Stolen Child

by Laura Elliot

  ‘Did you see it?’ He rang her shortly after the evening news. The background was loud with voices, laughter, music.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Well done, my favourite mole.’

  ‘We’ve gone back to Sharon’s house,’ he told her. ‘I’m just going to have a few drinks then take a taxi home.’

  ‘A likely story.’ She knew he would arrive home in the small hours, smelling of whiskey and, probably, a late-night curry. ‘The spare room is ready and waiting,’ she warned him. ‘In my delicate condition, a drunken detective in my bed is the last thing I need.’

  He promised to be quiet, shoes off at the front door. ‘You’re sure you’re okay?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m fine.’ She wished she felt as serene as she sounded. ‘Another fortnight to go. I assume you’ll have sobered up by then.’

  He was still laughing when she hung up. Their marriage was as separate as a snapped thread from his small, close-knit team. Was she jealous, she wondered as she replaced the receiver. She thought of Sharon Boyle, with her black boyish hair and long, muscular legs, the tough-talking sister in the tight band of brothers. Carla had met her for the first time when she came to their house-warming party with other members of the squad. The group had remained apart from the general gathering. They sat on the stairs, forming a closed-off huddle that showed no inclination to stir outside their pall of cigarette smoke, shop talk and camaraderie. Robert had mingled effortlessly with the other guests but he had joined his colleagues on the stairs by the end of the night.

  No, not jealous, exactly, Carla decided. Just envious of the slash of danger that drew people together in a way her safe, glittering world of fashion could never do.

  She watched television for a while, searching the channels for light relief, a romantic comedy or an enthralling love triangle she could enjoy without Robert’s heavy breathing signalling his boredom. Nothing interested her. Her back ached and the baby appeared to have manoeuvred a vaulting pole under her ribs.

  The phone rang when she was climbing the stairs to bed. She reached the bedroom and lay across the bed.

  ‘You sound like you’ve just run the marathon,’ said Raine.

  ‘A marathon would be easier,’ she replied and pulled the duvet over her.

  ‘I suppose the bro is on a razz.’ Raine had also seen the evening news.

  ‘Celebrations are well underway,’ Carla replied. ‘I’ve plumped the pillows in the spare room.’

  ‘Wise move.’ Raine laughed. ‘Although his powers of recovery are amazing.’

  ‘So I’ve discovered. How’s business?’

  ‘Brilliant, thanks to you. How are you?’

  ‘Solid as the Rock of Gibraltar. That’s if I discount kicks, jabs, twinges, aches, and the occasional rugby tackle.’

  ‘Do you want me to come over and keep you company?’

  ‘Not tonight, thanks. I’m already in bed.’

  ‘Sleep tight, kiddo. Enjoy it while you can.’

  Carla arched her back to ease a deep cramping pain. Filled with restless energy, she arose and pulled clothes from the wardrobe, folded them into a black plastic sack. Tomorrow she would bring her Anticipation collection to Oxfam and wish good luck to those who wished to wear it.

  Midnight came and went without any sign of Robert. She drifted asleep. Her dreams were jagged with pain. Awakening suddenly, she was unable to remember the details, only the discomfort. A moist warm trickle eased between her legs. She hurled the duvet aside, gasped as a spasm rippled across her stomach. Her waters were not supposed to break until later in labour. Her baby was not ready. Another spasm gripped her and she understood that it was she, not her baby, who was unprepared.

  Gingerly, she left the bed. Her nightdress clung to her skin. She shivered as she pulled it from her and reached in the wardrobe for a skirt and top. Her bag was packed. All she needed was her husband, drunk or sober, by her side. She was angry with him, then amused, then panicked, her emotions all over the place.

  Robert had given her a number to ring in emergencies. Sharon answered, her clipped authoritative voice slurred, too loud. Music blasted in the background. Heavy rock. Sharon shouted at someone to lower the stereo then returned her attention to Carla.

  ‘He’s not exactly in the best of health.’ She laughed apologetically. ‘Actually he’s just passed out on the sofa.’

