by Susi Fox
‘Can I ask why you were running late to see me?’
Her face clouds. ‘I had a personal appointment that ran into the afternoon. I apologise again. I came as soon as I could.’
That call Dr Niles made, about an embryo transfer, is still weighing on my mind. It’s worth asking a final question.
‘Is a baby something you want, Dr Niles?’
She frowns. ‘Why is knowing that important to you, Sasha?’
‘I understand why someone would want to have their own baby,’ I say.
‘So do I, Sasha. Sometimes we just have to accept we can’t have the things we most want.’ She clears her throat. ‘But we’re here to discuss you and your needs. Perhaps you can tell me more about your own desire for a child.’
I can’t believe she has anything to do with the baby swap. ‘I think Mark always wanted a baby more than me.’
‘I see.’ She fiddles with her tarnished gold wedding band as she speaks. ‘I sense things with Mark are … tense?’
‘We have our days. Same as any married couple.’
‘Perhaps,’ Dr Niles said. ‘And what is holding you in this marriage, do you think? What is it about Mark that makes you want to stay?’
I slump back against the pillows. I used to have a list in my head for the times I felt like ending the relationship. He makes me laugh (occasionally). He’ll be an amazing father (if we ever get pregnant). All the good men are taken by now (though surely there’s one or two left).
The truth? My fertile years had fallen behind me like Gretel’s breadcrumbs and had been eaten by the birds. In my desperation to get pregnant, I’d forgotten to lay a trail for myself to lead me home. There was no way I was going to raise a baby alone. By staying with Mark, with access to his sperm, I still had a chance at getting out of the wilderness.
‘How do you think Mark will cope if you’re discharged?’
Cope? Is she joking?
‘He’ll be fine.’
She lifts her eyebrows. Perhaps I was right when I suspected Mark was responsible for me being in here. Does he see me, a mentally unwell wife, as an impediment to his work? To his relationship with the baby he believes is his son? Would he prefer I remained an inpatient for now?
Mark had come along to our marriage counselling appointments without grumbling. I shouldn’t complain, I suppose. Many husbands would have refused outright. At least Mark was prepared to show up.
After two unsuccessful attempts at finding a good enough counsellor, I chose Kate at random from the internet. She had a sensible name. Plus she looked sincere in her photograph on the website. I hoped she’d be the one.
After listening to both of us, Kate laid out our relationship in a clear timeline: jazz club, marriage, infertility, miscarriages. At the end of Kate’s summary, Mark began to speak of his desperation to have a child. My heart began to thump so loudly, I was certain both of them could hear it. Mark neglected to tell the counsellor we were taking a break from trying. I neglected to tell either of them I wasn’t going to recommence it. My dreams for a baby? I was already starting to let them go.
‘I wouldn’t blame Mark for leaving,’ I said when Mark paused for breath. ‘If I were him, I think I’d leave in these circumstances. Things would be easier for him with someone else. A more fertile woman. A more fertile wife.’
‘It’s important you stay focused on each other, on your strengths as a couple,’ Kate said, before Mark could reply. ‘No relationship is easy, especially with children. And even with just the two of you, you’re still a family. You can nurture each other in the same way you would a child.’
It was sound advice. Yet with Mark’s long, irregular chef hours and strident pursuit of pregnancy, it was becoming increasingly obvious that he saw me more as the womb for his child than as his wife. He threw himself into his work with more energy than he ever brought to our marriage, as if he wanted to hide from our difficulties. No matter what was to come, I knew he would stay with me out of duty. A husband wasn’t what I wanted, though – not if I wasn’t truly loved.
Three weeks later, right before our next counselling appointment, I wiped a clear spot in the fogged-up mirror of our ensuite. Staring at my reflection, a wave of nausea ran through me. Then a pang arose from within as my guts were wrung like a sponge. I turned to the toilet and heaved. Kneeling before the bowl, I ran through my period dates. I’d become so accustomed to the clinic monitoring my cycles I’d failed to realise I was overdue.
