Mine

by Susi Fox

  ‘The worst thing is that I haven’t been able to get in contact with John. He has no idea about any of this.’

  Her husband, she informs me, is currently stationed in remote Papua New Guinea, out of mobile range. He won’t be back for at least a week.

  ‘He’s going to get a surprise when he finds out he missed the birth,’ I say.

  ‘He sure is. He chose the name. He’s going to adore our baby.’

  So will Mark when he comes to accept the truth.

  Brigitte rests her hand on Gabriel’s folded mat.

  ‘For a long time, it looked like we wouldn’t be able to have a child. It was the mines, I always thought. The heat, the dust, the chemicals wrecking John’s sperm. That’s when I started looking into lifestyle and diet. We experimented with a few things. I started studying naturopathy.’ She fixes her eyes on Gabriel. ‘Now here we are.’

  ‘Isn’t it hard with your husband away so much?’

  ‘No. Not really. He gets leave every few months. And the company pays for me to meet him in exotic locations several times a year. We spent our babymoon in East Timor.’ She gives a contented smile. ‘Anyway, I think having a partner at home is overrated. My girlfriends are always whingeing about their husbands. I get to cherish every moment I have with John when he’s home.’ She pauses. ‘But what about you? Does your husband ever annoy you?’

  I survey the old photo from our central Australian trip that Mark has blu-tacked to the wall beside Toby’s cot. It’s of the two of us crouching beside a flooded Lake Eyre. The water extends for miles in every direction as if impassable, yet it was only ankle deep.

  ‘Mark and I are having some issues.’

  Brigitte tugs at her long plait.

  ‘I wouldn’t have guessed. Has that been going on long?’

  I rarely talk about my marriage to anyone but Bec, but waiting here in this nursery hour after hour creates an unnatural intimacy. It’s getting harder and harder to keep things to myself.

  ‘I guess it started when I couldn’t get pregnant. All those years we thought we’d never have a baby –’

  ‘– but you can work it out, right?’

  I turn away and pull my brittle ponytail loose. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I mean, you wouldn’t want to be a single mother, right? Not if you could help it?’

  Single mother. Words I’ve never imagined could apply to me. For years I’d believed I was incapable of being a mother at all. After all, I hadn’t been shown how. Would I be able to stay around for my child even when it all seemed too much? When I finally came around to the idea of motherhood, I was relying on Mark to be the good enough parent, the one who would make up for all my failings. The idea of being a single mother – the only parent in the house – has always made my shoulders lock fast. I saw how hard it was for my father. I don’t know if I’d be any better than he was at meeting my child’s emotional needs.

  ‘I was raised by a single mother,’ Brigitte says without waiting for my reply. ‘Don’t get me wrong, it was fine. It isn’t what I want for my child, though. You know, it’s funny, it never occurred to me before that some people might see my life as like a single mother’s. I mean, when John is away, I’m home alone for weeks at a time.’

  ‘You don’t get lonely?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘And you don’t get scared of being alone at night?’

  Brigitte’s cheeks become even paler as she picks up her needles and rectangle of knitted wool.

  ‘Some nights.’

  ‘Because you’ve got a baby.’

  ‘Yes, and after …’ She brings her tongue into the large gap between her front teeth as if she wants to stem the flow of words, then continues quietly. ‘I had a bad experience. Something really terrible happened before I got pregnant. Thank God that’s all over now. I’m looking forward to a fresh start.’ Her body gives a slight jolt. ‘Damn!’ She unpicks a dropped stitch then begins to knit again. ‘I just want Jeremy to be okay,’ she says.

  She’s really not going to take it well when I tell her about the baby swap. It’s the kind of news nobody wants to hear. But she’ll need to know soon, and when the time comes there’ll be nothing I can do to soften the truth.

  Brigitte threads the wool around the ball of yarn in a haphazard pattern.

  ‘And how is Toby going?’ Her voice is bright, but there’s an edge of despair beneath it.

  I cross the walkway and press my palm on the orange quilt on top of Toby’s humidicrib in a semblance of ownership, inspecting once more the photograph of Mark and me.

