by Susi Fox
As I flit from cot to cot back towards Toby, a heaviness gathers in my limbs. None of these babies is right. I feel my baby’s presence nearby. Where on earth is she?
There’s only one cot left. Jeremy’s. But I’ve examined him before. Haven’t I? I know I haven’t paid as much attention to the baby boys’ cots as the girls’.
Cards line the benches beside Jeremy’s humidicrib, inscribed with messages of hope and well wishes, though for some reason they’re all in the same large, clear handwriting. A flurry of soft toys is stacked in one corner. Photographs of family members are blu-tacked to the wall. So many mementos of love.
On the opposite side of the walkway, the bench beside Toby’s cot is empty. I should be making an effort, however feeble, to celebrate the birth of a baby, even though he’s not mine. I wonder what I could buy. A soft toy? Too cutesy. A photograph? Too personal. Heat surges through my body as it comes to me: a foil balloon, standard hospital fare, imprinted with Welcome baby boy or some other such banality. Perfect.
Jeremy is curled up on his side, facing away from me, a peaceful bundle of chubby limbs and a clutch of smooth, pale-brown hair. The fluorescent lights above him have been switched off for now. As I move to the opposite side of his humidicrib, his head shifts. A sheaf of fringe falls across his forehead. He has long, delicate eyelashes, watermelon cheeks and a dimple below his lower lip. His nose is upturned like a mountain peak. His eyes peel open to reveal irises of shimmering cornflower blue.
His gaze is fixed on me as if he knows me. The air sticks inside my chest. I can hardly breathe. I push open the door of his humidicrib and encircle his hands with mine, warmth emanating from his skin. He is a younger version of Mark, one I’ve seen in my husband’s baby photographs, only with blue eyes instead of Mark’s brown ones. My heart flutters in my chest. The hospital was right about something. I did have a son. A beautiful, beautiful baby boy.
‘Oh, Gabriel,’ I whisper. ‘I’ve finally found you.’
Behind me, the squeak of a shoe on laminex. Ursula, palms pressed against her hips, peers over my shoulder.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
I release my grip on Gabriel and withdraw my hands from the portholes, golden heat still lingering on my skin.
‘I was just …’
‘You’re not permitted to touch the other babies, Sasha. You’re not even supposed to be near them. What were you thinking? This must never happen again or there will be serious consequences.’ Ursula clenches her teeth.
For a brief moment I nearly say something. I think this is my real baby. But I catch myself in time. I need to tread so carefully.
‘You must keep the quilts over them at all times,’ Ursula says. She lifts the baby-blue quilt back across Gabriel’s humidicrib, hiding him from view. ‘They keep visual stimulation and excess light to a minimum. We’ve got to keep these babies healthy, don’t we?’
I had believed the padded quilts were to stop me from seeing the babies. But the quilts weren’t to do with me at all; I’d misinterpreted their purpose. How wrong I’ve been, it seems, about so many things.
Keep the babies healthy, Ursula said. The other baby, the one being resuscitated – could Gabriel deteriorate like that baby has? I don’t trust much about this hospital, certainly not their ability to keep my son safe from harm.
‘Is that other baby okay?’
Ursula nods, surveying the sea of humidicribs stretching down the length of the nursery. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Everyone seems so busy all the time. I worry that things might get forgotten. Or missed.’
‘Everything is fine.’ Ursula clears her throat. ‘There’s no need to think that baby’s infection will spread.’
Infection?
Oh my God. I remember now. A nasty bacteria, Serratia, spread through this nursery like a wildfire a number of years ago. I suppose I’ve been repressing the memory, knowing what it could mean for my baby. The outbreak was leaked to the media, made the national papers. Several babies were transferred to the city, a couple died. I had to supervise their post-mortems. Was Ursula the nurse in charge at the time? It was suggested that it may have been due to poor hand-washing. As a result, this hospital instituted new infection control measures, the newspapers said. I can only hope nothing like that will ever happen again; certainly not while my son is in their care.
Ursula is inspecting the empty bench beside Toby’s cot.
