by Susi Fox
A low buzz sounds from further up the corridor. The feet tread away towards it.
St Patrick’s. A few hours from here by road. I ease my phone out from under the pillow, find the number for St Patrick’s and dial it. My heart is in my throat. I ask reception to connect me through to the nurses in the Special Care Nursery.
The tips of my fingers are tingling by the time a woman picks up.
‘My name is Ursula,’ I say. ‘I’m one of the midwives from The Mater. I was after an update on the baby we transferred earlier today. Baby of Saskia Martin. How is he?’
‘Oh, you mean she? She’s doing well.’
A girl?
‘Isobel, they’ve named her.’
This must be her. My baby. It seems I was right about having a girl after all. My heart soars like a bird catching an updraught.
‘We were meaning to call and ask someone from your hospital how Saskia’s pregnancy was allowed to go three weeks overdue? Saskia can’t explain it herself. It’s not your standard protocol, is it?’
Oh, no. My heart deflates like a flaccid balloon. There’s only one thing of which I’m certain: my baby was born prematurely. Isobel is not mine. My only lead, evaporated. And it appears this hospital hasn’t treated her mother adequately. It accords with how badly they have treated me.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I whisper and, without waiting for the reply, press the end button on my phone. My body is a wooden plank beneath the sheets as I squeeze my eyelids together, willing the tears away.
The engaged signal bleeps when I call Mark’s number. Next I try Dad’s mobile. He picks up on the second ring. I’m hyperventilating, the breath leaping in my throat.
‘Sasha, you’ve caught me just as I’ve got home.’
‘Dad, they think I’m mentally unwell.’ I count my breath in and out, trying to slow it down. ‘I think they’re going to lock me up in the psych ward.’ I stop, almost unable to believe it myself.
Dad is quiet for a few seconds.
‘Is this about you not believing your baby is yours?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Mark’s worried.’
My brain thumps inside my head. Mark should be looking for our baby, not disclosing things about me to Dr Niles, or calling my father behind my back.
Dad begins to ramble on about the golf game he has planned for tomorrow. I know he’s trying to pretend this isn’t happening. He can’t stand emotions; doesn’t believe in them, he once said. I toy with the best way to get him onside. He’s a retired accountant. He likes crosswords. When I was seventeen and wanting to attend the after-party of the school formal, I drew up a spreadsheet, a budget and a proposal. It worked. Perhaps this time I can appeal to his sense of logic again.
‘Dad, this isn’t something I’ve imagined. Things like this happen. And I would never make something like this up. It’s almost like sexual harassment. Or assault. The statistics show women hardly ever lie about it. It’s just that people prefer not to believe them.’
‘Are you trying to say you were assaulted, Sasha?’
I groan. ‘No, Dad.’
I realise in that moment how little my own father knows me. Maybe he never really has. When I was a child, he’d collect me from Bec’s house long after dark, drive me home and be off to work again before dawn. I’d wake to an empty house and the smell of burnt toast. Lucia would pick me up on the way to school. I can’t remember Dad ever cooking for me or helping me with schoolwork. We never even watched TV together. He was more at work than at home.
He did try a few times, I suppose. He attended one of my cross-country runs when I was a teenager, standing on the sidelines with parents he’d never met. He saw my final-year musical, Mary Poppins, where I played Jane. I always forgave him for his other absences. After all, I knew more than anyone how hard it was without my mother around.
The afternoon he told me she wasn’t coming back, I was six years old, lying on my patchwork quilt in a trickle of sunlight. Bunny was putting Dolly and Bear down for a nap on my pillow when his shadow fell across the bed.
‘You know Mum’s gone?’ he said. ‘For good. It’s just the two of us now.’
My newly grazed knee from where I’d fallen on asphalt began to ache. Dad left the room without another word. I stuffed Bunny beneath my pillow. Bear tucked the patchwork quilt around Dolly and told her she wouldn’t see Bunny again for a while.
‘Where’s she gone?’ Dolly asked.
‘To a better place,’ Bear said.
‘When’s she coming back?’
‘No time soon.’
