Little Darlings

‘I think . . . ’ She looked down at the babies and up at the detective sergeant. Big, sad, frightened eyes, streaming tears. ‘I don’t think I can trust what I think right now.’

Chapter 7 (#ulink_6943011c-e707-5382-8104-d4ad4408232e)

A beam of the slant west sunshine

Made the wan face almost fair

Lit the blue eyes’ patient wonder

And the rings of pale gold hair

She kissed it on lip and forehead

She kissed it on cheek and chink

And she bared her snow-white bosom

To the lips so pale and thin

FROM The Changeling

BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

Ten o’clock, visiting time. From her hospital bed Lauren observed a column of fuzzy colours approaching her and tried to focus. The fuzz resolved into the familiar shape of Patrick. It felt like years had passed since she’d last seen him.

‘My God,’ said Patrick, ‘what have they done to you?’

‘It’s fine, everything’s fine,’ said Lauren, but all that came out were broken sobs, the incoherent hupping yowls of an injured creature. Soon it subsided, trickled to whimpers. He stroked her hair.

‘Shh, lovely,’ said Patrick, keeping his voice low. On the other side of the bay, a jubilant party of assorted family was gathering around Mrs Gooch’s bed. Chairs were pulled across for older Gooches. Two smallish ginger children each possessively gripped ribbons attached to shiny silver balloons that trailed near the ceiling, announcing in bubblegum-pink lettering: It’s a Girl! One of the balloon-bearers stared slack-jawed at Lauren so that the lolly dangling from his open mouth nearly fell out.

‘Shh. I know,’ said Patrick, unaware of the gaping child at his back.

Another version of Lauren would have stared back until the boy looked away. This new, broken Lauren just shut her eyes.

Patrick said, ‘They left a message on my phone, but I didn’t get it until this morning. What happened?’

Lauren couldn’t respond to that immediately. She was floored by another wave of sobbing. A red-haired man – perhaps a new uncle of Mrs Gooch’s baby girl – cheered loudly as he rounded the corner into the bay, holding aloft an ostentatious bunch of lilies. Mrs Gooch glanced pointedly at Lauren and the cheering man said, ‘What?’ and ‘Oh,’ as he looked in their direction. Patrick turned and briskly pulled the curtain around, giving everyone the relief of the impression of privacy. After a time, words pushed through Lauren’s swollen throat in bits.

‘I don’t know why I keep crying. I’m fine, I’ll be fine. Nothing happened. I think I’m going mad, that’s all.’

She gave a mirthless laugh, holding on tightly to her husband, making dark patches of wet and snot on the shoulder of his shirt. Patrick smelled of tea tree shampoo and his own slightly smoky scent. He smelled like home.

‘Lauren, my heart,’ said Patrick as he held Lauren’s face between his hands and smiled down at her. ‘You were mad before.’

That made her laugh for real, and the bad spell was broken. They both laughed, and then Lauren was crying again, and Patrick wiped her eyes with a wad of the cheap hospital tissues from the box by the bed. At that moment, the babies were almost as serene as Mrs Gooch’s. She really didn’t know why she kept crying. It didn’t make sense, when she saw what she and Patrick had made.

Patrick moved towards the cot. ‘Morning, boys,’ he said. ‘I hope you’ve been kind to your mother.’ He turned back to Lauren. ‘Did they keep you awake?’

‘Of course they did. They’re babies.’

Her vision began to swim and sway, her eyelids felt heavy.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, but his voice was muffled and far away. Sorry for what, she thought.

When she opened her eyes he was on the other side of the bed. Odd, she thought, I don’t remember falling asleep. A few seconds had gone, snap, a filmic scene change.

‘I spoke to my mother this morning,’ he was saying. ‘She sends her love. She wanted me to tell you, you did really well, you know, most women would have gone straight for a C-section.’

Lauren would never stop wishing that she had done just that. She couldn’t go back now, nothing would change what had happened during the birth, her stupid decisions, her worthless birth plan. But the regret was heavy on her. She felt like a fool for defying the consultant, even as she blamed him for planting the doubts in her mind, about whether she was capable, whether she would succeed. Perhaps if he’d believed in her from the start, she would have been fine.

‘If it was me giving birth to twins,’ the consultant had said, ‘I’d have a C-section.’

Ridiculous. He was a man. How could he know what it was like to give birth?

‘Thanks,’ she’d said, ungratefully. ‘I’ll think about it.’

My body knows what it’s doing, she thought. I’ll let nature take its course. I think I can trust in myself to be able to push these babies out on my own. People have been doing this since people have existed. How hard can it really be? Everyone has to be born, right?

Idiot. She hadn’t done well. She’d been washed through the birth, powerless, on a tide of modern medical intervention. They’d done well, the numerous, nameless nurses, midwives, doctors – without them she would have died, and the babies, too. But Lauren? She didn’t feel that she’d done anything but fail.

‘You’re a hero, honey,’ said Patrick. ‘You deserve a medal.’

I do not, thought Lauren. But she smiled, pasting it thinly over her pain.

After a moment, Patrick asked, ‘When are you coming out?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Lauren. ‘I don’t know when they’ll let me.’

‘They don’t have to let you. You can discharge yourself.’

The idea seemed absurd. Lauren had assumed they were in charge. ‘Can I?’

‘Of course. It’s not prison.’

Home. She could go home.

‘I want to go home,’ said Lauren.

‘Let’s go.’

Lauren gaped at him. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Why not? I brought the car seats. I’ll go and get them.’

‘Honestly Patrick, I don’t think they’ll let me. What about the bleed, when they took me back into theatre—’

‘Of course they will. You’re OK now, aren’t you?’