by Susi Fox
He’s not going to tell me anything. I’ll have to ask Dad about my mum. Mark resumes talking before I can speak again.
‘I meant to tell you: my parents are coming to the nursery later today. I hoped you wouldn’t mind.’
Mark’s parents. They turned against me way back at the start of our relationship. We’d only been dating three months.
I had survived meeting Mark’s entire extended family over a barbecue lunch at their house, and I was relaxing next to the fireplace as Mark and his parents said their goodbyes at the front door.
Patricia swept into the room, with Mark trailing behind her. Mark’s father, Ray, was still helping the guests reverse their cars out of the driveway.
‘What’s this about Mark moving in with you?’
I glared at Mark. We had planned to tell his parents together, surprise them with what we thought they would take as good news.
Mark tucked his hands into his pockets. ‘It’s all for the best, Mum. Sash’s friend just moved out of her apartment. She’s been looking for a new housemate. It seems I fit the bill.’
Patricia’s eyebrows rose like pointed arrows. ‘You two hardly know each other. Don’t you remember what happened with Emma? And you have no need to move out. You have free rent here with your father and me.’
Mark slowly shook his head. ‘I love her, Mum.’
She leaned in close to Mark and hissed at him, just loud enough for me to hear. ‘What about her mother?’
I hadn’t realised Mark had told her about Mum leaving me as a child.
‘Jesus, Mum.’ He spoke much more softly, glanced over at me. ‘She’s not her mother.’
‘Have you told your father about this plan to move out?’
‘Dad will be fine. You two got engaged after dating for eight weeks.’
Patricia huffed and stormed out of the room.
I don’t think she has ever forgiven me for taking her surviving son away. She’s been cold and distant at birthdays, Christmases, even our wedding. Ray hardly speaks to me at all. I’ve accepted them, tried not to let her sullenness bother me.
‘Have your parents seen Toby?’
‘Not yet. They didn’t want to disturb us, they said.’
My mother–baby unit room now feels cool; they must have turned the heating down.
‘Mark, I don’t want to be there when your parents come.’ I lift the quilt to my shoulders.
‘Let’s talk about it later. I’m heading to see Toby soon. You can have a shower first. Then you’ll come over with me, won’t you?’
I sense I don’t have a choice. Then my insides loosen a little as I remember my baby – my real baby – must still be in the nursery.
‘I’d like that,’ I say.
Mark launches into a description of Toby’s condition – he’s doing better than the doctors expected – then explains he’s notified everyone on our list about the birth, but has informed them I’m not up for visitors yet.
‘You said that?’
‘I told them you were a bit tired, that you might be happy to see people in a few days. I thought you wouldn’t want everyone to know.’
‘You should have checked with me,’ I say, but my heart unclenches. Another few days to regroup and work out my strategy for tracking down my baby.
I tug the quilt tighter around me. I need to convince Mark, as much as anyone, that there’s nothing wrong with me. That our priority has to be to find our baby.
‘I’m sorry for snapping. I am feeling better, Mark. Much better than yesterday. Do you think you could talk to Dr Niles? Ask her to stop the medication, for a start? I don’t want to be so tired.’
‘Of course, darling.’ He gives a tight smile.
‘And tell her again how unnecessary it is to have me in here.’
‘Of course I will.’ But his voice wavers on the final word.
Under the stream of lukewarm water, my breasts throb. They’re lumpy and tender, more swollen than they’ve ever been. I give a gentle squeeze. Off-white milk dribbles from my nipple, coursing over my abdomen and slipping away, across the tiles and down the shower drain. My milk has come in.
What a terrible, terrible waste. Except, I suppose, it doesn’t have to be.
With Mark waiting in my room, I rifle through the bathroom cupboard for the sterile urine jars. Holding one beneath my nipple, I begin to express, just like Ursula taught me. The colostrum flows more easily today, squirting out with each compression as if I’m milking a cow. After ten minutes, I have a quarter of a jar of cream-coloured liquid. As I hold the container to the light, I realise that this sample will be contaminated with the drugs in my bloodstream. This one I will need to discard. From tomorrow, I will avoid the tablets. Then I can secrete the jars in the back of the bar fridge, in the small freezer, perhaps wedged behind an ice tray to keep them hidden from view.
