn back on myself and walk towards Paddington Station. The Underground is subdued after the morning rush hour, I make my way through the turnstiles, down the escalators and through the maze of passages leading to the Bakerloo Line.
I know where I am going now and I feel energized at the thought of an overdue confrontation.
I get off the train at Baker Street and I change to the Jubilee Line. I travel all the way across London, to the east, to Bermondsey. When I emerge from the station, the day is mild and dry, and there’s even a little sunshine. I lose myself in movement, in my brisk walk. I have visited Cinnamon Wharf only once before, more than a decade ago, but it’s easy enough to find, only a ten-minute walk from the station.
I don’t press the buzzer at the green-painted front gate because I don’t want to give Cleo another opportunity to shut me out. Instead, I slip through behind a delivery man in brown overalls who is carrying a large cardboard box. I’m in luck, he walks across the courtyard, past the rows of mailboxes and makes his way inside the front door of the building. I catch the door before it closes and walk through right behind him. We travel up in the lift together. He gets out on the third floor, but I carry on up to the seventh. When I step out of the lift, the long corridor is familiar; it looks just the same, with the jute carpet and the apricot walls. The lights are on a timer switch, they come on as I step out of the lift, but by the time I reach the end of the passage, by the time I’m standing in front of Cleo’s front door, they have gone out, leaving me in darkness.
I knock. I brace myself and stand staring squarely at the peephole.
When Cleo opens the door, she has a large and welcoming smile on her face. I was ready for a confrontation, but now I’m thrown. She steps forward, rests her hands lightly on my shoulders, and kisses me on the cheek.
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she says. ‘Come in.’
I follow her into a small hallway. It’s as though the incident at Blackthorn Road never happened.
The flat is exactly as I remember it from all those years ago when Vivien lived here with Ben. The walls are painted the same pale apricot shade as the passage; the floor is a beech laminate. Cleo leads me through to the right, where living room, dining room and kitchen are combined in a compact space.
Even the sofa is the same; the fabric is a distinctive red and gold brocade.
I’ve never forgotten this view. From the large windows I can see out across the yellow-tiled rooftops and, in some cases, through into other people’s apartments. The river is only a few streets away, though the view is obstructed by all the buildings.
‘Look, I’m sorry about what happened,’ Cleo says. ‘I felt terrible afterwards.’
She does a good job of looking sincere.
‘But not terrible enough to open the gate.’
Cleo’s drawn-in eyebrows stand out against her face. Her hair is covered by a charcoal-grey headscarf and she’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt with the words ‘Cambridge University’ printed across the front. I have no doubt that shirt once belonged to Ben.
‘I had to make a judgement call,’ she says. ‘Ben was in a state and I knew it would only make things worse if you came inside.’
‘What do you mean, he was in a state?’
‘Lexi was being really, really difficult. He couldn’t get her up to bed until eight thirty, and then she was up again within half an hour, wanting to come downstairs. Ben was at the end of his tether.’
‘Was he drinking?’
She nods.
I remember what Ben said, about being afraid he would lose control. I feel a deep sense of unease. I am more convinced than ever that I need to be in that house, watching over my granddaughter.
‘When the buzzer went,’ Cleo says, ‘he asked me to go to the front door.’
‘Did he know it was me?’
She nods. ‘I’m sorry. We could see you on the cameras.’
I’m not sure I believe her. The last time Lexi was in distress, Ben had begged me to come over to help him. I think last night was payback, and that Cleo has been holding a grudge ever since I’d asked her to leave the house. We seem to be in some sort of ridiculous power struggle. A struggle for territory.
&n
bsp; ‘Ben finds the nights in that house unbearable,’ she says.
‘Lucky you were there to comfort him.’
‘It’s better if you phone first, when you want to go over there.’
‘Is that what you do, Cleo?’
Wendy was spot on, as usual. There is an anger inside me, a bitterness fermenting in my core. And the more I’m kept apart from my granddaughter, the more it grows. I don’t want to think about what I did to poor Yusuf’s mother.
‘I was just making myself a cup of tea,’ Cleo says. She walks away from me and busies herself in the kitchen, which is tucked into an alcove at the back of the room. ‘Would you like a cup?’
She doesn’t respond to my sarcasm, she ignores it. Once again, I realize I am powerless. Ben has decided he trusts her and he values her company. This visit was a waste of time because Cleo is never going to agree to stop going to the house on Blackthorn Road.
I have to find another way to handle the situation.
‘So Ben bought this place when he first started working in London?’ I say. I force myself to adopt a less hostile tone.
‘Yes. And you wouldn’t believe what these flats sell for now.’
She has her back to me. The kettle screeches as it boils.
‘When we first moved in here,’ she says, ‘this flat was full of sunshine. I swear to you, when we lived together, the sun shone every single day. Or that’s the way I remember it, anyway.’
Cleo returns to my side in the living area, carrying a large red mug. She brings the tea to her lips and blows into it. ‘Are you sure you won’t have a cup?’ she says. ‘I’ve got Earl Grey.’
‘I’m fine.’ I try again. ‘So Ben lets you live here rent free?’
‘He doesn’t need the money. And things have always been perfectly amicable between us.’
‘I thought you’d said the two of you weren’t in contact?’
‘Have you seen my little terrace?’ she says.
She has an infuriating way of ignoring questions she doesn’t like.
She unlocks the door on the opposite end of the room, and throws it open. There is a balcony, a tiny space that clings to the edge of the building, with just enough room for a small wrought-iron bench.
