by Kate Hewitt
From the bathroom someone screeches, and I tense, but then they erupt into laughter.
‘You’re right,’ Kevin says quietly. ‘We’re doing this. Together.’ He reaches for my hand and I twine my fingers through his. We stay that way silently, hands linked, as close as we’ve been in a long time, and the pressure building in my chest eases. I may feel alone, but I’m not. Not like Grace.
Six
GRACE
When Tina called to invite me to attend Heather’s ultrasound with her, I felt a ripple of pleasure, a dart of alarm. It felt like an invasion of Heather’s privacy, and I wasn’t sure what role I’d have there, but I wanted to see some concrete evidence of this baby. My child.
I still couldn’t quite believe Heather had decided to go with me after all. I’d thought I’d botched that whole first meeting, seeming prissy and business-like because I was so nervous. And then that surreal confrontation in the street, both of us laying our cards down right there. It felt good, a chance to reveal something I knew I couldn’t hide forever. And Heather’s admission about why she chose me didn’t faze me, not after I’d thought about it. She was being honest too, and it felt as if we’d found equal terms, ones we could both live with.
And so now we’re going ahead, signing more forms, making it real. Tina asked me to cover the maternity costs plus some basic living expenses, which I was more than happy to do. Money is easy.
I arranged to have two hundred dollars a week put into Heather’s account, which seemed like little enough but Tina was strict about the whole financial side of things. There were rules about that, formulas to follow, spreadsheets to fill out. No one should be buying a baby. If only it were that simple.
I rent a car to drive to the hospital in New Jersey where Heather is having the ultrasound. As I’m stepping out of my apartment, already running five minutes late, my neighbor opens her door. I brace myself for the usual opening gambit of bright questions. At least I know her name now – Eileen. At least I think it is. It was hard to make out the writing on the Christmas card she slid under my door.
‘Hello,’ she says cheerfully. ‘Going somewhere nice?’
‘Not particularly.’ That feels a bit rude so I temper it with a smile as I press the button for the elevator. ‘How about you?’ I don’t feel quite confident enough to call her Eileen.
‘Oh no, dear, not with my eyesight.’ She shakes her head ruefully. ‘Can’t go much anywhere these days.’
Surprise jolts through me; I hadn’t realized her eyesight was that bad, but then why would I? I know nothing about her or her husband, who I realize I haven’t seen in a while. I can’t think of what to say and then the elevator door opens and I step inside. My neighbor is still standing there watching me and I blurt suddenly, ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not actually sure of your name. Is it… is it Eileen?’ I give an embarrassed laugh.
She smiles, wide and easy. ‘Yes, and you’re Grace.’
The doors of the elevator close with her still smiling. I feel a twinge of both guilt and regret that I’ve been so indifferent, so focused on other things. I’m going to be better about that kind of thing from now on. Now that I’m going to be a mother.
As I pull into the parking lot of Trinitas Medical Center tension begins to twang through me. I haven’t been to a hospital since my father died. When I step through the automatic doors and breathe in that awful smell of antiseptic and illness, it all comes back in a sickening rush: the evenings I spent by his bed, watching the sun sink slowly outside as the room became lost in shadows; the persistent beep of all the monitors he was hooked up to, and the way people were always coming in and out – nurses, cleaners, aides to deliver the meals he never ate. The trays stacked up on the side, with their little plastic-covered dishes of canned peaches or chicken noodle soup, everything untouched.
Doctors hardly ever came; once a day, if that, managing to seem both important and disinterested. My father stirring occasionally, his eyelids fluttering as he smiled at me, saying something nonsensical because of the morphine he was getting through an IV. Or coming out with something astonishingly lucid that stole my breath before I could speak, because I knew it was all slipping away and I absolutely could not stand it.
It felt as if his life was being played out reel by reel in his mind, for he’d mention things from all over – his first job, when I was a baby, meeting Mom at UConn, the last movie we saw together, just two months earlier. Garbled snapshots that faded before I could look at them properly, and I longed to hold onto them. He was imparting his history to me, giving it like a final gift, offered in fragments and sighs, and I couldn’t even keep it.