In a reflex action, I reached for the pregnancy tests in the bottom drawer of the bathroom cabinet. My hand shook as I held the stick in the stream of my pallid urine. The second line showed up pink.
Just for a moment, I was despondent. I wouldn’t be separating from Mark anymore. Then I was triumphant. Surely things could only improve between Mark and me now that we had the baby we both had planned.
I postponed the counselling with a feeble excuse, something about needing more time to reflect on the strengths of our relationship. Mark took me at face value. I hid my morning sickness from him and waited until I was twelve weeks gone to let him know. No sense getting his hopes up again.
‘The ultrasound is tomorrow,’ I said, as I stood at the kitchen bench slicing limes. ‘That’s why we don’t have to keep going to counselling anymore.’
‘I guess not,’ he said, his eyebrows slightly creased. ‘Congratulations, Sash.’
The insides of the cut limes glistened like emeralds as he pulled me towards him and lifted me off the ground, hugging me tight. I was happy, wasn’t I? After all, this was everything we’d been waiting, hoping, striving for, wanting more than anything, for so very long.
Day 5, Wednesday Morning
I rush down the corridor, hoping there won’t be a black mark against my name for tardiness. Everything I do wrong might hold me back from being discharged. And getting out of here – and getting home – is essential to having Gabriel back. I’ll need to be seen as mentally well before they let me have custody of him. Today’s scheduled activity is yoga. I won’t be able to participate so soon after the caesar, but I suppose it’s the attendance that Dr Niles is interested in.
For the longest time, yoga was my method of relaxation. I used to love the heat in my muscles as I held the poses, the tingle of breath moving through my body, the flush of my skin at the end of class. That is, until I became pregnant, when every movement sent a searing rod of pain through my pelvis, even as the teacher urged me to bring my legs higher up the wall, ease into the discomfort and feel the burn.
The women glance across from their warrior poses as I enter the recreation room. A carpet has been laid out with blue yoga mats and the chairs are stacked against the far wall beside the bookshelves. I pick up a mat and give a small, involuntary yelp at the sting in my stitches. As usual, I seem to have overestimated my capacity.
The teacher encourages me to lie flat on my back, close my eyes and meditate on my post-baby body. Meditate on my post-baby body – is that supposed to be a joke?
I ease myself down onto the thin rubber mat near the windows and place my hands on my chest, watching them rise and fall with each breath. Women around me exhale, sweeping into various arrangements – angry cat, tree, crab.
At the window, fern fronds scrape on glass. A shadow flickers from behind my closed lids. Opening my eyes, I see Ondine, her face red and blotchy, tiptoeing out the door. The teacher, her backside held aloft in a downward dog pose, hasn’t noticed.
I shift onto my side and ease myself to standing. The other women hold their inversions steady, together resembling the panorama of a mountain range. I was never as agile as these women. I’ll leave them to their cats and trees.
The rec-room door clicks shut behind me. A stifled sob drifts from the bathroom in the corridor. I press the door open, squinting in the dazzling light reflected against the tiles. Ondine’s handbag sits on the bench beside the sink, a beige-coloured envelope protruding from the top.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Sure.’ Her voice is thick, mucusy, from behind the cubicle door.
‘You don’t like yoga?’
‘Not much.’ She gives a quiet guffaw. When she emerges from the cubicle, her face is stained with tears.
‘I just got a long letter,’ she says, pushing the envelope deep into her handbag. ‘From Zach. He wants to see me. And he wants to bring Henry.’
‘That’s great news. When are you going to see him?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says, washing her hands. ‘It’s hard, after what happened. I want to see them both. I want to be back with Henry. But I’m scared.’
‘What are you scared of?’
She blanches. ‘That I’ll have thoughts about killing him again.’
‘Show me a mother who’s never imagined killing her child,’ I say, ‘if only for the briefest fraction of a second. In anger. Or fear. But there’s a chasm between thought and action, Ondine.’
‘I did act,’ she says, her voice so soft I have to bend to catch it. ‘I started to.’ She clutches her handbag to her chest and gives a deep sob.