  ‘Really great, thanks.’

  If it comes down to it, I can do single motherhood. Don’t worry, Gabriel, I’ll be a good enough mother. You’ll be safe with me. As soon as I can prove he’s mine. But how am I going to secure the proof I need before Friday? I don’t have time to muck around with this covert sleuthing. I need a more concrete plan.

  ‘I’m glad Toby’s doing so well,’ Brigitte says. ‘Our babies. That’s the only reason we’re here, after all.’

  I’m sitting in the most secluded corner of the hospital cafeteria, where the windows are coated with white mesh. There’s a gentle hum of staff members conversing. At other tables, visitors sip at cappuccinos and nibble at sweet cakes. Only just visible behind some pillars, on the opposite side of the cafeteria, are two women playing peek-a-boo as they bounce their babies on their knees. I’m not supposed to be in here – Dr Niles’ rules – but I need a break from the confines of the nursery and the mother–baby unit. And I need some privacy for what I’m about to do.

  I call DNA Easy. Jim answers after one ring.

  ‘I’m desperate, Jim,’ I say. ‘I need the DNA results.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says. He checks his database. ‘I can see the results were posted today.’

  Already, quicker than anticipated? This is brilliant news. ‘When will they arrive?’

  ‘We guarantee two business days. So, Monday at the latest.’

  ‘Monday is too late,’ I say. ‘Can you just read them to me over the phone?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jim says. ‘For legal reasons, we can only provide a written copy of the results.’

  My heart plummets. ‘No. I must have those results today. Can you email them to me, please?’

  Jim’s voice tightens. ‘An email address hasn’t been supplied with the form. I’m afraid our policy is extremely strict on this matter.’

  I forgot to fill in a box, and because of my oversight and a senseless bureaucracy I will potentially delay my reunion with my son.

  ‘I apologise,’ Jim says.

  I see my father’s number light up on my phone. ‘Forget it,’ I say to Jim and take Dad’s call.

  ‘Dad.’ I whip the white froth of my hot chocolate into the brown liquid.

  ‘Sasha. There’s something I need to tell you. I wanted to say it yesterday, but …’

  He trails off. What else is he going to thrust upon me? All I hear is his breathing for several seconds before he continues.

  ‘Your mother loved you. I know she wouldn’t want you to think badly of her. She did what she thought was best. For both of us.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I stammer down the phone. ‘What are you trying to say?’ Yet part of me is one step ahead and doesn’t want to hear.

  ‘She … she took pills, Sasha. She took the whole box.’

  The dull hum of the cafeteria fades to silence. Pills. I remember them, a splash of pretty colours, spread out across the quilt like a rainbow.

  It takes a few moments for the pain to hit. My mother killed herself. She couldn’t bear to stay, not even for me. I wasn’t enough for her.

  ‘I’m only telling you now because I don’t want anything to happen to you.’

  I place the spoon on the saucer with a clang.

  ‘I’m not like her,’ I hear myself say. ‘I’ve never been like her.’

  I don’t smoke. I don’t have postnatal depression. I won’t neglect my
child. I am never going to kill myself. There was a time, though, that dark, lonely time when I thought I could have.

  After Damien’s inquest, I was dragging myself to work each day, seeing children who weren’t ill and trying to smile at their parents in a reassuring way. In the evenings, I’d come home and collapse on the couch in front of the TV. There was one particular day that had been more trying than most. A baby with light-brown curls, sick with pneumonia, who reminded me of Damien. As I listened to the baby’s chest, I was back beside Damien again, watching as the ambulance brought him back to the emergency department. It was the morning after I had first seen him. He was still conscious, but covered in the purpuric rash of meningococcal septicaemia, plaques on his torso, his face, even on his drooping eyelids. His eyes were haunted, like those of an animal that knows it’s about to die.

  After I’d finished treating the baby with pneumonia, I feigned a migraine and left work early. Before Mark was due home, I went to the garage. I pulled our tallest ladder into place beneath the beams. The rope was behind the hot-water heater. I was reaching for it when Mark grabbed me from behind.