It went on that way for a week and then the doctor told me quite matter-of-factly that Dad had no more than twenty-four hours; his body was shutting down, his organs starting to fail. It felt as if the doctor had slapped me in the face and then smiled. In reality he’d given me a sorrowful look and then left before I could ask him any questions, before I could even think.
I spent all those hours – it turned out to be sixteen – sitting by my father’s bed, holding his hand, my fingers sliding over the loose skin and frail bones, savoring that last connection even as I tensed with both hope and fear every time his eyes flickered open. Holding his hand was all I had to offer, my final gift to him.
The morning of the day he died, my father opened his eyes and looked around, blinking slowly, and then he focused on me and, in a croaky voice, asked what time it was.
‘Why?’ I asked lightly, my throat aching with the knowledge that I’d already lost so much, and there was only more to lose. ‘Do you have somewhere to be, Dad?’
My father smiled faintly, and his fingers squeezed mine. I wanted to cling to him, but I was afraid of hurting him. ‘I have a train to catch,’ he joked, and then his eyes closed again. Those were the last words he spoke.
The next few hours were an endless agony, both painful and profound. Doctors say it’s painless, the gentle slip into death, and maybe it was, for him. It wasn’t for me. I didn’t know how much he could feel, how much he could think, and that ignorance tortured me. Was he hurting? Was he scared? Could he hear me, when I spoke in a wavering voice, and told him I loved him, that I was there? How much of him was actually left? No doctor can tell you any of those answers.
Those hours stretched on and on, while he sunk deeper into unconsciousness and his breathing became more and more labored, the slow, ragged draw and tear making me tense every time. I lost more of him with each passing moment and I almost wished that he would just die, simply to end the misery for both of us, but then when he took that last, shuddering breath, when his body went totally still and everything was suddenly, totally silent, I realized I hadn’t wanted that at all. At all.
I sat there for a full minute, holding his hand, feeling how it was already becoming cool.
A dead body looks dead very quickly, so don’t give me any of this ‘He looked as if he was asleep’ shit. My father was gone. All it had taken was a second; he was there, and then he wasn’t. He absolutely wasn’t, and I realized that even lying in a bed with his eyes closed and his hand limp in mine, his every breath so painfully labored, he’d been there. He’d been alive, and I wanted that back so much it felt as if I would not be able to get through the next minute, never mind the rest of my life.
I went to get the nurse, walking as if I were outside my body, observing everything from a distance that had opened up in myself, a gaping sinkhole that was sucking everything in – my breath, my thoughts, my very self. I watched while they draped a sheet over his body and unplugged all the machines and somehow that made it so much worse, like packing up after a show or a vacation, the nurses so brisk and efficient, just another dead body to them. I didn’t even like their sympathetic smiles, because they had no idea. Tonight they were going to go home and watch The X Factor.
And so I walked out of the room; I signed the paperwork, avoiding everyone’s compassionate yet impersonal gazes, and then I left the hosp
ital. I don’t even remember the next few days; I went to work because to stay home felt like torture, but I can’t remember what I did or said or felt. Eventually I felt myself come back into focus, but I knew I’d never be the same. I’m missing something, I always will be, and a baby won’t plug that hole in my heart. I’m not looking for that. If anything, I’m looking for a way to pay my father’s love forward.
Now I’m in a hospital again, and I feel sick. As I walk through the lobby an aide rolls a stretcher past, and I hear the beep beep beep of some kind of monitor and a visceral reaction goes through me, a full body shudder. I’m not sure I can do this.
But I keep walking, one foot in front of the other, because I want to find Heather. I want to see my baby on that screen. And then I come to the maternity unit with its ultrasound ward and the expectant mothers with their hands laced across their big bellies, and the room is so cheerful, I almost forget I’m in a hospital at all.
Heather is already there, clutching her bag on her lap. She looks tired and a bit forlorn, but she smiles hesitantly when she sees me. ‘Grace. Hi.’
