Trio - [2]

As the baby’s head was born, the upper torso swiveled so that one shoulder presented itself for the next push.

She lowered her head to rest between her arms on the bed. She gazed back but could not see anything beyond the swell of her belly and behind that her knees. Summoning all her strength she pushed herself back up, kneeled higher, steadying herself with one arm she reached back between her legs with the other hand. She felt a thrill of shock as she felt the hot, slippery hair of the baby’s head, the scalp loose and wrinkled under her fingers.

‘Oh God,’ she gasped. ‘Oh, God.’

The next contraction rolled in. She shuffled forward before it built, and clutched at the metal bed frame for leverage. Pushing it to counteract the force. She felt the new friction of the mass forcing its way from her, stretching her body, bursting her open.

The roar she made grew louder and culminated in a gasp as the weight slithered from her with a sucking sound. She knelt, her muscles twitching with spasms, and looked beneath the bridge of her body to where the baby lay. A coil of life, shock of black hair, red skin streaked white, as though it had been dipped in dripping, eyes, nose, mouth. One fist tucked under an ear, as if it was considering something. The other fist moving, waving to and fro. Long, curving cord like something from the abattoir, snaking from its belly.

She looked at the baby.

The baby looked back.

The door swung open.

‘Lie down,’ barked the nurse, ‘you’ll fall, you silly…’ She faltered as she neared the bed and saw the infant. ‘You could have crushed it,’ she scolded. ‘What on earth were you thinking of? Turn this way, carefully.’ She issued instructions until the woman was lying on her back again. She raised the baby and slapped it on the bottom. A thin wail cut the air. The woman wanted to cry too. The nurse proceeded to cut and clamp the umbilical cord, wipe the mucus from the baby’s face and wrap the baby in a cloth.

A second nurse came in. A younger one, who had been more sympathetic when she had been admitted. She looked at the baby. ‘A girl,’ she observed. ‘Bless her. Have you got a name?’

‘She’s for adoption,’ the other interrupted.

‘Can I see her?’ the mother asked.

‘You’re not finished yet. You’ve still to deliver the afterbirth. Then you’ll need examining and see if there’s any stitches required. You probably tore yourself leaping around on the bed like that. You’ll need cleaning up and Baby needs to be checked and weighed. Sister will take her to the nursery.’

‘I have a shawl,’ she said, hating the tears in her voice.

‘I’ll take it with her, shall I?’ The younger nurse offered. The simple kindness robbed her of speech. She nodded quickly.

‘In your bag, is it?’ Another nod.

The nurse took the wool-and-silk shawl and the baby and left.

She felt a fresh contraction, leant her head back against the metal bars of the bed, eyes squeezed tight shut, lips compressed. A ring of grief swelling in her throat, choking her. Theresa, she thought, remembering the black pools of the baby’s eyes. That’s her name, Theresa…

… Outside the door, poised for flight. Her heart was bumping too fast in her chest, fingers clenched. She could just go. Turn and walk away. Cruel, yes, but not impossible. This side of the door there was still room for fantasies, for dreams of what she might be like, for scenes of happy ever after, of coming home, of finding peace. But in there, once across the threshold, there would only ever be reality: stark, unrelenting, unchangeable. No going back. No escape. Her ears were buzzing and her skull and back felt tight with tension. She couldn’t breathe properly.

She closed her eyes momentarily, fighting the rising panic. Don’t think. Just open the door.

She put her hand out and grasped the handle. Turned and pushed. Stepped into the room. Saw the woman on the couch rise unsteadily to her feet. Smiling. Moving towards her, mouth working with emotion. Little exclamations popping softly, hello, oh, hello. Arms opening, eyes drinking her in.

The two women embrace.

The younger started to cry, noisy sobs and sucking sounds.

‘Twenty eight years,’ the other said, her voice muffled with emotion. ‘I never thought I’d see you again. Come on.’

She led her daughter to the couch and sat with one arm around her, listening to her weep. She smelled her hair and felt the smooth skin of her fingers and waited for the crying to gentle and cease. There was no hurry after all. Years lost; but now they had all the time in the world. Forever.

And the daughter in her hot, damp sea of tears, felt them emptying out of her, on and on like when they change the lock gates on the canals. Made no effort to control them. Holding the hand, strong and bony like her own, hearing the drumbeat in her ears. Till she is all cried out. Feeling the wheel turn. Finding herself in a new place. Tender and bewildered and brave.

Part One: Birth

Caroline Joan

Megan

‘It’s not just morning sickness,’ Megan complained, ‘it’s morning, noon and night sickness.’

‘You look like you’re wasting away,’ Joan remarked drily.