‘What did we do wrong?’ Dolly said.
‘I don’t know,’ Bear replied.
All at once, the phone is heavy in my hand. Dad pauses for breath at the end of his recount of golf.
‘I’m sure they think admission is going to help, Sasha.’
Oh, fuck. They’ve got Dad believing I’m mentally unwell, too. How the hell am I going to find my baby now?
‘Being admitted helped your mum the first few times.’
‘Jesus, Dad. How many times was she in there?’
‘I don’t remember …’
His voice is creaky. There’s so much about his relationship with my mother that I don’t know, that he refuses to talk about. He’s so awkward that I can almost understand why she wanted to leave us. Almost.
‘I should have listened to the doctors the last time, before I took her home,’ Dad continues in a broken voice. ‘Everything is my fault. I should have done things differently.’ His voice fades to a whisper. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to forgive me, Sasha?’
I shift on the mattress.
‘Look, it’s not really about that, Dad. This is about the hospital making a mistake with my baby. But I’m sure you did the best you could.’ I fiddle with my quilt, tugging at a hole in the stitches to loosen the threads. ‘And so did Mum.’ It’s not true, but it’s the best I can come up with right now. ‘Dad, I have to go – I have to find my baby. Do you understand? Right away.’
‘Please try not to worry,’ he says. ‘Just stay calm. Everything is going to be alright. Look, I’ll speak to Mark. We’ll have a chat. Sit tight, okay? I promise I’ll come and visit you in the psych ward very soon.’
I’m not even in there yet, I want to say, but he’s gone, a dial tone in my ear.
I switch my phone to silent and stash it in the pocket of my gown.
Muffled voices sound from the hall. Dr Niles is returning to make her judgement on my mental state. I’m lucky her phone call took so long, buying me some much-needed time. Too late I remember her fountain pen on the floor. The back of my head sinks lower into the pillow, my heart thrumming.
Dr Niles enters the room looking flustered, followed by Ursula, who lingers at a distance from my bed, her back against the wall. Dr Niles bends down to retrieve her pen, smoothing her hair back into place behind one ear as she stands.
‘So, as I was saying, when you come to us, we’ll start some medication.’
‘But there’s nothing wrong with me.’
‘The side effects are minimal.’
‘I don’t need medicating.’
All at once, I recall Bec’s advice; the more I protest, the less sane I sound.
‘We’re all trying to help you, Sasha. You do know that, don’t you?’ There’s the hint of a sinister tone under Dr Niles’ smooth placidity. ‘If you won’t come in voluntarily, I’m afraid we may have to consider recommending you.’
Recommending me – as an involuntary patient. That’s the last thing I want, or need. Dr Niles holds my gaze.
‘Take your time to make a decision.’
‘Where’s Mark?’ I ask.
‘I believe he’s attending to your baby.’
‘What does he say about this?’
‘He agrees with all of us.’
Mark. The one person I hoped would stick by me, no matter what.
My brain has turned to mist. I manage to get a few words out. ‘I
need to speak to him.’
‘Of course,’ Dr Niles says. ‘Let us accompany you to his side.’
Five Months Earlier
MARK
We told Bill about the pregnancy on a warm, windy autumn night. He and I had just got home from the footy. Moths fluttered against the verandah lights outside as I handed him a beer and took a seat next to him on the leather lounge. Sash, stricken with the unfairness of all-day sickness, had just left the room to vomit.
‘We’re twelve weeks pregnant,’ I explained to him. I’d expected congratulations, a warm handshake, even a nod of the head. Bill remained motionless on the couch, his jaw sagging.
‘The timing’s great, really,’ I’d continued, as if Bill’s response was normal for a man who had just learned he was going to be a grandfather for the first time. ‘Sash has finished her pathology training. She’ll qualify for maternity leave.’
Bill clamped his lips together.
‘Sash is annoyed I won’t get paid paternity leave, but at least the head chef should be okay about me taking a few weeks off after the baby’s born,’ I’d said.
Bill was staring out the window where stars, almost like fireflies, were collecting in the blackening sky.