  ‘Then throw a bucket of cold water over him,’ Carla shouted. ‘And tell him to get his arse over to the Valley View because his child is not waiting around for his health to recover.’

  ‘Message understood.’ Sharon snapped to attention. ‘I’ll call the ambulance. Do you need a Garda escort?’

  Carla forced herself to breathe slowly until the cramp subsided. ‘That’s not a bad idea,’ she gasped. ‘But you’d better do it fast.’

  She debated ringing her parents then decided against it. Her father would cope but she did not want to watch her mother’s lips trembling, her hands flailing, her mind ticking off everything that could possibly go wrong.

  The ambulance crew arrived. They joked about delivering roadside babies. Carla panted and wondered if they would be laughing on the other side of their faces before the journey was over. The blue lights of a Garda car scattered the darkness as the ambulance driver followed, breaking through traffic lights and heading straight for the Valley View Maternity Clinic.

  The pain gained momentum, the spasms coming faster. Robert arrived in a taxi at the same time as the ambulance reached the clinic. He rushed towards her, looking, as she had expected, utterly disreputable, unshaven, his voice excruciatingly precise as he attempted to convince her he was sober. She laughed and allowed him to help her into a wheelchair. Their baby was coming. She sensed its determination, the driving force of its head seeking the light.

  ‘I love you…love you…love you,’ Robert babbled as she was wheeled into the clinic.

  She tightened her grip on his hand and breathed into the rhythm of another spasm.

  The midwife said, ‘This one’s not going to hang around. Come with me, Mother. We’re heading straight to the labour ward.’

  Chapter Six

  Carla

  GARDNER – Robert and Carla Gardner (née Kelly) are delighted to announce the birth of their daughter Isobel Gillian, born on the 3 November 1993. Sincere thanks to the staff at the Valley View Maternity Clinic for their excellent attention and kindness – and to the ambulance crew, Nikki Nortan and Des Brogan for their swift intervention.

  Go raibh mile maith agaibh. Thank you very much.

  From her bed, Carla watched a fragment of sky fade from indigo to pewter, the light relentlessly moving forward until finally it crashed, harsh and winter-white, against the window. The new day spilled over her and over Isobel, sleeping in a cot at the foot of the bed; two days old now and Carla was finding it increasingly difficult to remember a world where her daughter had not existed.

  Until her arrival, Robert had been the most important person in her life. Now, Isobel occupied the same position. But there would be no jostling, no competition, because love was as expansive as the demands placed upon it. A stomach bump, Carla had discovered, no matter how cumbersome, no matter how active, no matter how cherished, had no reality until the moment of birth.

  Yesterday, Nurse Clancy – or Amanda, as she preferred to be called – showed Carla how to hold her daughter and bring her gently to her breast.

  ‘Isobel is a natural feeder,’ she declared. ‘She knows exactly what she wants. I don’t see you having any difficulties when you leave us.’

  Sudden, fat tears had coursed down Carla’s cheeks. Baby blues. Amanda knew what to do. A sensible explanation as to why new mothers often felt weepy and prone to mood swings.

  ‘You’ve nothing to worry about,’ she said as she passed a box of tissues to Carla. ‘You’re more than capable of managing this lively young lady. Just don’t allow her to intimidate you.’

  The imminent arrival of photographers had concentrated Carla’s mind.
She took out her cosmetic case and set to work. By the time they entered the ward she was glowing, ready for action. She had gathered Isobel in her arms and smiled for the cameras. Isobel slept throughout the session, unperturbed by the clicks and flashes, the commands…This way, Carla…That way…Beautiful…Perfect…One more…Last one…Last one…

  Amanda had arrived and shown them the door. ‘Have you men no consideration for a woman who has been labouring all night to bring her baby into the world?’ she demanded. ‘Get out of here before I take my broomstick to your hairy backsides.’

  The first photographs of the Anticipation Baby had made the evening editions of the Evening Herald and the Evening Press, and was shown on the early edition of the televised news bulletin. Robert had been tight-lipped when he saw the media coverage. Carla had feared another row and suspected one would have occurred had the ward not been full of people. She had agreed with him that from now on their daughter must be kept out of the public eye. Carla’s Anticipation contract was over and Raine had already chosen a successor.

