Emma felt the needle and then, before she’d counted to three, it was as if the lights had suddenly been switched off. Darkness enveloped her and she remembered no more.
Vincent stood peering in at his tiny daughter as she lay asleep in the incubator behind the glass partition. Her little matchstick limbs looked as fragile as a sparrow’s legs. Vincent feared for her. She only weighed two and a half pounds, the size of two and a half bags of sugar. She was so small, how could she possibly survive? She’d been baptized immediately. He’d called her Julie Ann. That was the name he and Emma had chosen for her the night before she’d been born. Tears smarted in his eyes. She had to survive. She might be all that was left to him. Emma was seriously ill. She had a raging temperature and her blood pressure was dangerously high. She was still unconscious. Vincent wanted to bury his head in his hands and bawl his eyes out. But he was a man, he wasn’t supposed to cry. Only cissies cried. His wife was at death’s door, his daughter might not survive either, he had every right to cry, he told himself fiercely as he furtively wiped the tears from his cheeks. He straightened his shoulders, took one last look at his little girl and headed for the Intensive Care Unit to see if there was any change in Emma’s condition.
Her eyes flickered open. The strong late afternoon sun hurt so she closed them again quickly. She felt a raging thirst. Her mouth was parched and dry and her throat felt as if it had been cut. Swallowing was immensely painful. Her whole body felt like a dead weight but, through the wooziness, a sharp stabbing pain twisted itself through her abdomen with a viciousness that took her breath away.
‘Oh Jesus,’ Emma muttered, shocked, before drifting back into unconsciousness.
Emma was still unconscious when Vincent arrived. A medical team stood beside the bed working on her. All kinds of monitors and drips were being attached to her. Vincent’s heart began to pound with fear.
‘Is she all right? What’s wrong?’ He grabbed a nurse by the arm.
‘Please, Mr Munroe, wait outside,’ the nurse said calmly.
‘Tell me what’s wrong with her?’ Vincent was frantic.
‘Her blood pressure is causing concern. Now you must wait outside.’
‘Could she die?’
‘Your wife is seriously ill, Mr Munroe. Please, I have work to do. You’re not helping her.’
Dazed, Vincent walked through the push doors of the ICU. Emma was dying, and there was nothing he could do to help. And he’d been such a bastard to her, telling her there was nothing wrong. ‘Oh Jesus, Jesus, please let her be all right. Please God, don’t take her from me.’ He buried his head in his hands and felt salty tears pour down his face. Moments later the doors were flung open and orderlies pushed a gurney through at speed. Vincent had a brief glimpse of Emma’s waxen face, her inky hair splayed against the pristine white of the pillow.
‘What’s wrong? Where are you taking her?’
‘She’s haemorrhaging. We’re taking her to theatre.’ The nurse hurried past him with Emma’s chart and file. Another nurse came over to him as he stood shocked and bewildered watching them disappear behind the grey doors of a lift.
‘Why don’t you go and have a cup of tea while you’re waiting? There’s nothing you can do here.’
I don’t want tea, he wanted to rage. I want Emma to be all right. He stared down into the nurse’s kind eyes. They were dark, like Emma’s. ‘Is she going to be all right?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Munroe. We have to wait and see,’ she answered honestly.
Vincent felt beads of sweat break out on his forehead. There was nothing he could do to help Emma. He felt helpless, frustrated and utterly out of control. It was the worst moment of his life.
He walked blindly down the corridor. He had to get out of this place or he’d freak. He took the lift to the foyer and walked out through the front door of the hospital. Traffic streamed past. The noise grated on his shattered nerves. People hurried home, tired after a long day at work. A couple overtook him and laughed at some private joke. He wanted to smash his fist in their faces. His wife lay dying, and they were laughing, unaware of her suffering. It seemed obscene. How could people act as though everything was normal? Nothing was normal any more.
It was drizzling steadily. The rain flattened his hair and dripped down the back of his neck. Vincent pulled up his collar, shoved his hands in his pockets and headed for the Pro-Cathedral.
He sat in the dim light of the church for a long time. He was too tired to pray. Too tired and too defeated. He knew he should go back. But he was afraid. Finally he made himself retrace his steps through the wet windswept city streets until he reached the grey imposing pillared entrance to the hospital. He felt sick.
Emma was back in ICU. Her haemorrhaging had been controlled but she was dangerously ill. She was still unconscious. She seemed so fragile and waif-like lying limply against her pillows, attached to all the drips and blood transfusions and monitors that surrounded her. He had never seen anyone so white and drained as Emma was. He feared for her.