‘Is there a problem, Bill?’ I asked.
His voice was so low I had to lean to hear.
‘No, it’s good news. Of course. But … after Sasha was born …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Sasha’s mother became upset when they didn’t let her see the baby. She thought something had happened. Rose was certain the doctors and nurses were keeping something from her.’ He rubbed his palms together like he was trying to generate heat.
‘Sash was fine, though, wasn’t she? Nothing had happened.’
Bill shook his head.
‘Sasha was fine. I knew the midwives were busy. I tried to stick up for Rose, really I did. But me demanding that the midwives bring Sasha to her room seemed to make her worse.’
‘Sash isn’t like her mum,’ I’d said, perhaps a little too loudly.
He didn’t seem to have heard me.
‘Rose went a bit hysterical. From there she went downhill. That’s where it all began.’
He stared at the sun-damaged backs of his hands, his fingers spread broad and long in his lap.
‘Make sure you keep a close eye on her after the birth,’ Bill had said finally, his voice hoarse.
I didn’t put much stock in Bill’s story at the time. If I’d have paid more attention, taken more care, maybe everything would have turned out differently. Just like with Simon, I suppose.
When Sash had walked back in, Bill jumped to his feet and clasped her hands between his.
‘Congratulations, darling. Mark just told me the news. I’m so happy for you.’
Sash nestled herself into my arms on the leather couch. With her warm body pressed against mine, Bill’s wide grin flicking between the two of us and the moon rising high among the stars, it was impossible to believe it would be anything but happily ever after.
Day 1, Saturday Late Afternoon
By the time Ursula has wheeled me to the lift, ridden with me to the fifth floor and pushed me into the nursery, Dr Niles is already standing beside a cluster of canvas partitions with sturdy frames, her hand wrapped around one of the poles. Ursula rolls the partitions into place one by one, forming a protective barrier around Toby’s cot. Dr Niles pushes my wheelchair inside, then pulls the panels together behind me, ensuring there are no gaps so we are completely hidden from the nursery’s view. Mark is folded over in a chair beside Toby’s humidicrib, staring at the floor. He doesn’t look up.
I clear my throat and Mark’s head jerks back.
‘Sasha.’ There’s darkness under his eyes. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ He reaches for my hand and traces his finger over my palm as though he’s reading it. He does it to calm himself when he’s upset. ‘You need to know it’s best for everyone if you can try to believe Toby is our baby. Look.’
He reels off Toby’s features, counting them on his fingers. Grandfather Bob’s palms. Uncle Will’s ankles. Cousin Emily’s chin. I can’t see the resemblances. Toby certainly doesn’t look like a Moloney; at least, no Moloney I’ve ever met. Mark doesn’t mention any features from my side of the family.
Dr Niles steps forward, a composed smile on her lips. Spikes of her red hair are sticking up like protruding horns.
‘It’s common to feel this way, Sasha. Many mothers talk like this. It helps if you can try to understand that we’re all here for you. The rest will come later. You have your whole life to get to know him. To bond with him. To learn to love him.’
Ursula murmurs platitudes from behind me.
‘What do you say, Sash? He’s ours, isn’t he?’ Mark upturns his palms, outstretches his arms. ‘All you need to do is tell them he’s ours and this will be over. Dr Niles won’t bother you anymore.’
I want to grab Mark by the shoulders and shake him. He’s supposed to be defending, not betraying, me. He is right about only one thing: it would be so much easier to go along with them about Toby being our baby. Mark leans in front of me now, begging, pleading, almost on his knees in desperation, trying to make my life easier by convincing me to agree. It’s what he wants for me, an easy way out.
He knows I’ve made hard decisions before. After Damien, I knew paediatrics wasn’t the right career for me. At first, Mark tried to sway me. ‘You’re great with kids,’ he’d say at every opportunity. He cornered me in the bathroom, in the laundry, in bed at night. At first, I just shook my head.
One night on the couch, in front of the TV, I exploded.
‘You’re not listening to me,’ I shouted. ‘I can’t deal with the implications of getting it wrong in kids. Pathology was always top of my list. Paediatrics was a mistake. I’ve already decided.’