‘You must bring in some personal items for him.’
Toby. He must be Brigitte’s real son. A simple switch. An innocent mistake?
‘I will. As soon as possible.’
As for Gabriel, I need a memento of him, a reminder that he is real, that I haven’t imagined him, that he is mine. What can I keep to remember him through the long, solitary nights until we can be together? The photographs tacked to the wall are all of Brigitte and her husband’s family. The cards come from people I don’t know. And the soft toys mean nothing without my baby beside me.
Ursula continues sternly, ‘If you can’t afford baby items right now, I’m sure we can arrange a social worker to see you.’
‘We’re okay.’
‘Because I know how stressful finances can be.’
There’s a ladder in her stocking; a loose hem on her skirt; sticky tape on the arm of her glasses. She used to be the nurse in charge here, Brigitte said.
When Ursula’s shoes have squeaked away, I lift Gabriel’s quilt, my eyes transfixed on my glorious son. It doesn’t matter whose mistake it was; not now. All that matters is that my son has come back to me.
Before I do anything else, I need to get the proof. I open the portholes and manoeuvre another swab gently into Gabriel’s mouth. He sucks at it with his full, pouting lips as though it’s a source of milk. My heart cracks for the thousands of moments I’ve already missed – and what I’m so close to regaining.
I push the swab to the bottom of my handbag. I have to keep myself together. Wait until the proof is back. It will require all my patience.
The drawer in the bench beside Gabriel’s humidicrib is half-open. I sift through it. Beneath some spare nappies and face washers is a clear plastic zip-lock bag, labelled in black permanent marker with the name J. Black. Inside the bag is a fleshy, wrinkled cord with pinky edges and a cream-coloured clamp at one end. Gabriel’s umbilical cord. I stash the zip-lock bag in my pocket and curl my hand around it. It’s what connected the two of us when he was in my womb; I doubt Brigitte will notice it’s missing. Surely I have the right to this memento. For now, it is all I have of my son.
I’m hovering over him, taking in every dimple and wrinkle and fold, when I smell her behind me: Brigitte, the sweet tang of sweat lingering on her skin.
‘How’s my baby today?’ she says, peering over my shoulder.
Gorgeous. He’s gorgeous beyond belief. She doesn’t wait for my reply.
‘Do you think he’s even yellower than yesterday? I thought it was gone but now I think the jaundice is actually getting worse. See?’ She points with nails tipped with coral pink.
His torso does have a yellow sheen, but I can’t say if it’s worsening or not. Fortunately Brigitte must think I was inspecting him as a doctor, not a mother.
‘I don’t know if his jaundice is worsening,’ I say. I berate myself for not having examined him properly before, despite being only two metres away this whole time. But this is, in its own way, a relief. I’ve been close to him these last troubled days. I haven’t really left him alone.
‘Tell the nurses,’ I add. ‘You can’t take any chance.’
Given how run off their feet all the nurses seem, I can’t be certain they’ll examine him properly unless Brigitte informs them about his jaundice returning. And there are so many possible reasons for his jaundice; I can only hope they investigate him thoroughly.
‘I don’t know,’ Brigitte says. ‘I’d hate for them to think I’m one of those paranoid first-time mothers.’ She runs her tongue over her teeth. ‘
They’re already watching me closely enough.’
‘They’re watching you?’
She tightens her jaw. ‘It’s nothing. I went through a bit of a rough time before I got pregnant is all. I’ve told the staff they don’t need to worry about me.’
‘They’ve been worried about you?’ I’m using the interrogative techniques I learned in medical school – repeat the last few words of a patient’s sentence and they’re more likely to elaborate.
Brigitte, however, doesn’t respond as expected. She freezes, a thin line of tears accumulating along the lower rim of her eyes. Perhaps she is depressed, after all.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I say in a rush. ‘I get it. I’m not going through the best time myself.’
Maybe she also believes there’s been a mix-up? Even if she doesn’t, she more than anyone has the right to know. I make the snap decision to confide in her.