  ‘Sash, what are you doing?’ He yanked the rope from my hands. ‘You need to come with me.’

  He dragged me into bed, tugged the doona over us and lay beside me cradling me in his arms. The following morning the ladder and the rope were both gone.

  Looking back, I don’t know if I would have gone through with it. I don’t think I could have. But I just wanted the pain in my head to cease, the wrench in my gut to evaporate, the tightness in my chest to vanish. I wanted to disappear.

  Mark hadn’t let me. It strikes me now: he must have known about my mother. He knew about it all along and he kept it hidden, too.

  ‘Sasha? Are you okay?’ Dad is waiting on the phone.

  No.

  ‘I’m okay. I’m fine.’

  ‘There’s something I need to show you. I’ll bring it in next time.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’ll see. I’ll be there soon.’

  Another quilt? A photo album? Another reminder of the mother who didn’t love me enough to stick around.

  After Damien, I wanted to give up because I didn’t have anything to fight for. That mistake nearly cost me everything. But this time, it’s different. I will fight to the death for my son.

  Day 6, Thursday Early Morning

  The nursery thermostat has been turned down. My skin tingles in the cool air. As I trundle through the nursery towards Toby’s cot, I try to forget what I’ve learned about my mother. Overnight I was plagued by images of her, of my childhood. I’ve hardly slept. My eyes are red and puffy, with thick black semicircles beneath them. Fortunately I was able to shift my morning session with Dr Niles to the evening to give my eyes a chance to return to normal. I don’t feel up to making excuses about my appearance quite yet.

  I feel the eyes of the staff on me as I pass their desk. No doubt they all knew. Not just Mark. The doctors. Everyone. It’s why they’ve been so worried about me. Why they’ve been so quick to admit me.

  Brigitte is already seated by Gabriel’s cot, a forced smile on her face. She nods to the seat beside her. It looks like she’s been waiting. Waiting for me?

  ‘You could have said something,’ she says.

  My throat tightens. I don’t want to sit down. ‘What do you mean?’

  Colour drains from my vision, the blue lights of Gabriel’s cot shifting to black, Brigitte’s face fading to the stark white of the nursery walls. At last I take a seat beside her.

  ‘You could have told me you have postnatal depression. There’s no shame in it. Lots of women have had it. I would have understood. I mean, I understand now. But I wish you’d felt comfortable enough to tell me.’

  So she doesn’t know about the swap yet – that’s good news. But how has she concluded that I have depression, when it’s postnatal psychosis they admitted me for? Did she get the idea from Mark? Thank God she’s got it wrong. Colours begin returning, and when I look up Gabriel’s cot is turquoise, Brigitte’s face a familiar pale cream.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s hard to talk about,’ I say. That is the truth.

  ‘Are you getting better?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I’ve been through worse.’

  ‘That’s no good,’ she says. ‘I understand. I’ve been through tough times myself. It’s good to hear you’re getting the help you need.’ She blinks. ‘Do you have a family history of depression?’

  Has Mark told her? My nose starts to run. ‘My mum.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘Is she okay now?’

  I wipe at my nostrils, hesitating. Saying it makes it more real, somehow. ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘That’s horrible. Was it …?’

  Mark must have told her. I slowly nod.

  ‘Did you ever feel like that too?’

  ‘Only once,’ I say. I may as well confess everything. There’s no harm discussing my past with her. Who knows – it may actually help to be honest. ‘Years ago.’

  ‘Even so, that’s awful. I’m sorry. You must have been going through a rough time.’

  ‘Yeah … Some things at work … it was all a bit much.’

  ‘Pathology must be stressful.’

  Mark didn’t tell her everything, then.

  ‘Mmm. One of my patients died while I was doing paediatrics. I took it hard.’

  ‘That’s tough. I’m really sorry. How are you going now? Do they have you on medication?’

  ‘Um …’ I decide there’s no harm in telling her about the medication. I won’t mention the expressed milk I’ve been freezing. ‘I actually haven’t been taking it.’

  ‘You haven’t?’