He sat dumbstruck for a while. Then he turned off the TV and took my hand.
‘If you’re finding paediatrics that hard, why not take an easier road? General practice. Medical research. A different field of medicine entirely. Pathology is a long, hard slog. You’ve said so yourself. Demanding. Stressful. Lots of exams. No guarantee you’ll get to the other end.’
‘Pathology is what I want to do.’ I pulled away from him, took myself off to bed. And pathology is what I did. I love it, even more now that I’ve qualified and have started climbing the career ladder – my instincts, at least about pathology, were correct.
I check my mental state in an ordered list. No racing thoughts, no lowered or elevated mood, no strange ideas or beliefs, no suicidal ideation. I would know if I was mentally unwell, I’m sure of it. There are two things of which I’m certain in this chaos: first, that I’m sane. Second, that the baby in the crib in front of us is not mine.
I’m not going to back down. I won’t give in to make this easier on everyone. I’ll let myself be wheeled off to the mother–baby unit. It’s hardly ideal; it will almost certainly prolong my search for my real baby and then, when I’ve found her, this admission being on my record may delay her return to my care. And it will put my career at risk. On discharge, I’ll be referred to the Medical Board, placed on probation, forced to attend psychiatric check-ups, regular reviews. Mentally unwell doctors don’t get very far in medicine. I might have to let go of my dreams of ascending the pathology career ladder. But, at this point, that feels like the least of my concerns.
In his humidicrib, Toby remains peaceful, asleep. He’s the innocent one in all this mess. He looks nothing like my baby. I might have decided to mother him as best I can until he’s reunited with his real mum, but at no point have I thought he’s mine. And when I’m proven right, they’ll realise there is nothing wrong with me at all.
Fuck them. Fuck them all.
‘No, Mark,’ I hiss, mustering all my strength. ‘You know me. I don’t make mistakes. I’ve fought so long and hard to have our baby and there’s no way on earth I’m giving up now. I won’t let anything stop me finding out the truth. This is not our child.’<
br />
Mark looks like he’s going to cry. He nods at Dr Niles, who nods back.
‘Then you’ll have to come to us,’ Dr Niles says, her smile flattening. ‘Tonight.’
‘If you insist,’ I reply. ‘I’ll do whatever I must to find my baby.’
Dr Niles will be relieved she doesn’t have to fill out the lengthy Recommendation paperwork to certify me now that I’m being admitted with my agreement. I wonder how long it will take me to convince her I’m sane.
‘I’m afraid you can’t breastfeed on the medication,’ Dr Niles says. Amid the grief that hits me – failing to establish breastfeeding now means I’ll likely never have a chance to breastfeed my real child – I’m partly relieved. At least there’ll be no more agonising expressing for me.
‘Finally, it’s important that you obtain my permission before leaving the hospital grounds,’ she says. ‘Do you understand?’
I shrug.
‘It’s important you know that visiting the nursery is an essential part of your recovery. This will help you bond with Toby.’ Dr Niles gives a perfunctory smile. ‘You’ll be fine, Sasha. We’ll make sure of it.’ She undoes the buttons of her jacket, slips between the partitions and disappears. Ursula folds the partitions like a fan, then wheels them down the corridor to the other side of the nursery.
Mark is scrutinising me as if he doesn’t know me anymore. He places a blanket on my lap and tucks it in at the edges like I’m a china ornament.
I’ll find the truth. I’ll eventually get out of there and find my baby, no matter what they say or do.
Mark leans in close and whispers in my ear as though it’s the last time he’ll get to speak to me.
‘You don’t need to fight so hard, Sasha. The doctors are on your side. You need to listen to all of them. Just follow their instructions. Please promise me you’ll try.’
I still can’t believe he doesn’t trust me. Mark knows right away when I fib about liking his latest haircut or new clothes. Something about my eyes, he says, but he’s never been able to quite put his finger on it. I thought he believed me, at first, about the baby. But the doctors have got in his ears, convinced him I’m wrong.