‘I’ve just realised Toby –’
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ursula’s head rise above the nurses’ station. She’s still watching me. I’m certain she’s too far away to hear me, but who knows what distance sound travels in this stifling place?
‘– has been too cold,’ I whisper. ‘I don’t suppose you’re any good at sewing? Could you help me fix up my old patchwork quilt for him?’
‘Of course,’ Brigitte says, dabbing at her eyes with her fingertips. ‘I can teach you before Jeremy is discharged, if you’d like.’
‘Great.’ I keep my voice as casual as I can. ‘Any idea when you’re going home?’
‘The plan was for discharge later this week. Do you think his jaundice will delay his discharge?’
I make the calculation. The DNA results will be back Monday, at the earliest, making later this week too soon for Gabriel to go home. I can only hope his jaundice will keep him admitted until the DNA results are back.
‘I don’t know. But don’t forget to let the nurses know you’re concerned about his colour. I saw a baby die from jaundice a while back. It was horrific.’ It’s not true, but Brigitte can’t know that.
‘I won’t forget.’ She wrings her hands in her lap. ‘And Toby? When’s he being discharged?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe a few more weeks.’
Brigitte bites the inside of her cheek.
‘At first I was begging them to send Jeremy home, but now I’m starting to think they might be discharging him too soon, before he’s truly fit to go. I just want him well – that’s all that matters, in the end.’
There’s no way she’ll cope with the news of the baby swap at present. And she doesn’t seem to have caught on to what I’ve deduced about Gabriel. Fortunately I seem to have alarmed her into telling the nurses. Once they examine him properly, I’m hopeful his jaundice will keep him hospitalised until Monday, when the results will confirm the truth. I’ll tell her then. And as soon as I get the DNA results sent off, I’ll speak to Bec. I need her help to work out what to do.
For now, I’m melting under Gabriel’s gaze, so full of forgiveness, so full of love. It doesn’t matter that they all think I’m wrong. Not now that I’ve finally found my son.
‘What are you doing?’
Brigitte has only just left when Mark catches me beside Gabriel’s cot again, admiring his flawless skin, his cherubic lips.
‘I’m keeping an eye on Brigitte’s son for her. He might be a bit sick.’ Brigitte didn’t hang around after our conversation. I’m not sure where she’s gone; hopefully she’s already speaking to the nurses about Gabriel being unwell.
I trail Mark back to Toby’s cot.
‘How’s he doing?’ Mark asks.
‘I hope he’ll be okay.’
He follows my gaze to Gabriel’s cot.
‘I meant Toby.’
‘Oh, he’s doing fine,’ I say. ‘Just fine.’
Out the window, in the playground across the road, a young boy climbs to the top of the steep slide and careers headfirst to the ground. His father, having missed his descent, scoops him up and pats his back like a drummer.
‘You seem brighter,’ Mark says. ‘I’m glad.’
‘I’m sleeping better.’
‘Thank God for the tablets, hey?’
I give a thin smile, clutching my handbag against my chest. Mark thrusts his arms into the humidicrib where Toby lies on his side, and tucks a cloth nappy along the length of the baby’s spine then between his legs to ensure he remains in place. During my pregnancy, he used to arrange my pillows around me in a similar way.
‘Look,’ Mark says, his eyes still on Toby, ‘if you don’t want my mum to stay with us, I’ll tell her no. I understand.’
‘I’d prefer it was just the two of us at home.’
He slides his arms out of the portholes.
‘No worries at all. I’ll let Mum know.’ He places his arm around my shoulder, a yoke around my neck. I pull from his grasp and remove a tissue from my pocket. This is a chance to get his DNA.
‘Blow your nose, sweetheart. You’re sniffing.’
‘Sweetheart? Since when have you called me that? And I’m not sniffing.’ He ignores the tissue.
I stuff it back in my pocket. Out the window, the playground is now deserted. The boy and his father have gone. Empty chip packets flit across the tanbark in a small whirlwind. The child-restraint chain on one of the swings glints in the sun in short bursts like Morse code.
