‘Hello,’ I say. ‘My mother, Nina, was a patient and–’
‘Fern?’ she says. ‘It’s Onnab. I was one of your mother’s nurses. I’m so sorry for your loss.’
‘Oh,’ I say, realising that until that very moment I’d been holding on to hope that it had been some kind of terrible mistake. ‘Thank you, Onnab.’
‘Your mother was a very nice lady,’ she says. ‘I always enjoyed looking after her.’
I inhale a wobbly breath. ‘Thank you, Onnab. I wanted to check if you knew anything about the cause of Mum’s death yet.’
‘Unfortunately not, Fern,’ Onnab says. ‘It will be at least a few more days before we know anything.’
I sink into my armchair.
‘It may be of some comfort that I saw your mother the evening before she died. She seemed happy. To see your sister at last, I think, really lifted her spirits.’
I repeat the sentence in my head, making sure I had interpreted correctly. But I couldn’t have.
‘Mum saw my sister?’
‘Yes. She visited that very night, the night before your mum passed. At least, I think it was her . . .’
‘Small woman?’ I ask. ‘Dark hair with big blue eyes?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘That’s right.’
I can’t believe it. Rose visited Mum. She visited her.
I let my head fall back against the armchair. Any anger I’d felt toward Rose dissipates in a second. What that must have meant to Mum. I only wish I’d been there to see it.
‘Is there anything else I can help you with, Fern?’ Onnab asks, after a brief silence.
‘No,’ I say, wiping a tear away. ‘You’ve already helped enough.’
I don’t know how long I sit in the secret cupboard. It might be half an hour. It might be an hour. No-one bothers me. Every time I think it’s time to leave, I don’t even get to a standing position before I change my mind and decide to stay where I am. I am starting to suspect that I might spend the night in this cupboard, when I hear a gentle knock at the door.
‘Fern, there’s a gentleman here who would like to talk to you.’
It’s Carmel talking. I think about staying silent, pretending I’m not here. I can’t face anyone.
‘I told him I wasn’t sure if you were here or not. It’s . . . Wally? I can send him away, if you don’t want to–’
‘No!’ I say, too quickly and too loudly. ‘I’ll talk to him.’
I’m not thinking clearly, obviously. I have no explanation for the fact that I’m visibly pregnant. At the same time, I simply can’t be this near him and not go to him. It is a physical impossibility. For now, I put Mum’s death away in the back of my mind, to think about later. Wally and Mum all together is simply too much for me.
I practically run to the reception area. Carmel is at my heels. As Wally comes into view – wearing his suit again – I am so overcome that I can’t even manage a smile.
Neither can he. His eyes are fixed on my belly. ‘So it’s true,’ he says. ‘You’re pregnant.’
‘How did you know?’
‘Rose told me.’
‘What?’ I decide I must have misheard. ‘Rose told you I was pregnant?’
He nods.
‘But when did you see Rose?’
Wally’s face gets a funny look to it then, like he is sucking the inside of his cheeks. I’m not sure if he’s confused or upset or even . . . angry. ‘Rose has visited me quite a few times over these past few months, Fern.’
Now I’m certain I’ve misheard.
‘She phoned me several months ago – she wanted to see me to talk about you, she said. She came to my office.’
It doesn’t make sense. Rose has spent these past few months telling me not to contact Wally. She couldn’t have contacted Wally herself.
‘She’s been back several times since,’ he says.
‘To talk about me? Why?’
‘Good question, since she’s barely mentioned you – not that first day or any other time.’
I struggle to take it in. ‘Well . . . what did she want then?’
He shrugs. ‘First, she wanted to have coffee. Then she suggested lunch. Each time I agreed because I wanted to know how you were doing. But she never told me much about you, other than that you were happy with your new boyfriend. Then . . . yesterday, she told me you were pregnant.’
I don’t understand. Why would Rose say that after making me promise I wouldn’t tell him?