Expressing will mean my milk doesn’t dry up. When I find my baby, I’ll have frozen enough to keep her going until she learns to suck. I’m sure it’s what any good mother would do.
I try to sense my baby as soon as Mark pushes me through the nursery door and into its sauna-like heat. I swear I can feel a presence, a warm, sweet pulsation, nearby. My baby was definitely premature, one of the only things I’m certain of, so she must be in here somewhere, being held by another mother perhaps? As much as I try to sense my baby, there’s no way to home in on her location by intuition alone. I have more searching to do. There are only eighteen babies in here – ten in humidicribs, eight in open cots – so it can’t be too hard to track her down. I scan the cots and humidicribs for faces, hands, feet, anything that may appear familiar, but Mark’s wheeling me too fast and the babies are blurring into a kaleidoscope of whirling colours, heaving torsos, moving limbs. Before I can ask him to slow down, he pulls me to a stop in front of Toby’s cot, Ursula waiting alongside.
‘Here we are,’ Mark says.
Ursula looms over my wheelchair.
‘We’ve been waiting. I knew you’d want to be here while we take out his IV.’
Toby is lying still, staring at the roof of his crib, his eyes blank.
‘He’s had sucrose,’ Ursula says. ‘Like lollies for kids. Numbs the pain.’ She turns to the bench to prepare her equipment: a dressing pack, antiseptic, a bandaid. I could have done this job myself.
Around the nursery, other parents stand beside their babies’ cribs changing nappies, cuddling their newborns, chatting and laughing as though this is some sort of social gathering. At least they don’t appear to be watching me today. They don’t give any indication that they understand how serious their babies’ conditions are; how precarious life can be. And they can’t appreciate what Mark and I are going through, how our baby is suffering without us, what poor Toby is enduring without his real parents by his side.
Ursula moistens the dressing on the back of Toby’s hand and pulls the IV from his skin. Toby freezes, his arm wobbling beside him, then gives a slight cry of confusion. Ursula presses on the bleeding hole with gauze.
‘I guess you’ve seen this many times before.’
I nod. ‘I was going to be a paediatrician.’
‘And you switched to pathology?’
Out the window, a bus careers through a large puddle, spraying an arc of water onto the footpath.
‘Change of heart.’ I don’t mention the incident. I’ve never even told Mark the whole story.
Toby has settled, gazing in my direction. The tape on his cheek, holding the nasogastric tube in place, is peeling off at the edges. It will need to be replaced before too long. Ursula points to his bellybutton.
‘I’m sure you know premature babies are particularly susceptible to infection. I’ll need to explain the signs of umbilical infection for you to watch out for.’
I know all about the signs of infection. Since Damien, I’ve been extra careful about sterility, almost to the point of obsession.
‘You can tell Mark,’ I say. When I turn, Mark is no longer there. I suppose he
left at the sight of human blood; he says it’s different to his animal rescues somehow. ‘I’ll go and get him.’ I struggle to get out of the wheelchair.
‘It’s too early to be up and about,’ Ursula says, her hand on my shoulder almost pushing me down. ‘It’s only the second day after your caesar.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’m not in much pain.’ After all, this is the opportunity I need to scout around.
Ursula is about to argue when she’s called away.
‘Don’t go anywhere,’ she says.
As soon as she is out of sight, I press my arms to the armrests, groaning. There is no choice but to bite my tongue between my teeth and bear the pain. I may not have another chance.
The nurses’ station is briefly empty. My eyes flick from humidicrib to humidicrib as I shuffle towards the other end of the nursery, attempting to look unobtrusive. So many babies, all shut in their hot, sterile cages, trapped along with their parents’ despair. I’m searching for a familiar feature that would confirm a genetic connection: a curve of the chin, the rise of a cheek, an expression; anything that would allow me to be certain that this was my baby. But more than that, I’m looking for the connection that is more than a constellation of physical features – a presence. A knowing.