Mark goes to the bathroom. His leather jacket is draped over a chair. I thrust my hands into the pockets: keys in one, sunglasses in the other. I unzip the small pocket on the inside. My hands come to rest on a used handkerchief, lying snug against the seam. Thank God. This part of my plan should work at least. I drop it into the sterile plastic bag and secrete it in my handbag beside my other loot.
Across the walkway, Gabriel implores me to stay with his luminescent eyes. I can’t bear to leave. My heart aches as though it’s been cut open. I’m sorry, my darling. This is the only way. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I imagine kissing him on his forehead, sliding my lips down the bridge of his nose and onto his glistening cheeks, one by one, a butterfly kiss. One day, my baby, one day soon it’ll be your dad and me at the bottom of that slide, our arms outstretched, catching you.
Day 4, Tuesday Morning
I’ve placed all my hope in my father. I want him to be my courier, an essential part of my plan. It will make it that much more difficult to get the DNA tests back to the lab if he isn’t willing to help out. He’s already cited his tax return, golf tournaments, basically anything he could think of to get out of seeing me in the psychiatric ward. It’s taken all my tactical negotiation to get him to visit me again.
‘The women in here aren’t really unwell,’ I said on the phone. ‘Think of it as a ward for mothers and babies.’
‘That’s the problem,’ he replied.
It’s late morning when he edges into my room without knocking. He’s dressed in a suit and tie as if he’s attending a job interview. Approaching my bed, he swivels his head from side to side like he’s about to be ambushed.
‘I’m the only one here, Dad.’
He perches himself on the end of my bed, as far as possible from where I’m propped up against my pillows. He pulls out the crossword from his pocket.
‘You wanted to see me?’
He must have been just as awkward with my mother as he is now with me, making things worse without even trying. He’s incapable of having insight into my needs, I can see that clearly now. My poor mother, in a psych hospital without the support she needed.
Words spill from my lips before I can properly think them through.
‘That night Mum left. I don’t remember much. Did she even say goodbye to you?’ The question has emerged from a void in my core. The words hang between us in the air.
Dad underlines a clue on the crossword, the ink from his pen seeping deep into the newspaper.
‘I was … She’d spent the day with you,’ he says.
I see her on her double bed, enfolded in
my patchwork quilt. Her eyelids flicker open, then close again. Her arms reach for me, standing beside the bed. Her hands are warm, so warm in mine.
‘And when did you realise she’d gone?’
He runs his hand through the thin hair combed over his bald patch.
‘Sasha, why did you want me here?’
I haven’t considered telling him about Gabriel, but he’s the only blood relation I have these days, and surely sharing genetic material involves some degree of trust. Though perhaps he knows more than he’s letting on about my mother; maybe he’ll help me track her down if I tell him the good news. Surely she’d want to meet her grandson? Before I can recognise the folly in it, the words have formed on my lips:
‘I’ve found my baby.’
Dad smooths the newsprint flat against his thigh.
‘Thank God.’
He gives a crooked smile, his body trembling with relief. I unfurl my legs. I’m not sure how he’ll take it. But I know it’s always better to tell the truth.
‘Jeremy, they call him.’
His crossword flutters to the floor.
‘No, Sasha. Toby is your son.’
‘The hospital’s wrong, Dad. Another baby is mine.’
His face is the colour of the hospital sheet as he reaches to the carpet. He folds the newspaper up and tucks it into the inner pocket of his jacket.
‘Sasha, I’m sorry. I don’t believe you. You need help. Professional help.’ He drops his head into his hands. ‘Look, I won’t mention this to anyone. I’ll leave it to the people looking after you. They’re the ones who know best. They’re the ones who know what to do.’
Is this what he was like with my mother, too?
‘I shouldn’t have visited.’ He rises from the chair. ‘I wish there was more I could do to help. Let me know if there’s anything that comes to you.’
The return Express Post package, filled with the evidence I need, is hidden beneath the quilt. The idea that my father would help me prove that Toby isn’t my child now seems ridiculous. Clearly I’d overestimated Dad’s abilities. He isn’t capable of doing this for me even if I were to work up the courage to ask. I will have to figure out another way to post this parcel back.
