A Special Relationship

by Douglas Kennedy

  ‘A boy’ I said, laughing. ‘Jack.’

  ‘Congratulations. How’s life without sleep?’

  ‘Well … he’s not home yet.’

  Then I explained, in the briefest way possible, what had befallen him.

  ‘Good God,’ she said quietly. ‘You’ve really had a ghastly time of it.’

  ‘Him more than me.’

  ‘But are you all right?’

  ‘Yes and no. Sometimes I can’t really tell.’

  ‘Got time for a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’d love to – but I really need to be at the hospital early this morning.’

  ‘Completely understood,’ she said. ‘Anyway, drop by whenever. And do throw as much rubbish in that fool’s skip as you like.’

  With a pleasant smile, she ended our little encounter.

  I followed her instructions, and threw all the remaining empty boxes into the skip, along with four brimming bags of builders’ debris. Then I walked to the tube, thinking: ‘I actually have a friendly neighbour.’

  At the hospital, I was on my ultra-best behaviour. And I was hugely relieved to discover that Jack’s return to Paediatric ICU had been a brief one, as he was back on the normal baby ward. The usual unit sister was there as well – eyeing me up carefully, the way one does with anyone who’s been labelled ‘a loose cannon’.

  But I gave her a big smile and said, ‘Is Nurse McGuire around? I think I owe her an apology for being so extreme yesterday.’

  Immediately the unit sister relaxed. Acts of Contrition usually do that.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s off on a week’s holiday – but when she’s back I’ll tell her what you said.’

  ‘And I am sorry I didn’t make it last night. It’s just … well, to be honest about it, I was so tired I simply passed out.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Every mother is exhausted after giving birth. And the good news is: that little relapse last night was nothing more than that. In fact, you might be able to bring him home as early as tomorrow.’

  I was all smiles. ‘That is great news.’

  ‘Are you up for feeding him now? He’s definitely hungry.’

  Doing my best to disguise my unease, I nodded, keeping the fixed smile on my face. The unit sister motioned for me to follow her. We walked down the ward to Jack’s crib. He was lying on his side, crying loudly. I tensed – wondering if he’d really start bawling when I picked him up. But I tried to mask this by saying, ‘He sounds really hungry.’

  The unit sister smiled back. Then there was an awkward moment, where I stood by the crib, not knowing if I should pick him up, or if the sister was going to hand him to me. Looking rather warily at me again, the sister motioned for me to take him. My hands were sweaty as I reached in. And yes, his squeals did amplify as I lifted him up.

  Keep your nerve, keep your nerve, I told myself. And, for God’s sake, don’t look fearful.

  I pulled Jack close to me, rocking him gently. His crying redoubled. I quickly settled down into the hard straight-back chair by the crib, opened my shirt, released my left breast from the nursing bra, squeezed the area around the nipple in an effort to expend a little milk, but felt nothing but solidified concrete.

  Don’t think about it, just get him on the breast and hope that you don’t start screaming. Sister is studying your every move.

  I gently directed Jack’s head toward the nipple. When he found it he began to suck ravenously. I shut my eyes as the pain hit. But then his voraciousness suddenly paid off – as his vacuum-like suction cleared the ducts and milk poured forth. It didn’t matter that his steel-trapped gums were squeezing the hell out of the nipple, or that my level of discomfort was rising by the minute. He was eating.

  ‘Are you in a bit of pain there?’ the unit sister asked.

  ‘Nothing that can’t be managed,’ I said.

  This was the correct response, as the sister nodded approvingly and said, ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  As soon as she was out of sight, I leaned over and whispered into Jack’s ear, ‘Thanks.’

  After ten minutes, I transferred Jack to the other nipple – and, once again, his hoover of a mouth cleared all obstructions within moments and milk flowed freely.

  Of course, I’ve read the usual pop psychology stuff about how physical blockages can lead to psychological blockages. But though I used to be sceptical of this kind of body/mind linkage, I have to admit that when I left the hospital that morning, I felt as if I had finally rid myself of the gloomy impasse in which I had lived since Jack’s birth.

