by Penny Kline
The piercing and tattoo shop was closed. Not that Ollie would be there. He was not the type to have a tattoo although Erin had a vague memory of Claudia suggesting he have her name on his thigh. Only joking, Ol. Had he minded her jokes? He had loved her, and love tends to overlook minor irritations. Where was he? He could be miles away and have no intention of coming back – ever. But he would need a job and, if he applied to a different university, they would ask for a reference. If that happened, would Jon tell her, or would he keep it to himself?
Speak of the devil. As she turned away from the pictures of tattoos, she spotted Jon, standing outside a shop, and hurried over to ask if he had seen Ollie. But before she could speak, he was joined by Diana, and an excited Maeve.
‘Erin!’ Maeve ran towards her, swinging a bag. ‘Look.’ She pulled out a pair of black trainers with red flashes. ‘Mum wanted me to have lace-ups but I prefer Velcro.’
‘Very smart.’
‘My feet have grown a whole size.’
‘Calm down, Maeve.’ Diana was smiling and had linked arms with Jon. Her dark hair gleamed as glossy as the mynah bird’s feathers. ‘Hello, Erin.’
‘Ben thought he saw Ollie, but I doubt it was him.’
‘How are you? The baby . . . Do they think . . . ?’
‘Gestation has reached twenty-nine and a half weeks. Twenty-nine and three-quarters actually. Every day is important.’
‘I’m sure.’ Diana let go of Jon and gave her a brief, unexpected hug. ‘Such a worry for you, but they work miracles with premature babies these days.’
Maeve was playing hopscotch on the paving stones. ‘Ollie’s gone missing,’ she said, ‘like on TV. A man disappeared and his body was washed up on the beach.’
‘Maeve!’ Diana pulled her away from her game.
‘I didn’t mean Ollie was dead. You knew that, didn’t you, Erin? I think he’s staying with a friend.’ Maeve handed her new shoes to her mother. ‘He has a lot of friends, doesn’t he, Dad? I’m going to university. Oh no, I forgot, I’m going to Art College. If you want to go to Art College you have to have a portfolio with all your drawings and paintings.’
Diana gave Erin an apologetic smile. ‘Erin knows what a portfolio is, darling.’
‘Can I make one, Erin? No, I’m not good enough yet. I know, I could keep all my drawings and paintings and it would show if I was getting any better at it.’
‘Good idea.’ At the mention of Maeve’s drawings, Erin had expected Diana to flinch, but her face had remained impassive. That meant they had not spoken to her about the picture of a gravestone with MAEVE. RIP. In fact, Erin suspected Jon hadn’t even told Diana about it.
First thing on Monday morning, Erin’s editor phoned to inquire how the illustrations were progressing.
‘No pressure.’ Sara’s voice was edgy with expectation.
‘I’ll send you the pen and ink drawings.’
‘If you could.’ Erin had told her just enough of what was going on to make it hard for her to complain too vigorously. ‘How’s your sister?’
So she had forgotten. Or failed to take in what Erin had said. ‘She’s not going to get better. It’s a question of keeping her on life support until her baby can be born.’
The silence that followed was gratifying and she hoped Sara was feeling as guilty as hell. ‘I’m sorry, I hadn’t realised.’ But if Erin thought she was going to tell her not to worry about the illustrations, she was out of luck.
‘I’ll get back to you by the end of the week,’ Erin said.
‘If you could.’ And she rang off.
The painting she was working on was of Mrs Moffatt, who owned the pet shop. She had brought her little friend, possibly her granddaughter, to choose one of the guinea pigs for her birthday present. The double-page illustration showed the little girl crouching down to pick up the smallest one, whose nose was peeping out of its house.
Erin thought about Ollie, hiding away somewhere, terrified of responsibility and grief- stricken about Claudia. Was he grief stricken? With Ollie, it was so hard to tell. Had something happened before the accident, something she knew nothing about? Did Hoshi know what it was? Ava, Erin was beginning to suspect, knew nothing and simply enjoyed being enigmatic.