The nurses made him go home. There was no place for him there. He was getting in their way. It was the longest night of his life as he, Pamela, and the judge sat in terror waiting for a phone call that would blight their lives for ever.
It was night-time when Emma regained consciousness. A nurse smiled down at her.
‘How are you feeling, Mrs Munroe?’
‘Thirsty,’ she murmured.
‘I’ll just give you a tiny sip of water, we don’t want you to get sick after the anaesthetic,’ the nurse said as she held a glass to Emma’s lips. Pain shot through her as she raised her head off the pillow. She felt as though she’d been run over by a truck. The water was like nectar to her dry mouth and she sipped greedily.
‘That’s enough now, good girl.’ The nurse withdrew the glass.
Suddenly, Emma felt a wave of nausea. The nurse, experienced in such matters, quickly held a basin to her mouth as Emma was violently ill.
All she wanted to do was die, she thought as she retched uncontrollably, the movements causing excruciating pain in her lower abdomen. When it was over she lay back against her pillows, exhausted. She hadn’t the energy to lift her hand to wipe her mouth. The nurse was very kind, and wiped her face and neck with a cool damp cloth as she murmured soothing words about what a good patient she was.
Emma lay dazed. Her eyes flickered open again. She saw a drip and a bag with dark red stuff. Was that blood? God Almighty! What was wrong with her? She felt very frightened. Why was she in pain? What had happened? There was something . . . Something she had to ask about. Her brain was so woozy. It was important though. Think . . . think . . . A fleeting memory drifted through the fog. Emma clung to it. She remembered. The baby! What about the baby?
‘Nurse,’ she muttered. Her tongue felt so thick she had enormous difficulty in forming the words.
‘The baby . . . ?’
‘You had a little girl, Mrs Munroe. She’s in an incubator downstairs. She’s doing as well as can be expected,’ the nurse said delicately.
A little girl. Vincent would be disappointed, Emma thought in dismay. Doing as well as could be expected. What did that mean? It didn’t sound too good. Tears slid down her cheeks.
‘Don’t cry. Sister’s going to give you an injection now for the pain, and it will make you sleep. Things will look much better in the morning,’ the nurse comforted.
Emma wanted to believe her. She was very tired, and scared. She wanted an injection to knock her out so that she’d never wake up. In the distance she heard a baby’s cry. Was it hers? The thought made her sob uncontrollably. She was still crying as the needle’s jab was followed by welcome black oblivion.
The next time she woke, Vincent and her mother were sitting by her bed. It was reassuring to feel Vincent’s strong hand holding her own.
‘You’re fine,’ he soothed. ‘And so is the baby. Just rest now and don’t worry about a thing.’ Emma felt comforted to have Vincent there and she lay quietly with
her mother on one side and Vincent on the other and drifted in and out of drugged sleep.
It was a week later before Emma was judged well enough to make the journey by wheelchair to the special care unit to see her daughter for the first time.
She felt terribly weak as Vincent pushed her along the hospital corridor. As they drew near the nursery, her palms began to sweat and a knot of apprehension tightened in her stomach. Vincent wheeled her to the glass partition and pointed in. ‘It’s the one nearest the window. There she is, isn’t she lovely? She’s put on six ounces, they’re very pleased,’ he said proudly, his face wreathed in smiles.
Emma took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding. She gazed in the direction of his pointing finger. All she could see was a tiny scrunched-up red face, and a bony little arm covered in blue veins, flailing the air. She wanted to say she was beautiful but she wasn’t. She wasn’t like any baby Emma had ever seen. She should be round-cheeked and chubby and adorable. Fear gripped her. She had hoped that a wave of love would move her when she finally saw her child but the feeling that overwhelmed her was one of huge, huge dismay and even worse . . . a vague sense of revulsion.
‘Take me back to the ward, Vincent. I don’t feel too good,’ she whispered in desperation.
‘When you’re stronger you can go in and hold her. That will make all the difference. I know it’s not the same out here.’ Vincent mistook her lack of enthusiasm.
‘I know.’ She tried to smile at him. He’d hate her if he knew that the last thing on earth she wanted to do was to hold that scrawny, mewling being that she had brought forth so reluctantly into the world.
Chapter Nine
‘You do it.’ Emma handed the bottle back to the nurse. It was feeding time and they wanted her to give Julie Ann her bottle.
‘No, Mrs Munroe. You must learn to do it yourself.’ The nurse was kind but firm.
‘But I’m afraid she’ll choke or something,’ Emma said agitatedly.