  ‘Well, God bless my nephew’s suction,’ Sandy said when I called her around nine am her time to tell her that, finally, I had been able to feed my son without the use of a dreaded breast pump. But when I said that I was now feeling almost blissed-out, she said, ‘Great to hear it – but don’t get yourself into a state if you suddenly slip back into the glums again. Once Jack comes home you’re going to be dealing with broken nights – when three hours of uninterrupted sleep will seem like a total triumph.’

  ‘But I haven’t been to bed all night, and I feel totally terrific.’

  ‘Why didn’t you get to bed last night?’

  ‘Because I was asleep all day yesterday.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

  ‘Really, it was the best thing that could have happened to me. I needed to shut down for a while. And now, I feel as if my equilibrium is back to normal, and I’ve really got things back into proportion, and I’m feeling genuinely at one with things.’

  Long pause. I said, ‘You still there, Sandy?’

  ‘Oh, I’m here. But I’m also wondering if you’ve suddenly turned into a Moonie.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Well, what the hell do you expect when you start saying garbage like “I’m at one with things.”’

  ‘But I am.’

  ‘You now have me very worried.’

  That was typical Sandy – even more literal than I was when it came to judging other people’s moods. But I knew I was all right – though when I returned home that morning from the hospital, there was a note waiting for me from Tony, saying:

  Invitation Declined With Regret. US Deputy Secretary of State in town tonight. Just received last minute invitation for dinner at the Embassy. Will make it up to you.

  Great, just great. But after last night’s stupidity, I wasn’t going to call him up and hector him for turning down my invitation. Instead, I’d put a positive spin on this situation. Rather than fall into bed now for a nap, I’d force my way through the day on no sleep, then go by the hospital around seven and would be back home in bed by ten – tired out enough to sleep straight through the night without interruption. Come morning, I’d be back on a normal schedule – and ready to bring my son home.

  Of course, by the time I reached the Mattingly that night, I had been up for twenty straight hours, and was starting to veer into numb-with-fatigue territory. The evening feeding session at the hospital went on longer than expected – as Mr Hughes made a surprise visit to the baby ward. He was showing a group of his students around this corner of the hospital – and when he saw me feeding Jack, his led his entourage over towards me. I had my son at my breast – and turned my wince into a look of maternal contentment as he approached us.

  ‘Bonding well, are we?’ he asked.

  ‘No problems,’ I said, all smiley.

  ‘And judging from the way your boy is absorbed in the task at hand, all is flowing well?’

  ‘Everything is working just fine.’

  ‘Splendid, splendid. Mind if I give the little chap a quick look over?’

  Jack was not pleased to be disengaged from his source of food. As he kicked up, I quickly tucked my breast back into my shirt – especially as one of the male medical students with Hughes seemed particularly interested in my now bloated nipple. But judging from the critical way he was eyeing it, his interest was definitely more clinical than sexual. Meanwhile, all the other students were crowdin
g around the crib. He started explaining in highly technical language about Jack’s complicated delivery, and how he had to be ventilated after birth. He then explained about how I was suffering from high blood pressure throughout my pregnancy … to the point where he wondered whether it was best to deliver the child prematurely – as high blood pressure can prove hazardous to the mother’s health.

  ‘You never told me that,’ I said.

  Suddenly, all eyes were upon me. Hughes gave me a frown. He didn’t like to be interrupted in mid-discourse – especially by some pesky American.

  ‘Something the matter, Mrs Goodchild?’ he asked.

  ‘You never told me you were considering a premature delivery.’

  ‘That’s because your high blood pressure condition wasn’t pre-eclampsic … and because it did eventually stabilize. But, truth be told, when you were first admitted with high blood pressure, you were a borderline case for an emergency caesarean …’

  ‘Well, thanks for the information, even if it is a little after the fact. I mean, if there was a danger to me and my baby, shouldn’t I have been given that emergency Caesarean option at the time?’