‘She said she’s been on the fence about whether to say anything, because you’d made her swear to keep it a secret. But now that you’re in financial trouble, she said she had to reach out.’
I open my eyes. Financial trouble?
My head is spinning. Wally watches me closely, his eyes on my face, as if he’d expected my surprise. But I still don’t understand. It feels like everyone is in on a secret, except me.
‘Wally, I’m not in financial trouble.’
‘Rose said you’d say that. She said you’re too proud to admit it.’
‘Well, I’m not.’
He takes a few deep breaths. ‘How far along are you?’
‘Nearly eight months.’ It’s a miracle that I’m able to fudge the date, given the amount of noise in my head. Wally is here, standing right in front of me. It feels like a dream.
He sneaks a look at me. ‘And . . . you and . . . the new guy . . . are okay?’
I almost say, ‘What new guy?’ Then I remember. He’s talking about the father. The fictional father of my baby.
I manage a nod. But I’m thinking of that phone conversation Rose and I had, after she found out Wally had founded Shout! I remember the excitement in her voice. A hundred million dollars, she’d said.
‘I’m sorry.’ Wally reaches out and touches my shoulder. ‘I’ve upset you.’
‘I’m just confused. I don’t know why Rose came to you.’
‘She came to me,’ he says, ‘because she knows I care about you. She knows that I’d give you the money in a heartbeat if you needed it.’ Wally clears his throat. ‘And she used that information to try and get money for herself, Fern, not for you.’
I shake my head. ‘No. That can’t be right.’
‘Look, Fern, I know you’ve met someone else. But Rose is right, I do still care about you. And as someone who cares about you, I feel a responsibility to tell you that I think something is very wrong with your sister.’ He looks at me intensely. ‘Very, very wrong.’
I shake my head. I don’t want to believe it, but deep down I have a horrible feeling that he is right.
I think something is very wrong with your sister.
An hour after Wally leaves the library, I’m still ruminating on that. Is he right? And if he is, why am I the last to know about it? Is it one of those things I don’t notice? Like people communicating with their facial expressions? Is it possible that, because of the way I see things, I’ve been missing an entire side of Rose? I think, suddenly, of Mum. She’d always worried so much about Rose. Was that because something was wrong with her?
I slide my phone out of my pocket and stare at it for a moment, thinking. After hearing about Rose contacting Wally – asking him for money – I’m questioning everything. Finally, I redial the number for Sun Meadows. The same receptionist answers and I ask to speak to Onnab.
‘Hello again, Fern,’ Onnab says. ‘Is there something else I can help you with?’
‘Yes. I’d like to know who the last person was to see Mum alive.’
A pause. ‘Well, let’s see . . . it would have been whichever nurse was on night duty. I can check the schedule. She would have checked on everyone during night rounds.’
‘Would that have been before or after Rose visited Mum?’
‘Hmm,’ she says. ‘Actually, I’m not sure.’
‘Rose hadn’t seen Mum for a long time. It was her first visit in ten years,’ I say suddenly. I’m not sure why. Perhaps I want assurance that this, combined with Mum’s unexpected death, doesn’
t mean anything.
Onnab is quiet for a long time but I can hear her breathing, so I know she’s still there. ‘Fern, as far as I know, the death isn’t being treated as suspicious. Is there any reason you think it should be?’
I repeat the question in my head.
‘Fern?’ she says again.
I want to respond, as she has asked a question. It’s just that I don’t know the answer.
The afternoon passes in a blur, after what was already a busy morning. I serve people, restack books, do all the things I’m supposed to do, but my mind is anywhere but the library.
The Braxton Hicks kick in around 2 pm. I time them on a notepad as I go about my business at the library. Some people get all panicky about Braxton Hicks, but I’ve read the books; I know they are only real when contractions are increasing in frequency and intensity. I get some relief from my thoughts and my pains by getting lost in my work – helping an elderly man find a selection of reading material about the Titanic to prepare for a talk he is giving at his rotary club (‘No romances,’ he’d said pointing a finger at me accusingly. ‘Nothing with Leo DiCaprio or people getting steamy as the ship begins to sink.’) I provide toiletries to a young homeless woman (and even give her my own sandwich for lunch, as after my interactions with Wally and Rose I’m not feeling especially hungry). Then I go to tidy the children’s section, which is looking a bit worse for wear after the toddler drawing class that morning.