  ‘I’m sure you know what it’s like. The horrors of Western medicine.’ I try for a small smile.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, pushing her hands into Gabriel’s humidicrib and smoothing down his stray wisps of hair. She sounds a bit calmer. ‘I know what it’s like. I mean, I’ve been doing everything I can to make sure I don’t get depressed. Kinesiology, homeopathy, chiropracty, everything.’

  ‘Chiropracty?’

  ‘My spine is out of alignment since the birth. Jeremy’s, too.’

  As she runs her fingers along the length of his back, I can almost feel my hand caressing his soft skin. I flick open the porthole of Toby’s humidicrib and cup my hand around his cool scalp, a porcelain bowl beneath my palm.

  ‘So, will you take Jeremy to the chiropractor?’

  ‘Yeah, when I get him home. Maybe you should think about taking Toby? Babies born by caesarean are particularly at risk.’ She opens the side of Gabriel’s humidicrib and lifts him to her chest. I can see that he’s still jaundiced, but at least he’s receiving treatment. And at least this might mean he’ll be in the hospital a little longer.

  Gabriel shuffles in Brigitte’s arms. She runs her palm over his torso, down to his belly.

  ‘I can’t wait until he’s out of here. He needs homeopathies more than anything. We’ll be starting the vaccinations soon.’

  ‘What vaccinations?’

  ‘Homeopathic ones, of course. He’ll be healthier than any kid injected with Western vaccines. I can’t believe the toxic rubbish some people are prepared to give their children.’

  I bite at my bottom lip, forcing myself to stay quiet. I understand why someone like Brigitte would choose natural medicine, but I can’t agree with her approach to vaccinations. Fortunately, I’ll have Gabriel back soon enough. Then I’ll protect him with everything he needs to keep him safe and well. For now, I stretch out my hand in what I hope is a casual gesture.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d mind me having a hold of him?’

  She stares, not seeming to understand.

  ‘Jeremy. Could I have a hold?’

  She stands and lifts Gabriel onto her shoulder. Her face has become a mask, unreadable.

  ‘Um … I don’t think so. Sorry.’

  ‘They’re saying I can only hold To
by for brief periods. It might help me feel better to hold another baby.’ It would definitely help me feel better. And I’ll only need a second or two to check his toes for webbing. Another piece of proof. ‘Please?’

  ‘He’s unwell,’ she says coldly. ‘They’re saying his jaundice level has risen. He’s under triple lights now. I’m only allowed brief cuddles before he has to go back in.’

  Damn. I’m having no luck with my attempts to check the toe webbing.

  Brigitte turns to look out the window. Perched on her shoulder, Gabriel has a tiny smile on his lips, a smile just for me.

  ‘He’s going to be okay, isn’t he?’ I try to sound casual.

  ‘The doctors say he should be fine.’

  She frowns and clamps her lips shut. Does she suspect something? I remove my hand from Toby’s head and tug it out of the crib.

  ‘Who told you about me having postnatal depression?’

  ‘No one told me. When Mark said you hadn’t been discharged yet, his eyes said it all.’ Brigitte turns to me, so I can no longer see Gabriel’s face. ‘What’s it like in there?’

  I shrug.

  ‘What did you have to do to get locked up?’ Brigitte sways from one foot to another like a tree buffeted by wind in an attempt to lull Gabriel to sleep.

  ‘I’m not locked up. I went in there voluntarily.’

  ‘Jesus, you’re brave. When they tried to talk me into going in, I refused.’

  That catches my attention.

  ‘They tried to talk you into it? Why did they want to admit you?’

  Brigitte stares down at Gabriel nestled in her arms, her eyes dull. He would be warm, so warm against my skin.

  ‘Did they think you were depressed?’ I press her. That would explain her tears, her coldness. I have to restrain myself from reaching for Gabriel’s arm as it dangles from Brigitte’s.

  ‘No,’ she says, her eyes all at once alight. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m fine. But you haven’t answered my question. What about you?’

  Is it possible she told them the same thing as me and they didn’t believe her either? Before I can think, I’ve blurted the truth.