  But most of yesterday remained a haze. Her family and friends had called throughout the day, bringing champagne and gifts. Gina Kelly, Carla’s sister-in-law, due her first baby in January, had asked for a blow-by-blow account. ‘Tell me everything,’ she demanded. ‘Just leave out the gory details…if possible.’

  ‘It was as easy as falling off a log.’ Carla dismissed six hours of intense labour with an airy shrug. All she wanted to remember was that instant of contact when, trailing blood and mucus, her daughter had been placed across her chest; a withered old woman’s face and scrawny fingers (all ten, the midwife assured her, same with the toes) and, in that instant, Carla had fallen feverishly in love. That, she reckoned, would be the abiding memory for the rest of her life.

  Robert, pale and sober by then, was equally besotted. ‘She’s so perfect,’ he whispered. ‘So beautiful.’

  Carla, nodding in agreement, had realised that beauty no longer had any meaning. It simply belonged in the eye of the beholder.

  ‘You have to come and stay with us when you leave the clinic,’ her mother said, disregarding the fact that Carla had already discussed this offer with her before Isobel was born and had refused.

  ‘Thanks for the thought, Mother, but Robert’s taking some time off work. We’ll be fine.’

  ‘Nonsense. You’ve no idea how difficult it’ll be when you go home. I still have nightmares about your first few months. Colic. You never stopped crying. No, no, I insist. Your old bedroom has been redecorated. It’s ready and waiting for the three of you.’

  ‘Once we’re settled into a routine, we’ll come and visit, maybe stay overnight.’ Carla’s energy had dipped, as it usually did when she was forced to argue with her mother.

  ‘You’ll thank me in the end.’ Janet’s voice climbed a notch. ‘It’s all very well lying here in a swanky clinic, being waited on hand and foot. But it’s a different kettle of fish when you’re up all night with a crying baby. And your father is really looking forward to having you stay, aren’t you, Gerard?’

  ‘Leave the girl alone.’ Gerard Kelly touched his wife’s wrist. ‘She knows we’re here if she needs us.’

  Gillian and Raine had arrived with flowers and copies of the evening papers, and the focus of attention was back on Isobel again.

  ‘Welcome, Isobel Gillian.’ Gillian leaned over the cot and peeled back the sheet to admire her first grandchild. ‘Thank you so much for giving her my name,’ she whispered to Carla. ‘I’m so honoured.’

  The veins on her hands were starkly ridged, her cheekbones accentuated. Despite her insistence that she was responding well to treatment, she was continuing to lose weight. Carla turned away, ready to cry again. She was like a tap, leaking everywhere. Her breasts ached a warning and Amanda, entering and catching her expression, had announced that visiting was over.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Amanda, arriving on the morning shift. ‘How was the night?’

  ‘Restless,’ said Carla, who had left her bed many times to stand beside Isobel’s cot, her own breath suspended as she watched her daughter’s chest rising and falling. She was unable to resist touching her gently to see her move. Even the flicker of her eyelashes was insufficient to reassure Carla she was safe.

  ‘How’s the feeding going?’ Amanda asked as Isobel stirred and whimpered.

  ‘I think my milk’s come down.’ Carla lifted her daughter and lowered the flap of her nursing bra. ‘It looks thicker.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Amanda nodded, satisfied. ‘Usually it takes longer. Like I said, that kid’s a natural. Keep it up, Mother.’

  ‘What’s the world doing outside?’ Carla asked.

  ‘The weather forecast is lousy. Rain and more rain. And this young lady, with her glamorous mother, is on the front page of the Irish Independent.’

  Carla winced, imagining Robert’s annoyance. Nothing she could do about it. She returned her attention to Isobel, whose lips now had a vice-like grip on her nipple.

  ‘You look tired,’ Amanda said, as Carla eased Isobel from one breast to the other. ‘Why don’t you let us take her to the nursery for a few hours so you can catch up on some sleep?’