By 3.30 pm, my Braxton Hicks are getting more consistent in timing – around ten minutes apart for almost an hour. And while the pain is not debilitating, I’m starting to find it difficult to concentrate on my work . . .
‘Are you all right, Fern?’ Carmel says when she finds me in the archive area, breathing quietly through a cramp.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’m fine.’
She watches me closely. ‘Why don’t you go home early today? You look a little tired.’
I am taken aback at the suggestion. I’ve only taken two sick days in my entire working career and have only left early once for an emergency dental appointment. But with Carmel offering, and after the day I’ve had, I find myself nodding. ‘All right,’ I say. ‘Thanks, Carmel.’
‘Would you like me to order a taxi to take you home?’ Carmel says.
‘Yes. But I’m not going home.’
By the time I arrive at the hospital, my contractions are four minutes apart.
Inside, everything is orderly and signposted, and I find the maternity ward promptly and report my arrival at the desk. The nurses are impressed with the documentation I provide, detailing the steady increase in the frequency of my contractions over the past few hours. Upon seeing me double over to breathe through a contraction, they unanimously agree that I should be taken straight through to the delivery room.
A nurse with grey hair and a navy-blue cardigan is the one to take me through. I follow her into a bustling hive of activity – people in scrubs and masks, requesting assistance or giving it; the phone ringing; people chatting. From an adjacent room, I hear a low moan reminiscent of a cow. At the same time a nurse walks by, carrying an Icy Pole that smells like grapes and bubblegum. I pause as a particularly strong contraction takes hold. My nurse pauses with me, administers a firm rub to my lower back, and tells me, ‘You’re doing great, love.’
When it has passed, I follow her into a bright room – Delivery room 4. A gown lies on the vinyl bed. In one corner, a tray of instruments sits beside a medical-looking crib, complete with overhead warmer.
‘Your baby will be in there soon,’ the nurse says, flicking a switch. The crib lights up, emitting a low hum that travels through me like a mild electrical current. From somewhere outside the room, I hear someone whimper. It makes me jump.
‘Pop that on, love,’ the nurse says gesturing to the gown. ‘Everything off underneath, including bra and undies, then take a seat on the bed, and the doctor will soon be in to examine you. Is someone on their way to be with you?’
‘What? Oh . . . um, no.’
The nurse is headed for the door to give me some privacy, but then she pauses. ‘Oh. Is there someone I can call for you?’
I shake my head. But suddenly I’m not so sure. The lights. The sounds. The strange people.
‘Oh, love,’ she says kindly. ‘Labour can be hard work – you’ll want someone here to support you. A friendly face. Someone you trust.’
Someone I trust.
How complicated that statement has become. What if the person I trust most in the world is entirely untrustworthy? I want to ask. And then, another thought occurs to me: And what if she is the one person I can’t get through this thing without?
‘Fine,’ I say finally. ‘There is someone.’
Rose arrives at the hospital fifteen minutes after the nurse, Beverly, calls. In that short time, my pain level has gone from manageable to torturous.
‘Why didn’t you call me earlier?’ Rose snaps as she bustles in. ‘We had a plan, remember?’
‘Enough of that,’ Beverly says firmly, glancing up from her notes. ‘I don’t want anyone upsetting our mother-to-be.’
I glance at Rose. Rose has never taken well to people ticking her off. So I’m surprised when she gives Beverly a tight smile, removes her handbag and places it on the window ledge. ‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry. Are you all right?’
This is one for the books. I can’t remember Rose ever saying sorry to me . . . ever.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, before realising this is far from the truth. My body is tensed up, my arms are wrapped around myself and I’m rocking gently.