‘I’d hardly slept for a month. Henry was screaming. His bottom was filthy for the tenth time that day. I ran a bath. He was in my arms when I imagined him under the water. His face, submerged. How much quieter he’d be. He wouldn’t struggle at all.’ She gives a sharp inhalation. ‘Zach walked in as I dipped him below the surface. He’d had a sense something wasn’t right when he left for work that morning. He pulled Henry from my arms and breathed air in his mouth.’ She gives an involuntary shiver. ‘At least Zach is communicating with me again, even if it’s only by letter. And it looks like Henry is going to be fine.’
A tingle passes between us as I place my hand on hers.
‘I hope you can forgive yourself one day,’ I say, not entirely sure who I’m addressing.
She gives a wry smile. ‘I guess I’ll never win the world’s-best-mother award.’
‘You’re good enough.’ As Ondine stands up straight before the mirror, I’m finally starting to believe it about myself.
‘At least I was honest,’ she says. ‘At first, I told the staff I was so tired that he slipped under the water.’
‘What made you tell the truth?’
‘I didn’t want to lie anymore.’ She dips her head.
‘Being honest always helps. And Henry needs you. When you feel ready, you should see him. He’ll be so glad to see you.’
Her cheeks crease into a small smile. ‘I’m sure it won’t be long until I feel better. Dr Niles says the tablets will start helping soon. Are you taking tablets?’
I pause, examining the parched, split skin of my fingers, drained of moisture by the nursery antiseptic handwash.
‘I’m supposed to, but I haven’t been taking them.’
‘You haven’t?’
‘I can’t stand medication. You won’t say anything though, will you?’
‘Of course not.’
Ondine is trustworthy. She’s an ally. She believes me.
‘Let’s skip the rest of yoga,’ I say. ‘I have a better idea. Would you like to meet my baby?’ I want to show him off.
‘I’d love to,’ Ondine says, running the sleeve of her sweater across her cheeks. ‘Let’s go see your son.’
The nursery door slides open. Babies wail from every corner, their high-pitched cries drowning out the low beeps and whirrs of machinery. Fluorescent lights flash on screens in every colour of the rainbow. I press a hand to my nose to block the smell of soiled nappies and curdled formula.
‘This way.’
I lead Ondine to Toby, the small bundle of him that lies immobile, his chest spluttering up and down in his plastic cage.
‘This is the baby they’re saying is mine.’
She stands over him, peering into the crib. ‘Not yours, I agree.’
‘You won’t say anything, will you?’ I suddenly blurt. ‘I don’t want to panic anyone yet.’
‘Of course not.’ She looks almost hurt that I’ve suggested it. ‘So where is your baby, then?’
There are no visitors at the humidicribs nearby; no nurses, either. I press my finger to my lips and point to where my Gabriel lies.
Ondine tiptoes across the corridor, then crouches down in front of the cot, flicking her eyes back and forth between Gabriel and me.
‘He looks exactly like you.’
I smile. ‘I know.’
‘Congratulations,’ she says. ‘You should be very proud. He’s beautiful.’ She gently leads me back to Toby’s cot.
‘I’ve been trying to think how it could have happened,’ I tell her. ‘There was a case in France where the nurse mixed up the babies by mistake. I mean, the name bands could slip off, couldn’t they? And be wrongly replaced?’
‘I guess. Though it seems like protocols are strict enough here. All the nurses I’ve met in the mother–baby unit are so thorough. It’d be almost impossible for an accidental mix-up to occur.’
‘But people are human, aren’t they? I mean, we all make mistakes.’
As I glance at Toby’s shiny hair, his flat nose, his grey-blue eyes, it strikes me how similar he looks to Damien. The barrister’s voice ringing through the coroner’s court chamber still echoes in my skull in the dark hours of the night. Do you recall Damien’s parents alerting you to an unusual purple lesion behind his right ear on the evening in question?
In the witness box, I held my breath in my throat and clung to the wooden railing to stop my hands from trembling.
To this day, I remain unsure of the correct answer. And I’m still not certain if I made the right decision in my reply.
I tipped back my head and, with my hands as solid as rocks on the railing, spoke decisively.