‘Hi.’ I sit down next to her, give her a quick smile although I’m already feeling awkward.
‘How are you feeling?’ I ask, which feels like a fairly safe opener.
‘Like I really have to pee.’ Heather gives an embarrassed grimace.
‘Oh?’ I glance around for a bathroom sign. Surely there has to be one? ‘Do you want to go to the ladies’? I’ll listen out if they call your name.’
‘Oh, no.’ Heather lets out a little laugh. ‘I can’t. I mean, you have to have a full bladder for the ultrasound. So they can see the baby on the screen.’
‘Oh. Right.’ I think I knew that, somewhere in my subconscious stores of trivia. I feel like I should have known that, considering. I should have done more research.
Heather looks at me curiously, obviously wondering at my ignorance. ‘Did you try to get pregnant yourself? Before you decided to adopt?’
‘No, I didn’t.’ I decide to be honest, just as we were out in the street. I think that’s what Heather wants, too.
‘Why not?’
‘Well, as you know, there’s no potential father in the picture,’ I say with a little, awkward laugh. ‘And I didn’t really feel like going the whole turkey-baster route.’ Which is true. Plus I couldn’t take the time off work, which sounds heartless, so I decide to keep that part to myself.
Heather smiles a little. ‘That sounds like something Kevin would say.’
‘Oh?’ I’m surprised by the mention of her husband. I don’t know anything about him besides his injury but I get the sense that he can be difficult and unpleasant. ‘He didn’t want to come today?’
Heather’s expression closes right up. ‘No, he didn’t. Why would he?’ There is something dignified about her response, about her lack of pretending. ‘Since we’re not keeping this baby. The less he knows, the better. Otherwise it just hurts.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I murmur, although I’m not exactly sure what I’m apologizing for.
‘No, I’m the one who should be sorry.’ Heather blows out a breath. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean… it’s just this has been difficult for us, but I know we’re doing the right thing.’ She tries to give me a reassuring smile, but it wobbles. ‘For us and for you. I really do know that. So…’ With determination she injects a false note of brightness in her voice. ‘What would you rather have? A boy or a girl?’
‘Oh, um…’ I am thrown by the sudden change, Heather’s willingness to ask a question I’ve been too hesitant to ask myself, much less answer. ‘I’ve been picturing a girl,’ I admit almost shyly. ‘Boys are so different, I’m not sure what I’d do with one.’
She laughs a little. ‘Me neither, although Kev would like a boy, I think. A son.’ Then, realizing how that sounds, she backtracks quickly. ‘I mean, he would have, you know, if…’ She starts again. ‘We have three girls and we love them. Of course.’ She shakes her head, annoyed with her babbling, and I smile.
‘I know you do.’ Of all the things I might wonder about Heather, her love for her family is not one of them. She wouldn’t be doing this if she didn’t love them all with the same, heart-stopping love I already feel for this unknown little person. That much I get.
‘It’s probably a girl, anyway,’ she says. ‘Seems like that’s all we make.’ She shakes her head again. ‘This is so weird. I don’t know what to say that sounds right.’
‘I know, I don’t either.’ And then, because for a second we feel close, bound by our shared confusion, I touch her hand lightly. She smiles at me, and I see gratitude in her eyes, and I release the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
‘So do you want to find out?’ Heather asks. ‘The sex?’
‘It might be fun. Make it more real.’ I try for a laugh. ‘This feels pretty surreal to me. I can’t believe I’m actually going to be a mother in a few months.’ Just saying the words sends an uneasy thrill rippling through me. A mother.
‘At least you won’t have to deal with the recovery while you have a newborn. Milk coming in, sore down there…’ She shakes her head, frowning, and I realize she’s thinking how she’ll have to deal with it. Without the newborn.
‘A bonus of adoption, I guess,’ I say lightly, and she nods, not looking at me. I want to get back to that brief moment of solidarity, but it feels like it’s already gone.
‘Heather McCleary?’ A nurse in hot pink scrubs appears at the doorway, smiling and holding a clipboard.