Miss Havisham was winding herself round Erin’s ankles. She had bought her some dry cat food but it was clear the cat preferred meat, and she had greeted the pellets with noisy wails. ‘Go away, you ungrateful creature.’ More loud wails were interrupted by the doorbell. Jehovah’s Witnesses? Mormons? But it could be Jennie so she would have to check.
It was Jon.
‘Can I come up?
‘All right, but I’m working flat out.’
He followed her up the two flights of stairs, past Claudia and Ollie’s bedroom, with its firmly closed door, and on to her garret in the attic – because that was how it was starting to feel.
‘I should have told you before.’
‘Should have told me what?’
‘You don’t know what . . . God, you’ve no idea how much I wanted to but . . . It’s so hard to know where to begin.’
Returning to her easel, she started painting Mrs Moffatt’s frizzy hair. Jon was still standing by the door, moving his weight from one foot to the other. Did he want to make a quick getaway? It was going to be something about Claudia, something he should have told her weeks ago.
‘It’s about Maeve.’
‘Go on.’
‘When she was born . . . I was worried, I could tell there was something wrong. No one said very much but . . . They took her away and . . .’
‘Get to the point.’ She sounded callous but she was determined that this time he was going to tell her the truth.
‘Oh, God.’ He sighed, and she turned away, pretending to be concentrating on her painting. ‘The doctor asked to see us and I thought she must have brain-damage.’
‘But she didn’t. Diana told me. I’m no expert, but I’d say her intelligence is above average.’
A spotlight she had fixed up the previous week illuminated the beads of sweat on Jon’s forehead, and when he spoke, his voice was so quiet she had to strain to hear. ‘I thought you might have guessed. No, how could you? When we met you down at the shopping centre . . . Oh, God, there’s no way to break it gently. Diana is my sister.’
‘What?’
‘No, let me explain.’
Her phone rang and she snatched it up, the familiar voice made her paintbrush drop from her hand. ‘What’s happened?’ Her heart was beating so loudly she could barely take in what Andrea was saying. ‘Yes, yes of course. Yes, straight away.’ She pushed past Jon. ‘It’s the baby.’
‘What’s happened? I’ll drive you there.’
‘No.’
‘I could come with you.’
‘Come with me? You’re just about the last person in the world I would want to.’
Chapter 25
When she found the Scottish doctor by Claudia’s bedside, she felt weak with relief. Andrea was there too and they were making preparations.
‘We’re taking Claudia down to theatre,’ the doctor explained, ‘it’s a very quick procedure.’
‘What happened?’
‘The placenta. We were worried it was starting to fail. I believe your sister carried an organ donor card.’
‘Yes.’ He knew she did, but had to check, and she knew what was coming next.
‘As soon as the baby’s delivered we’d like to—’
‘You’ll switch off her life support, I know.’ They needed Claudia’s organs but were afraid of upsetting her. ‘I understand.’
Andrea put a hand on her arm. ‘We thought you’d like to say goodbye.’
‘But the baby . . .’
‘A short time will make no difference. We’ll leave you on your own with her.’
For the first time since the accident, she held Claudia’s hand. She knew she couldn’t hear anything, even so she promised to take care of her baby, and love her, and keep her safe,
and try to make sure she was happy. It was the end, she would never see Claudia again, but just now that was too difficult to take in. Later, like everything else that had happened, she would go over it in her head, again and again until it lost some of its power to hurt. She kissed Claudia’s warm forehead, turning away, too distraught to cry. ‘Goodbye. Your baby’s going to be born now. I love you and I’ll love your baby, I promise I will.’
Andrea accompanied her to the waiting room and told her to try not worry, she would be back shortly.
‘How long will it take?’
‘Make yourself some coffee.’