I’m nearly at the end of the corridor of humidicribs. Again, no luck. How can it be that she isn’t here? Could Ursula have already moved her to an open cot? My baby wouldn’t be big enough to have her temperature regulated yet, surely? Or has she been moved someplace else?
As I turn the corner to the cluster of open cribs in the smaller nursery wing, I hear Mark’s voice from a small alcove. He’s speaking with a woman with an accent; American, I think. I conceal myself behind the canvas partitions beside the visitor toilets, trying to still my breath.
‘There have been discussions at a high level within the hospital,’ the woman says in a careful drawl. ‘The psychiatry team feels it’s unwise to pursue the DNA tests. But the obstetric and paediatric teams have been speaking and we thought it would be appropriate to at least offer you the DNA tests anyhow, if you wished. You would need to be aware that the lab we use takes several days to get results back. It’s not like in the States where it would take only a day or so.’
This is our chance. This is wonderful news. A surge of warmth flows through me. Mark is still on my side. Mark will ensure there is scientific proof that I’m sane. Mark has always convinced me he was a person who would love and accept me just as I am.
The first night we met, when I mentioned my mother having abandoned me as a child, I had been concerned Mark would think less of me. Instead he laid his hand on mine. ‘She’s the one missing out,’ he said. ‘If she knew you now, she would love you. I know she would.’
How could I not have believed he was the one for me?
The woman behind the partition continues. ‘Of course, none of us feels DNA tests are necessary. A mix-up is impossible. We’re mainly concerned that performing the tests could potentially worsen Sasha’s mental health, feed into her delusions. Dr Solomon and Dr Niles have already discussed this with you, I believe?’
I wish Mark would hurry up and insist on the tests. I can hardly stay on my feet. I’m exhausted. Thank God it’s almost over. When the results are back, they’ll have to believe me. I bend forward to hear his response when a hand catches me on my elbow. Ursula.
‘You need to come with me,’ she says. ‘Your baby needs a nappy change.’ Her grip is unyielding, forcing me out of hiding, shepherding me back to Toby’s side. ‘Your son is waiting for you.’
I’m alone, wiping the last of the tarry-black faeces from Toby’s red buttocks as he lies against the humidicrib mattress, the open wall of the cot pulled up over my head, when Mark rounds the corner of the nursery, an elegantly dressed woman with long blonde hair by his side. Her woollen skirt meets her black leather boots at the knees. A pink stethoscope with a small plastic unicorn clipped to it hangs against her cream blouse. Dr Amanda Green, her hospital badge says, with a yellow smiley face sticker. Paediatrician. She’s what I would have been in another lifetime.
After introducing herself, Dr Green leans against the bench. A familiar yet unplaceable floral scent wafts off her skin. Her perfume is pleasant enough – perhaps an American brand? She begins to describe Toby’s health in detail.
‘He’s doing very well. He should be ready to go home in a few weeks.’
I shiver and snap the side of the humidicrib back into place.
‘Two weeks?’
‘Perhaps. Let’s wait and see. I believe you’re a doctor?’
‘Yes.’
Dr Green gives a benign smile. ‘Then I’m sure you’ll understand when I say DNA tests aren’t necessary.’
I suck breath deep into my lungs.
‘We have to do them,’ I say, then with Bec’s words echoing in my brain, ‘I insist.’
Mark reaches for my hand and presses his fingers into my palm. Let me do the talking.
‘We understand, Dr Green. We trust you.’
‘Wait,’ I say, but Mark squeezes harder.
‘We need to follow the doctors’ advice, darling,’ he says. ‘Dr Green had a premature baby herself. She understands what it’s like, how hard it is. Remember, you’ve always said doctors know best.’
Mark has missed the fact that I’m a doctor, too. I’ve spent most of my waking adult life in hospitals. I know how cognitive bias can cloud judgement. Once a formulation has been made, a diagnosis reached, once hospital staff have closed ranks, there’s little chance of convincing them to change their minds. This is why I so desperately need Mark to be on my side about this.
‘You said we should do DNA tests.’ I squeeze back. ‘You said it was the only way to know for sure.’
‘It’s best to be guided by the professionals. You’ve always said that yourself. They all think it’s better this way. Dr Solomon, Dr Green …’ His voice peters out. ‘Besides, Toby has had so many tests already. Enough is enough, don’t you agree?’