Rose looks at me knowingly. ‘Busy in here, right?’ she says softly. ‘It’s all right. I’ll take care of everything.’
To her credit, take care of things she does. In a matter of minutes, Rose has dimmed the lights, closed the door, opened the window and explained to every nurse that I don’t like people crowding me. Then she helps me down off the bed, explaining that I need to move around. Within a few minutes, I can breathe again.
That’s the funny thing. Whatever else Rose has done, I realise, she is the only person on earth who can do this for me.
Rose is outside talking to the doctor when Beverly comes back to check my progress. I am sitting on the chair, the only place I feel comfortable. I tell Beverly I don’t want to get on the bed, and she replies, ‘Of course, love. I can check you right where you are.’
I am starting to warm to Beverly. I’m even becoming fond of her saying ‘love’.
While she’s checking me, she says casually, ‘Your sister tells me you are being a surrogate for her? What an amazing gift.’
I manage a nod.
‘I would have loved to have a child. They didn’t use surrogates in my day, though. Even if they did, I only had a brother. I had friends, but it really seems like a sister thing, being a surrogate. I imagine, being twins, the bond is even more unique. If you get along, that is.’ She laughs.
Beverly doesn’t seem to be expecting an answer, and I am glad. If she had, I might have told her the truth. That people without sisters think it’s all sunshine and lollipops or all blood and guts. But actually it’s always both. Sunshine and guts. Lollipops and blood. Good and bad. The bad is as essential to the relationship as the good.
Maybe the bad is even more important, because that’s what ties you together.
*
The pain of labour is blinding. At first there is a rhythm to it, but after a while it’s just pain. Breathtaking, magnificent pain. People I don’t know are constantly touching me, assessing me, talking about me. When they talk to me, Rose answers on my behalf. I am grateful. It allows me to close my eyes and retreat into myself, remaining silent apart from the low animalistic grunts that emanate from me every minute or so as I struggle through a contraction. It makes sense to me, this noise, because in a way, I have become nothing more than an animal.
At some point I am offered pain relief, which I decline. For this, I am lauded by Rose and the n
urses and told I am strong, when, in fact, I have refused it because I simply cannot bear the idea of anyone else touching me, even to administer pain relief. For now, I’ll take the physical pain over the mental. But I am not strong. I think I might die. If not from the pain, then from the sensory overload. It comes at me from every angle. I am certain I would die, if not for Rose. She anticipates my needs – a cold drink, ice chips, space – and takes care of them quietly and without fuss. She never touches me without asking, and questions those who insist on touching me, confirming that it is absolutely necessary. She talks to the nurses and then reports back to me periodically: ‘It won’t be long’, ‘Things are going well’, and, finally, ‘The baby will be born within the hour’.
Twenty minutes later, when my water breaks, the room fills with people and the lights are turned up. It’s too loud. Too bright. I can’t breathe.
‘You’re ten centimetres,’ Beverly says. ‘It’s time to push.’
I shake my head. I can’t. I need to get out of here. I try to stand but faces and hands rush in, trying to stop me. It makes it worse.
Then I hear Rose. ‘Just give her some space.’
They step back slightly, but it’s not enough. I’m too hot. It’s too much.
‘Fern, you can do this,’ Rose says. ‘You have to do this. For the baby.’
I shake my head again. Rose looks around at the people crowding around me. I see the powerlessness on her face. She can’t make these people go away. They are here to deliver the baby. They won’t go anywhere.
She looks back at me. Her eyes are filled with tears. ‘Close your eyes. Imagine you are somewhere safe. The library. You have all the space you need. And you are with someone that you trust.’
I do as she says. And it’s Wally’s face that I picture as I give birth to our daughter.
JOURNAL OF ROSE INGRID CASTLE
I tried to save Billy. I ran into the water, hooked my arms around his shoulders and tried to lift him out of the water. But he was heavier than I expected. A dead weight.
‘Billy?’ I gently slapped his face. ‘Come on, Billy.’
The Good Sister Page 20