Did I see the purple lesion? I don’t recall.
Ondine clicks open one of Toby’s portholes and reaches in with a delicate hand. She places the nail of her index finger around the name band encircling his wrist and tugs.
‘It’s tight, Sasha. Hard to break. And it can’t be slipped off.’
‘It could be cut, couldn’t it?’
‘That would take intention.’ She places her hand on Toby’s forehead. ‘Who on earth would want to do something like that?’
Hot breath on the back of my neck. It’s Mark. I didn’t notice him entering the nursery. He doesn’t seem to have overheard us. He addresses Ondine.
‘Hello, I’m Sasha’s husband, Mark.’
Ondine smiles. ‘Hi, I’m a friend of Sasha’s.’ She rests her hand on mine. ‘I’ll leave you to it. I’m sure you two have got a lot to discuss.’
Mark stares after her, then at Toby, running a hand through his hair. I sink into a chair beside Toby.
‘I’ve got some good news for you, Sash,’ he says, drawing his mouth into a smile, a lock of hair falling back over his forehead. ‘I didn’t have time to tell you the night of the birth. Work offered me to buy in. It’s a great opportunity to take a lead in the running of the restaurant. Take it in a new direction. A little more upmarket, perhaps.’
His irises are the muddy brown of the hot spring we swam in years ago in the central Australian desert. The pond appeared shallow from the bank, yet when we tried to find our footing, we were continually pushed back to the surface, aloft on enormous bubbles of gas emerging from deep underground, until we could do nothing but lie suspended on our backs in the sandy emulsion. It was fun back then, floating free, nothing solid beneath our feet. Nowhere safe to land.
‘But you don’t even like what they serve there. Don’t you prefer organic food? And what about starting your own café? Your dream?’
Mark’s forehead creases. ‘I let go of that idea long ago, Sash.’
‘You never told me that.’
He frowns. ‘You didn’t want to know.’
I clutch the armrests. When did he become a stranger?
‘But I thought it was still your dream.’
Mark’s mouth droops as he shrugs.
‘I suppose it’s congratulation
s, then,’ I say.
‘I told them I’d discuss it with you before I accepted.’
‘It doesn’t sound like there’s anything to discuss.’
‘Great, then. It’s settled. We’ll be making a lot more money down the track.’
He’s thinking about money at a time like this?
‘It’s enough for you to stay home with Toby longer than we planned. Only if you want, of course. I don’t want to force you to do anything.’
I want to spend all the time in the world with Gabriel.
And once I get him home, I will never dare leave him alone again.
Day 5, Wednesday Lunchtime
I glance up to see Brigitte’s face before me, as pale as sea foam. I hadn’t noticed her come in. I’ve been standing beside Gabriel’s cot for what must have been an hour but feels like mere seconds since Mark left to call his work.
‘Your baby is beautiful,’ I say, glad to be at least partly honest. But there’s something else. His skin is the colour of ripe mandarins, too dark for his fifth day of life. Yet he’s not under the fluorescent blue lights. ‘Do the nurses know Gabriel’s jaundice is getting worse?’
She glances up, squinting. ‘Gabriel?’
My hand recoils from the plastic.
‘Sorry, I meant Jeremy. Sorry. My sister has just had a baby, Gabriel.’
‘Sister? I thought you said you were an only child.’
Shit, she’s quick.
‘Bec is my best friend. We grew up together. She’s like my sister.’
She nods, seemingly satisfied.
‘Gabriel is a lovely name.’
Brigitte folds Gabriel’s quilt and places it on the bench. I wish I were the one aligning the edges to make it just so. The colours accentuate the blue of his eyes. He’ll look gorgeous wrapped in it when I take him home.
‘The nurses are doing a blood test,’ she says. ‘If the results come back okay, I’m hoping for Friday.’
It sounds like they’re investigating him adequately, at least. But they’re still talking about Friday? That’s only two days away. I was hoping his discharge would be delayed beyond the end of the week. There’s no way the DNA results will be back by Friday. And is it really safe to be sending him home when he looks like this?