  ‘Curiously enough, it is always better for the child if it is carried to full term. And curiously enough, Mrs Goodchild, we are rather up-to-date on modern obstetric practice on this side of the pond … which means that we did do what was medically best for you and your son. More to the point, just a fortnight or so after a most complex and perilous delivery, your son appears to be flourishing. Good evening, Mrs Goodchild.’

  And he moved on to the next crib.

  Brilliant. Well done. Bra-fucking-vo. I’m surprised the State Department hasn’t headhunted you for your diplomatic skills.

  I put my hands against both sides of the crib, and lowered my head, wondering if all eyes were upon me, and if I should try to rectify things with an apology. But when I looked back up with the intention of saying something, Hughes & Co. were engrossed in another patient. Anyway, I had been put in my place, cut down to size, embarrassed.

  I gripped the edge of the crib even tighter – and felt myself get very shaky again: a downward swoop which, out of nowhere, transported me to a vertiginous place positioned right over a deep, gaping chasm.

  ‘Baby needs feeding again, I’m afraid,’ said a voice to my right. It was the nurse on duty – a severe, stocky woman who had been hovering in the vicinity while Hughes gave me a dressing-down, and (judging from the look she was giving me right now) thoroughly approved of his criticisms. Especially as Jack was still crying wildly, and I was just standing there, looking spacey.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I said as I picked up Jack, settled down again in the straight-back chair, and reattached him to my left nipple. Thankfully, he had the milk duct opened within seconds.

  ‘Now I spoke with Dr Reynolds earlier today – and he feels that your son is ready to be discharged. So you can collect him tomorrow morning if that doesn’t present any problems.’

  I avoided her gaze.

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Very good then.’

  Ten minutes later, having settled Jack back in his crib, I was in a cab rolling down the Fulham Road, crying like an idiot. The driver – a young fellow, lean and tough looking – kept glancing at me in his rearview mirror, not exactly pleased that he had this blubbering woman in the back of his cab, but still torn between asking me what was wrong and not wanting to interfere. Anyway, I’ve never been one of those tell-all types who confide in strangers. But yet again, I was the architect of my own mess-up … and was also wildly over-reacting to Hughes’s disparagement of me.

  By the time we reached Putney, I did finally manage to get myself under a degree of control. But when I paid off the driver, he deliberately avoided looking at me.

  I walked into the empty house and bolted upstairs to the bedroom. I threw off my clothes, put on a teeshirt and climbed into bed. I pulled the covers over my head. I blocked out everything.

  When I jolted awake again at eight the next morning, I was so pleasantly groggy from such an unbroken period of unconsciousness that it took a moment or so to realize: I’ve actually slept.

  Tony had assured me that he would take the morning off to drive me to the hospital to collect Jack. But when I shuffled down to the kitchen, I found a post-it on top of a couple of crumpled bank notes.

  Emergency at the paper. Here’s £40 for a cab there-and-back. Will try to get home ASAP this evening.

  T xxx

  I grabbed the phone. I punched in the number of Tony’s direct line. I got his voice mail. So I phoned his mobile.

  ‘Can’t talk right now,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t care what emergency you have on your hands. You’re meeting me at the hospital, understand?’

  ‘I can’t talk.’

  Then he hung up.

  Immediately I rang back. He had obviously turned off his phone after our last conversation, as I was put through directly to his voice mail.

  ‘How dare you – how fucking dare you – pull this. You get your sorry English ass over to the hospital, or I am not going to be responsible for what happens next. Do you get that?’

  I hung up, my heart pounding, my head full of righteous indignation and genuine upset. More tellingly, I hated the way I sounded on the phone. I also hated the extremity of my reaction, and the way I shifted from serenity to rage in a matter of a few moments. But … I’m sorry … he just couldn’t stand me up on this one. Not on the first trip home with our newborn son.