I shake Mark’s hand from mine. This is unbelievable. How could he be so callous? Tears begin to well in my eyes. I’ve been so stupid to trust him; to think he trusted me.
Dr Green addresses Mark. ‘Dr Niles will speak to you later today.’ Then she turns to me with a wide smile. ‘Sasha, I presume you’ve been informed of our privacy and confidentiality policy. Parents aren’t permitted to inspect other babies in the nursery. I’m sure you understand. I need to warn you that there are consequences for not following hospital procedure.’
Before I can reply, she walks away, past the cribs that have been covered with padded quilts while I’ve been focused on changing Toby’s nappy. His is the only humidicrib without one. They must have done it to obscure my view of the other babies. My heart stiffens.
As soon as she’s out of earshot, Mark frowns.
‘Sash, you know how much it’s taken to get our baby here. Fuck, you’ve got to believe he’s ours. You have to.’
My chin drops and I shake my head.
‘After all this time, after everything. How could you, Mark? You need to speak to Bec. She believes me. She’s seen stuff like this before.’
He glances down at the back of his hands.
‘I’m sorry, Sash. Everyone I’ve spoken to agrees with me.’
Has he conferred with Bec? Who else has he spoken to?
For the first time, I wonder if Mark might have something to do with the babies being switched. But although he wanted a son, he’s also wanted his own biological child for so long. Surely he’d favour a biological daughter over a non-biological son? No, he couldn’t be implicated in this mix-up – it simply doesn’t make sense. So why is he fighting me? Does he believe we’re more likely to get our baby back if we go along with the doctors? Or has he just lost hope? He lost the fight to save his brother all those years ago. Maybe he doesn’t believe we’ll ever be reunited with our baby?
‘We can find our child, Mark,’ I reassure him, sitting fo
rward in the wheelchair. ‘It’s not like Simon. We can find our baby.’
‘Simon? What’s he got to do with this?’ Mark’s cheeks flush scarlet. He snatches up his jacket. ‘This has nothing to do with him. And Toby is our baby, Sasha. You need to stop this. Right now.’
As he storms from the nursery, a nurse at the desk glances back at me to assess my response. I lower my head until only the crown of my scalp is visible. No doubt she’s writing it all down, making notes.
Toby’s eyes have fallen closed, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks. He snuffles in his sleep. His bony chest rises and falls so fast, like a bird’s. His fingernails are long, extending past the end of his fingertips. I suppose they grew inside his mother. She’ll have to cut them soon before he scratches himself.
I sense someone beside me.
‘Time for kangaroo care,’ Ursula says. ‘Skin to skin.’
Poor Toby. He may not be mine, but for now there’s no one else to hold him and give him the love he deserves. His mother – where is she? Does she have the same questions in her mind as she holds my baby, trying to love her in return? I can only pray there’s someone with my baby, holding her, giving her affection until we can be reunited. Until the two of us can be together again.
Ursula places Toby under my shirt, against my chest. Despite being such a small baby, today he feels like a reasonable weight. I can feel his bulk against my chest. His skin is as soft as raspberries. He’s warm, so very warm. His heart beats through his ribs against me, almost like the heartbeat of the baby I had inside.
Clasping him to me, I prise his toes apart, checking to see if he has Mark’s webbing. I’m not sure what I’m hoping for. I check left, then right, then left again.
Nothing.
I shift him to one side, then the other, examining his ears. The lobes are definitely attached to the skin of his scalp, like Mark’s and his father’s; nothing like my free-hanging ones that dangle with heavy earrings.
So, he doesn’t have Mark’s toes. Mark was right about his ears. The ultrasound could have been wrong about my baby’s sex. Maybe Mark is right about me being mentally unwell. There are some facts that stand me apart, though. I’ve studied this stuff. I’ve seen enough patients to know poor mental health when I see it. I’d have enough insight to recognise if I was struggling, if I was psychotic. And I’d do something about it – take their medication, listen to Dr Niles, do what I was told. That’s why I’m certain I’m right, no matter how many times they try to tell me otherwise.