The room was packed, but a quick glance told her no one was particularly concerned about their relative, they were just waiting to be allowed into a ward. A woman with swollen legs offered to move up so Erin could sit next to her, but she shook her head and started pacing the floor, like all the expectant fathers she had seen in the movies. Crossing to the window, she stared out at the brick wall opposite and at a couple of scruffy pigeons, then retraced her steps for fear she was getting on people’s nerves. Amazing how conventional good manners still applied even at the most stressful of times.
When she reached the woman who’d offered her a seat, she sat down, explaining that her sister was having a baby. The woman murmured something about a cup of tea, but she shook her head, attempting to return her smile. Time dragged. She checked her watch endlessly – it was two minutes ahead of the clock on the wall – and pressed her nails into her palms, trying to get a grip on herself. If the baby died . . . If there was something wrong with her . . .
Twenty minutes. Was that a good sign or a bad one? Wheeling Claudia to the operating theatre would have taken several minutes. The caesarean section would . . . No, there would have been checks first. What kind of checks? A scalpel would slice into her abdomen and the baby would be lifted out, snatched up by a nurse and wrapped in a towel. If she cried . . . If not, they would give her oxygen – if they thought she had a chance.
The book she had bought described tests to make sure the baby’s heart and breathing were satisfactory, that it moved or lay limply in the nurse’s arms, that its skin colour was pink or bluish, and it had a reflex response. According to the book, most babies scored between seven and ten. What happened if the score was only three or four? But Claudia’s baby was premature and would be taken to special care the minute she was born.
Thirty-five minutes. The baby was dead but no one wanted to tell her. Andrea had offered but the doctor had insisted it was his job only just now there was an emergency and . . . A male nurse put his head round the door and she started towards him, but he was looking for someone else. ‘Mrs Gladwell?’ he asked, but there was no one of that name in the room.
After he left, she spooned instant coffee into a cracked mug, telling herself that would make it more likely she would be sent for. Stupid, ridiculous, but when all else failed what was left but superstition? Sugar. She hated sugar in her coffee but in times of stress . . . No, that was for shock. No sugar. No coffee. She tipped the granules into the sink and ran the hot tap. If she washed up, cleared all the rubbish off the draining board . . . She searched for some washing-up liquid, but there was none.
‘Erin?’ It was Andrea, standing in the doorway, and she was smiling.
‘Is she all right?’ They hurried down the corridor together. ‘Please tell me. You are allowed to, aren’t you?’
‘A beautiful little girl.’ Andrea stopped walking and gave her a huge hug. ‘Come and meet her.’
The Special Care Baby Unit was in another part of the building and, as they walked through the maze of corridors, Andrea told her everything she knew. The baby weighed nearly three and a half pounds, a good weight considering, and had been put in an incubator so her temperature could be controlled and oxygen supply adjusted, according to her needs. The birth itself had been straightforward and the doctor was pleased with her general condition although, obviously, it was early days yet.
Erin was finding it difficult to breathe. All those hours she had spent, visualising this moment, but now it had come it had no reality. Claudia’s baby. Her baby. How dare Ollie have stayed away when he must know his baby could be born at any time? His baby? She hoped he would never come back. The baby was going to be all right, she knew she was, and when she was strong enough she would take her home and buy her everything she needed.
‘In here, Erin, you know the drill with hand-washing. She’s tiny, and in an incubator, but don’t be alarmed. Ready?’
She was lying on her tummy with her head turned to one side, wearing a nappy and a vest and a doll-size knitted hat. The small amount of hair that was visible was so light, and her eyes so round, there was not the faintest possibility Hoshi was her father.
‘She’s lovely, isn’t she?’ Andrea said.
‘As far as you can tell, is there anything wrong with her?’
‘She has all her fingers and toes.
‘Do you know how long she’ll be in an incubator?’
Andrea turned to the special care nurse. ‘This is Erin, the baby’s aunt. She’s going to be the one who comes to visit.’
The nurse nodded and smiled. ‘She’s likely to be here in the unit for four or five weeks. Maybe a little longer, until she puts on weight. She needs to be kept warm and the incubator’s high humidity helps to prevent her skin drying out and cracking. Premature babied are unable to regulate their temperature well. She’s not strong enough to suck so she’ll be fed through a tube. Slowly to prevent infection.’
