The rounded mound of Emma’s belly was a bridge between them, an unspoken promise in the expanse of their bed. Emma felt the child move. Not the first lemonade bubbles of early pregnancy. That first awareness had been more of a flickering than truly felt, but it had registered intensely in Emma’s consciousness, like a gong being struck. Neither was this the fluid liquid movement of mid-pregnancy, a primordial being swimming in an amniotic sea, somersaulting within the reddened walls of the womb. Instead, Emma was aware of the sharp movement of a child ready to fight its way into the world. No room now for grace or fluidity, instead a tautness of belly and tiny limbs pushing outward, fighting already against the confining walls that protected him or her. Emma laughed softly as a particularly vigorous jab of elbow or knee drew a grunt of surprise from Sam. She felt herself smile in the darkness at how strong this little one was – that had been a direct strike to Sam’s kidney.
‘Hey little tadpole, no beating Daddy up. Plenty of time for that when you arrive.’ Emma could feel the warmth of Sam’s breath against her belly. He had rolled towards her to speak directly to the beloved little parasite making its presence known. Emma gently ran her hand over Sam’s head and down his back. She smiled to herself, perfectly content – had a child ever been more wanted. This was their little tadpole: two years in the creating and nine-and-a-half months in the growing.
Stroking skin stretched to drum-like tautness, Emma pushed her head back into the hollow below Sam’s shoulder blade, grateful for their shared warmth under the duvet. She knew she had worried him, he had not shared his concerns with her, but she had seen them. They were there for anyone to see. Even this evening as she had continued to retch and spit for the umpteenth time that day, she had found a glass of ginger beer sitting waiting for her. Emma grinned to herself as she thought of her early attempts to try and protect him from her morning sickness. It had been a forlorn attempt to keep her dignity. There had been no delicate ladylike vomiting for her. No, of course not – she threw up with all the gusto and volume of a locomotive racing along the tracks, its path inevitable and its horn enthusiastically shrieking. When Emma hurled, the windows shook in their frames. Nine months of vomiting – at least she was thin.
The first time she’d been admitted to hospital, she’d text Sam, and he had met her at the emergency-room door. He had reached for her and pulled her into his embrace, his arms too tight, almost painful, squashing the baby between them. As the nurse strapped the foetal heart monitor around her belly, he had pressed his forehead hard into the side of the bed, his shoulders rigid with tension. Emma felt her eyes well, as she recalled gentling the back of his neck and then for both of them, the gentle dub, dub of the heart monitor – the baby’s heartbeat a blessed reassurance.
She grimaced slightly as she thought back over the course of the pregnancy. She had been so determined to keep working right up to the end, irrespective of what was happening. Don’t think about it, keep going, be strong. She could clearly visualise Sam, smashing a plate against a cupboard and screaming at her. Her husband who had never raised his voice at her, his face contorted with frustration and anger.
‘Emma! How many times do you have to be admitted to hospital before you realise that you need to stop work!’ The number, apparently, was four. The anguish on his face had found its way through the denial she had been building more effectively than any words possibly could. She had spoken to her boss the next day.
Resolutely she pushed the thought away, just as she had been pushing such thoughts away all pregnancy. She had not allowed any negativity around her, not her own, not others. At all times she would countenance only positive outcomes for this little one. Anyone who raised their fears or concerns in her presence was ignored. Emma knew she had acted and was acting as though any negativity could be absorbed through the skin. An irrational thought, but one she also knew to be true.
But now, now the time was so close; if their little tadpole was born now, he or she could survive without her. Emma smiled into the darkness, relaxing her defences, just a little. Baby’s birth was the final hurdle she had to overcome.
She sat on the side of the gurney, absurdly conscious of her hospital gown gaping behind her. Bright lights glinted off sterile medical implements, and she could feel fear slowly starting its journey from her gut to her fingertips. She looked up at Sam seeking comfort or reassurance or something. His eyes looked back at her, green above the surgical mask and below the cap he was required to wear.
‘You look like McDreamy from Grey’s Anatomy.’ The lines beside Sam’s eyes crinkled gently at her feeble attempt at humour. She could see he was almost as apprehensive as she was. He sat in front of her between her knees grasping her hands as they prepped for the epidural.
‘Emma, it’s important you don’t move at all. I’m going to insert the needle into your spine now.’ For a moment the doctor’s name escaped her. She did not try to retrieve it. A running litany wound through and through and through her brain. What it? What if? What if? She did not allow herself to complete the thought, would not let the fear gain control.
‘I’m going to make the cut now, Emma. You won’t feel any pain, only pressure.’ Sam still held her hand, standing by her shoulder now, a screen up between him and the doctor. It was true there was no pain, but pressure did not accurately describe how it felt. Hands reached into your internal organs, rummaging as though for a prize at the bottom of the bargain bin. And what a prize – your beautiful baby wrenched from your body and held aloft. Emma squeezed Sam’s hand.