  But he did. Because I didn’t hear from him for the rest of the morning. Anyway, I didn’t have time to think about this latest example of Tony’s complete indifference, as I needed to be at the hospital on time or further darken my reputation as a harpy. So I ducked into the shower, and slapped some makeup on my face, and was at the Mattingly by eleven am.

  ‘Is your husband with you this morning?’ the unit sister asked, eyeing me over, evidently wondering just what my emotional temperature might be this morning.

  ‘I’m afraid he had a crisis at work.’

  ‘I see. And how do you plan to get your son home?’

  I hoisted up the carry-chair, which in my crazy rush to get out of the house I had managed to remember to bring.

  ‘And you did bring some clothes for him?’

  Oh please, I’m not a total deadbeat.

  ‘Of course,’ I said politely.

  ‘Very well then.’

  Jack still reacted with upset when I touched him. And he didn’t enjoy my diaper-changing technique – which was supervised by the unit sister, just to make certain that I was doing it properly.

  It was also a struggle to get him into his baby-gro. He also hated being strapped into the carry-chair.

  ‘I presume your local health visitor will be calling on you tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know – I haven’t heard from anyone yet.’

  ‘Well, no doubt, she will be visiting you very soon – so if you have any postnatal questions, she’s the person to ask …’

  In other words: if you’re making a total mess of things, help will be on its way …

  ‘Thank you for that. In fact, thank you for everything.’

  ‘I hope he makes you very happy,’ she said.

  One of the nurses helped me downstairs with the carry-chair. She also got one of the porters to call me a cab. On the way back to Putney, the driver spent most of his time on his cell phone, and seemed genuinely oblivious to the fact that I had a newborn in the back of his cab. But when he swerved to dodge an oncoming white mini-van, he rolled down his window and shouted, ‘Stupid cunt! Don’t you know I’ve got a little baby in the back?’

  When we reached Sefton Street, the driver got out of the car and helped me with Jack to the front door.

  ‘Where’s your bloke then?’ he asked after I settled the fare.

  ‘At the office.’

  ‘Guess someone has to earn the dosh,’ he said.

  It was so strange
entering my empty house with this tiny creature.

  Like all of life’s bigger passages, you expect a sense of profundity to accompany the occasion. And like all of life’s bigger passages, the event itself is a complete letdown. I opened the door, I picked up the carry-chair. I brought Jack inside. I closed the door behind me. End of story. And, once again, all I could think was: this might have been an occasion if my husband was here.

  Jack had fallen asleep during the cab ride, so I hoisted him upstairs to the nursery and unfastened the straps. Exercising the utmost care, I lifted him gently into his crib. He pulled his arms tight against himself as I covered him with the little quilt which Sandy had sent me. He didn’t stir. I sat down in the wicker chair opposite the crib, my head splitting from the ongoing after-effects of the night before. I looked at my son. I waited to feel rapture, delight, maternal concern and vulnerability – all those damn emotions that every writer of every motherhood guide promises you will inhabit in the days after your child’s birth. But all I felt was a profound, terrible hollowness – and a sense that, bar the fact that this child had been literally cut out of me, I had no further connection with him.

  A ringing phone snapped me out of this desperate, vacant reverie. I was hoping it was Tony – sounding contrite and suitably humble. Or Sandy – with whom I could have bitched at length about my detached, taciturn husband. Instead, I received a call from a woman with a decidedly London accent who introduced herself as Jane Sanjay, and said that she was my health visitor. Her tone was surprising – breezy, pleasant, I’m here to help. And she wondered if she might drop by and see me this afternoon.

  ‘Is there any reason why you need to see me right away?’ I asked.

  She laughed. ‘Don’t panic – I’m not the baby police.’

  ‘But what did they tell you at the hospital?’

  More laughter. ‘Honestly nothing. We don’t talk to the hospitals anyway – unless there’s something seriously wrong. And you don’t sound like the sort of person with whom there’s anything wrong.’

  Don’t let the American accent fool you. I really don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

  ‘So,’ she asked, ‘might I come by in an hour or so?’