  ‘No. I’ll be fine.’ Carla shook her head. ‘Leave her with me.’

  After Isobel finished feeding, Amanda demonstrated how to bathe her. Carla, seeing the little starfish body with her blobby belly button, lying on a towel, tried to control her tears. Such a bitsy baby to have made such an arduous journey.

  ‘Don’t be frightened.’ Amanda guided her hand to the bony curve of Isobel’s head. ‘Babies are tougher than they look but they do need to know you’re in control.’

  Two more days, then she and Robert would be alone with this terrifyingly tiny individual. No wonder she was panicking. No wonder her pillow was wet with tears.

  Robert arrived mid-morning for a quick visit and watched, fascinated, as Isobel’s lips searched and latched onto Carla’s nipple, her tiny cheeks moving like miniature bellows. When her head lolled to one side and a dribble leaked from the corner of her mouth, he winded her and placed her back in her cot. He settled the bedclothes around Carla, who was almost asleep, and quietly left the ward.

  Carla drifted high above the sounds of the afternoon routine and slept.

  She continued to weep in her dreams, knowing with the horrendous certainly that comes when the mind is relaxed that Isobel’s arrival had triggered off the memory of another journey. So long ago and, until now, safely boxed in the past; a stray wasp that could be swiped aside when it occasionally flew too close. But her barriers were down, her boundaries invaded. Nothing would ever be the same again.

  She awoke to the sound of drums tapping out a light, persistent rhythm. The earlier metallic sunshine had been replaced by grey cloud and rain lashing against the window. Carla glanced at the clock on her locker. Three hours since Isobel’s last feed. Her breasts felt tender, heavy. Milk had seeped through her nursing bra and the front of her nightdress was wet. When she pulled down the flap and stared at the blue veins, she could see how engorged her breasts had become. Surprising, then, that Isobel had remained silent.

  She pulled herself upright. The counterpane on Isobel’s cot was bunched awkwardly over the mattress. Impossible to see her from that angle. Carla swung her legs to the floor. Four stitches. She grimaced as they tightened and forced her to walk gingerly towards the cot. She grabbed the counterpane and stared at the empty space where her daughter, swaddled in a white sheet, had been lying. The undersheet had a slight stain, as if Isobel had marked her territory. A ‘wet burp’ Amanda had called it when she demonstrated how Carla should wind her after feeding.

  She reached for the emergency bell beside her bed and pressed it. Unable to wait for a nurse to arrive, she ran into the corridor. A long empty corridor that silenced her footsteps when she turned to the right, then the left, and tried to locate the nurses’ station. She stopped, suddenly dizzy, and leaned against the wall. There had to be a ra
tional explanation. Amanda had taken Isobel to the nursery so that Carla could sleep undisturbed. Her terror gave way to anger. How dare anyone make such a decision without asking her permission?

  ‘My goodness!’ Amanda’s smile became uncertain as Carla approached the nurses’ station. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’

  ‘You took Isobel to the nursery without asking me?’

  ‘What?’ Amanda’s head drew back, her eyes widening as she stared back at Carla.

  ‘Didn’t you?’ Carla shouted. ‘You should have told me.’

  The nurse’s expression changed, her face smoothing out into a professional mask, inscrutable.

  ‘Tell me she’s in the nursery.’ Air whistled from Carla’s throat. ‘Tell me.’ Her legs buckled. She was vaguely aware that Amanda had rushed from behind the station and was holding her upright, that she was moving, guided by the nurse, back to her ward. As they entered, she experienced an instant of hope. Her imagination had run riot. Crazy baby blues and hallucinations.

  The cot was still empty. Carla held the edge of it and screamed Isobel’s name until Amanda forced her to sit down into the soft leather armchair.

  ‘Please remain calm, Carla. There’s been a misunderstanding!’ Her voice penetrated Carla’s hysteria. ‘If one of the nurses has done what you’ve suggested, we’ll deal with her immediately.’

  ‘What do you mean if? Of course they did. Where else can she be?’