She was there, their daughter, and she was perfect. That initial image would be imprinted upon her brain for the rest of her life. The baby was held aloft by hands that seemed almost disembodied, so intensely focused was she on her beautiful daughter. She was edged in sharp relief, a vignette of perfection. Covered in mucous and topped with fine downy hair. Emma smiled her joy and felt her muscles relax for what was maybe the first time in nine months. She was here; she was safe.
‘Go with her, look after her while they clean her up.’ Emma could see he was happy to go; they were both happy to have him protect their daughter. The little girl they had strived so hard to bring into the world and whom they already loved so much.
Finally, Emma had Alyssa to herself, their sweet baby. Well, almost. Hovering in the doorway of her hospital room sat a minder. Credit where it’s due, the woman was attempting to be discreet, trying to be invisible, to turn herself into a chameleon and blend into the bland grey walls of the room. She was a discreet presence but still a presence, at a time when she most wanted to savour the sweetness of the moment. An unwanted intrusion, but a necessary one, to protect their little one from Emma herself.
Studiously ignoring the ‘watcher’, Emma focused on the miracle curled upon her chest. Heartbeat to heartbeat, tiny bottom raised, knees pulled up, recreating the familiar position from the womb. Her hand stroked the tiny form as she opened her mouth in a tiny moue, her little eyes pressed tightly shut. She inhaled the sweetness of her daughter as her hand resting on the baby’s back rose and fell with every precious breath.
Her reverie was interrupted by a discreet cough.
‘How will I know if you’re okay?’ The voice was unwelcome, the question moronic.
‘Trust me, you’ll know.’ Emma turned her face away, avoiding all eye contact, letting the silence spool out between them until the woman turned away.
Only five days later, Emma played with Alyssa, the two of them snug and secure in their own home. It was the first time Sam had left them alone together, and as much as she loved their new family, it was nice to enjoy her daughter alone for a while. Holding Alyssa’s tiny frog-like hands, she curled and uncurled those surprisingly long fingers. She cooed and gurgled into the baby’s face. Emma was amazed that she never tired of every tiny expression that moved across her delicate features. Emma marvelled at the fragility in the gentle curve of her skull, so vulnerable, so open to harm. Emma laughed as a small but trumpet-like fart erupted from Alyssa’s nether regions. She could not get over how amazingly noisy she was, even when asleep. In her dreams, she gurgled and farted, burped and squeaked. Alyssa slept blissfully, unaware of the dangers the world had to offer.
First, Emma was aware of the scrape of the carpet against her cheek. It did not seem odd. Not at first. Her line of sight was at floor level, and for a moment she could not make sense of what she was seeing. What was the name of that thing? It would not come. She knew she should know what it was. It was a simple item, but she could not retrieve the word. The coffee table, that’s right – what was wrong with it? Long moments passed while Emma contemplated only what she could see in front of her. It was tipped up, looked like it might be broken.
Slowly she raised herself to her knees and righted the table, now lopsided. The house was quiet, and she could not fight the fog that engulfed her. I need Sam. The thought was clear, a lifeline amongst the flotsam and jetsam on the surface of her brain. Where was her phone? She thought it was in the kitchen. She started towards it, but she couldn’t find the room. How could she be lost in her own house? She traced and retraced her footsteps until she realised that she was making the same loop over and over again and never getting to the kitchen. How often had she made the same circuit, from the lounge to the hallway, to the front door and back again? Half a dozen times? More?
She kept getting distracted; there was something she needed to remember; she could feel the urgency pressing on her, like a fist pressing down into bread dough. Where was Sam? She needed to call him. Then the phone was finally in her hand, or had it always been there? The fog was slowly starting to clear, but only a little.
‘Sam.’
‘Emma, what’s wrong?’
‘Sam, I think I’ve had a seizure.’
‘Emma, where’s the baby? Is she okay?’
‘Oh god, oh god, I don’t know. Sam, I can’t see her!’ Her voice spiralling upwards as her terror rose. She could hear it in Sam’s voice too, the words a little too precise as he tried to contain his panic.
‘Emma, you need to look. You need to look right now!’
With the phone clenched hard against her rib cage, Emma ran frantically from room to room. She stumbled a little. Distantly she could hear Sam’s disembodied voice as he yelled into the phone. But panic gripped her now.
There was a quick flare of pain as she smacked her knee into a table in the hallway. Emma felt the frustration mounting. She could not get from room to room fast enough. It felt as though time itself had sped up, whilst she had slowed down. The air had become glutinous. She could not find the baby; she could not hear the baby. Oh god, why wasn’t she crying? Had she killed her? Please let her be okay. Please let her be okay. Emma prayed, the non-believer begging for help, not caring which entity reached down to help. Emma stumbled again as she had a moment of clarity: Alyssa’s bedroom.