‘That’s something that could happen?’
‘Steroids were given to accelerate lung maturity, and she’ll be monitored carefully.’
‘What happens if she stops breathing?’ Too many questions. But she needed to know everything.
‘If her breathing deviates from normal an alarm goes off. Alarms often go off though so there’s no immediate cause for worry.’
Erin opened her mouth but Andrea pre-empted another question. ‘Have you thought about a name? No rush. When you go home you can think about it.’
‘Phoebe. It was Claudia’s middle name. I’ve only got one.’
‘Me too. Phoebe – that’s a beautiful name. Her birth will need to be registered. I’ll give you the address of where to go.’
‘I know where it is.’
‘Of course you do. I’m sorry. When you had to register your sister’s death.’
‘It was only an interim certificate. I’ll need to get another one.’ Once a diagnosis of brain death has been made, the individual is pronounced legally dead. The time of death is not the time when the ventilator is removed. Erin had looked it up and, in spite of finding it so difficult to accept that Claudia had died, the words had stayed in her head.
Small snuffling sounds were coming from the incubator. Erin longed to hold her, but of course that was impossible.
‘You can touch her if you like.’ The special care nurse pointed to a hole in the side of the incubator, and Erin placed one of her fingers on the palm of the outstretched hand and the baby’s fingers curled round it.
‘Visit whenever you like, but don’t feel you have to come in every day. We’ll take good care of her.’
‘And you’ll let me know if . . .’
‘Of course. We have your mobile and your home number.’
‘Thank you.’ She hesitated, half reluctant to leave, half wanting to go into the open air and clear her head, and to tell Ben and Jennie. But not Jon. ‘I’ll see you again soon, and thank you, thank you so much, all of you.’
Ben was delighted, but Jennie’s response was muted and Erin decided Ben was right about her being depressed.
‘What does she look like?’ He had used the occasion as an excuse to open a bottle of wine. ‘How much does she weigh? Only twenty-eight weeks, isn’t it?’
‘Twenty-nine and three-quarters. She’s tiny and has hardly any hair, but she’s definitely not Hoshi’s.’
Jennie let out a shriek. ‘Is that what you thou
ght?’
‘Only because the doctors said the baby was larger than they would have expected. She’s lovely, perfect. She’s in an incubator but I was allowed to touch her. I expect you could come and see her in a day or two, if you’d like to.’
Ben grinned. As usual, the house was too hot, and he was wearing a T-shirt. ‘Certainly would.’
‘If you weren’t allowed into the room, they’d definitely let you look at her through the window. Jennie?’
‘I’d love to, but I think I’d better wait until I’m germ-free.’
So, in spite of Erin’s relief the baby had been born, Jennie was not prepared to set aside her dislike of hospitals.
‘If there’s anything we can do.’ Ben patted the sofa, inviting Erin to sit beside him.
‘Yes, anything,’ Jennie added, without much enthusiasm, ‘and I’m so glad she’s been delivered safely. Have you given her a name?’
‘Oh, yes, I forgot. Phoebe, I’m going to call her Phoebe. It was Claudia’s middle name.’
‘A lovely name.’
‘They switched off Claudia’s life support,’ Erin said. ‘No, it’s all right, I knew how it was going to be and she would have wanted her organs . . .’
Ben took her glass and put it on the table. ‘We think you’ve done brilliantly, don’t we, Jen? It must have been awful, all that waiting and . . . I’m so sorry about Claudia.’
‘Yes, so sorry,’ Jennie repeated. ‘It’s so sad she’ll never see her baby.’
Ben glanced at Jennie. ‘Actually, now the baby’s been born—’
‘Not now, Ben.’ Jennie made a move to pull herself up from her chair, changing her mind when it was clear he was not going to be put off.
‘It’s about Claudia, Erin. I wanted to tell you before. Before someone else did. But you had enough on your plate.’