Heather struggles up from her seat and after a second I take her arm, and she gives me a quick, uncertain smile.
The nurse’s gaze moves questioningly between me and Heather, although she doesn’t ask who I am. Friend? Customer? What if she thinks I’m Heather’s partner, her wife, a clear case of opposites attracting? She’s probably seen it all.
We’re led into a room with a lot of beeping machines and an examining table. It’s surprisingly dark, the lights dimmed, everything hushed, and I stand in the doorway as that same visceral reaction I experienced in the lobby takes hold of me once more, even stronger this time. This is where death happens.
‘Ms. McCleary?’
‘Mrs.,’ Heather corrects, sounding strident. She turns to look at me. ‘Grace?’
‘Yes.’ I draw a deep breath into my lungs and will myself to take a step into the room.
Heather is already clambering up onto the table, and the technician sits on a stool next to her, both clearly waiting for me.
‘Sorry.’ My voice sounds tinny, and I clear my throat. ‘Sorry, I…’ There’s nothing I can say. I sit down in the chair on the other side of the examining table, and breathe in deeply.
Heather lifts up her shirt to reveal her baby bump, which looks flaccid and fish-belly white, and for some reason I recoil a bit at the sight. It’s so… intimate, so other. I think of my own flat, toned stomach and I don’t know whether to feel glad or sorry for it.
The technician squirts clear gel on Heather’s belly and then prods it quite forcefully with a metal wand. That can’t be comfortable; I see Heather wince. I want to ask if it could hurt the baby, but it must not or the technician wouldn’t be doing it. I stay silent.
‘Let’s have a look at Baby,’ the woman murmurs, and Heather and I both turn to the blurry, blobby image that has suddenly appeared on the black screen. ‘There’s the head,’ the woman continues, and Heather smiles faintly and nods. I squint, trying to see what they both see, but all I can make out is a moving Rorschach test. ‘And heart, stomach, kidney, liver…’ Nope and nope, nope and nope again. I feel completely unqualified. How am I going to take care of this baby, if I can’t even see it on the screen?
‘Arms and legs… fingers and toes…’ The technician spares me what I fear is a withering glance and then leans over to point out all the digits on the screen.
And then, all of a sudden, I see it. It’s like the optical illusion where you blink and suddenly the old
crone becomes a young woman. You see something that was definitely not there before at all. Right in front of me on that screen is an honest-to-God baby; he or she is sucking his thumb. I see it, and I feel a leap of excitement inside, a sensation like the turn of a kaleidoscope, the sudden burst of colors.
‘Do you see it, Grace?’ Heather asks softly, and I sniff and nod. I am feeling far more emotional than I expected, but that’s my baby on the screen.
‘It’s amazing.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ She turns her head toward the technician. ‘Grace is going to adopt this baby.’
‘How wonderful,’ the technician murmurs, eyes on the screen, face carefully neutral.
The technician continues with her measurements and calculations, talking about the nuchal fold, the distance between the eyes, and I tune out a bit, intent on focusing on the way the baby on the screen is moving around, scrunching up its legs, waving its arms. It’s a person. A child. And it’s mine.
I feel that with such a sudden, solid certainty that it takes my breath away. I’ve had a lot of doubts, about me, about Heather, a lot of worries and fears, but right now I know. I might not be the most maternal woman out there, God knows I can admit that, but my arms are empty and my child is there.
‘Do you want to know the sex?’ the technician asks in a carefully diffident voice, and Heather gives me a quick, questioning glance, waiting for me to speak.
‘Yes, please,’ I say, and Heather confirms this with a quick nod.
‘Well…’ The technician leans forward, peering at the screen. ‘It’s hard to tell because Baby is moving around so much, but if I had to call it, I’d say you’re having a girl.’
‘Great.’ I hear relief in Heather’s voice, strong enough to surprise me. What if it had been a boy? Would that have changed anything, having Kevin’s son? Surely not. But in any case, it isn’t a boy, it’s a girl. My little girl. I can see her already, her pale blonde hair, her rosebud mouth.