‘She’s in her crib. She’s in her crib. It’s okay – she’s in her crib.’
‘Is she okay? Is she breathing? Is she hurt?’
‘She’s okay. I’m scared to pick her up, but she’s okay’
‘I’ll call Mum. She’ll come over.’
‘Sam, come home.’ Emma felt the tears slowly make their hot way down her cheeks. The fear had her now, and its grip was relentless.
‘Honey, I’m in Otago remember?
‘Oh.’
‘I’ll call Mum. She’ll come. Call me back once she’s there’.
The nursery was decorated in neutral tones. Emma and Sam had wanted the sex of the baby to be a surprise. Only now were touches of traditional pink starting to make their way into the room. There was a fluffy pink bunny, three times the size of Alyssa, a gift from the cousins. A hand-knitted shawl, lovingly crafted by Emma’s mother. Congratulations cards still sat on the new dresser. Emma watched her baby sleep, the gentle rise and fall of her breath. She ached to touch her. She took a step back; she had to put Alyssa first. It didn’t matter how desperately she wanted to pick her up. When Margaret arrived, she would take care of her. She couldn’t be trusted to keep her own baby safe.
As she inhaled a shuddering breath, the welcome scent of baby powder was present in the room. But at the same time, a less welcome stench reached her nostrils. The pang of distress was intense; her baby needed her, needed changing, and she couldn’t do it. At the same moment, Emma realised it wasn’t the baby who smelled. Despite the fact she was alone, her cheeks flamed as she realised she had soiled herself.
As she allowed the rush of hot water to cleanse her, Emma sat on the floor of the shower and let the water hide her tears. She emerged wearily and paused to wipe condensation from the mirror and study her reflection. Raising her hand to her face she realised the shower hadn’t washed away the final traces of blood beneath her nose. From past experience, she knew she was likely to have a black eye tomorrow. She’d been in such a state, she hadn’t realised she’d hurt herself, but that wasn’t unusual. Pulling on fresh clothes, she heard Alyssa start to cry. She did not dare go to her. Where the bloody hell was Margaret?
Two days had passed. Two days in which Emma had lain resolutely statue-like upon her bed. The curtains were drawn and the bed clothes were in disarray around her. She had not showered or changed her clothes since the day of the seizure. Despite the lowering gloom and the ripeness of her clothing, she had been content to lie flat on her back, her hands folded across her chest. She let the activity of the house go on around her. When they had brought the baby to her, she had turned her face to the wall. For once in her life she thanked the medication. It meant someone else could feed the baby. She could not be responsible for even this.
They all tried to reassure her that such thoughts were not true. That everything was going to be okay. But how could she believe them? She saw the covert glances when no one thought she was looking. How could she believe them when she did not believe it herself? She berated herself, because she had not given thought to what it would be like after the baby came. All her attention had been focused on getting through the pregnancy. Oh the arrogance and naivety of thinking that she had only one more hurdle to get through to deliver her daughter.
Emma could not now shut off the constant stream of ‘what if’s’ that ran through and through and through her head. What if she picked the baby up and had a seizure? She could drop her and crack her skull like an egg. What if she took her for a walk in the stroller and she had another fit? The stroller could tip over or run into traffic. Her chest constricted, and she struggled to control her breathing as her mind raced with multiple scenarios.
She thought she had felt shame when she shit herself. But that wasn’t shame. Shame was not being able to take care of your own daughter. Shame was a box that grew smaller and smaller, constricting every movement. A box made up of self-doubt and others’ unasked questions and half-finished sentences. It was a box that restricted all growth and light.
Emma felt that shame might choke her.
It was another two days before Sam appeared in the doorway with the baby in his arms. Emma still had not moved; she was cold. She had kicked the bed clothes off and could have picked them up, but she didn’t deserve warmth. She refused to acknowledge Sam’s presence, the same way she had been doing all week. But she knew they were there; she could hear Sam’s gentle breathing and the soft snuffle of the baby. Every nerve ending in her body was on red alert. She thought she could even smell them.
‘Emma.’
She didn’t respond to her name, knowing that her refusal to accept their presence would cause Sam to retreat as he had previously done. She listened furiously to his silence. Then she heard him start to step towards the bed. She closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep. He would know she was faking. Good – perhaps it would stop him speaking again.
But he didn’t speak. Instead a small warm, cocooned bundle was placed on her chest. Emma didn’t move at first, and then of their own volition her arms reached to hold Alyssa against her. Sam’s hair grazed her temple as he kissed her cheek. Then, still without saying a word, he stepped away from the bed and left the room, closing the door behind him.