‘She’ll be fine. Now take her in your arms – no, not like that, like this.’ The nurse arranged Julie Ann in the crook of Emma’s arm and handed her the bottle. Gingerly, Emma slid the bottle into the baby’s mouth. She sucked greedily. Emma sat rigid in her wheelchair. Every fibre tense.
‘Relax,’ the nurse instructed. ‘This is meant to be an enjoyable experience for mother and child.’
You must be joking, thought Emma in disbelief. Julie Ann hiccuped and spluttered.
‘God! She’s choking!’ Emma exclaimed in panic as the baby grew red in the face. ‘Here take her, you feed her. I feel ill. I have to go back to the ward.’ She thrust the baby into the nurse’s arms and fled from the nursery as fast as she could manoeuvre herself in her wheelchair, ignoring the nurse’s protestations that she wasn’t to go anywhere in her wheelchair unaccompanied. She was no good at being a mother. She couldn’t even feed her baby without choking her. She got back into her bed and burrowed down under the bedclothes. Her heart was racing, her stomach was sick with nerves. Emma felt utterly beleaguered.
She refused point-blank to go down to the nursery for the next feed despite the nurse’s exhortations.
‘But darling you must feed your baby yourself. You’ve got to get used to it. Every new mother feels apprehensive like you do. I was terrified but after a while it was no bother,’ Pamela urged. It was evening visiting time, and the nurse wanted Emma to come back down to the nursery to give the baby her two-hourly feed.
‘I just feel too exhausted.’ Emma lay back against the pillows, tense and unhappy. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’
‘Darling, that little baby needs all the love and attention you can give her,’ Pamela said quietly as the nurse left. ‘I know you’re sore and tired and you’ve had a very rough time and it will be a while before you’re feeling anyway normal, but you’re a mother now and Julie Ann needs you. You have to think of her.’
Emma was silent. It was all very well for Pamela to lecture. She hadn’t had a premature baby who was so delicate she looked as if her little limbs could snap like twigs. She hadn’t been at death’s door. She hadn’t had to get over a Caesarean that made one feel that one’s insides had been put through a mangle. All Emma got was lectures, from the nurses, the paediatrician, Sheila, and now Pamela. Why couldn’t they just all leave her alone?
‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’ Ellen felt her elbow being grabbed. She turned to find Vincent scowling down at her. She had decided to visit Emma in hospital. When she heard about the hard time she’d had with the birth, and that there was concern for the premature baby, Ellen felt a little guilty about her outburst at Rebecca’s christening. She decided to visit Emma before she left hospital and apologize.
She got the six p.m. bus into Dublin, bought a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates, and was walking along the hospital corridor when she was stopped by Vincent.
‘I was going in to see Emma,’ Ellen said quietly although her first instinct was to tell him to let go of her arm.
‘Oh no you’re not. I’m not having my wife upset by you. Not after your disgraceful carry-on at the christening.’ Vincent’s eyes were cold and unfriendly.
‘You started it, Vincent. But I’ll apologize to Emma, I don’t hold a grudge and I’m not petty,’ Ellen said pointedly.
‘You can apologize some other time, you’re not to go in there now. Pamela’s in there. She doesn’t know anything about you and Chris, and I don’t want her to know. She’s upset enough as it is.’
Vincent was in no humour for apologies. He was up to ninety. Emma showed no interest in the baby. She didn’t seem to be getting any better herself. She just lay there, limp and indifferent. He couldn’t let her see any hint of his worry and frustration. He needed someone to take his feelings out on. Ellen was just the one. He was in no mood to make up. He was still very annoyed with her. And, besides, the last thing he wanted to have to do was to explain to Pamela that his sister was expecting her nephew’s child.
Ellen stared at her brother and hated him. Hadn’t he any idea how hard it was for her to come in and apologize to Emma? Did he think she liked grovelling? Were Pamela Connolly’s feelings more important to him than his own sister’s? Obviously.
She felt like giving him a puck in the jaw. ‘Stick these up your ass,’ she flared, thrusting the flowers at him. Head high, she marched back down the hospital corridor the way she had come.
Ellen was furious as she stood at the bus stop outside the hospital and waited for a bus back into the city centre.
The nerve of him, she raged, but hurt was what she felt most. He’d made her feel as if she was worth nothing. It was always the same since he’d started going out with that Emma. Once, before they got married, they’d chanced upon her walking home from the Glenree Arms and given her a lift. When they got home, Vincent had fussed around Emma, and made her coffee and ham sandwiches. Ellen hadn’t been invited to join them. She’d had to make her own supper. She’d felt excluded.
That was exactly the way she felt today. Excluded, hurt, bitter and angry. Well he could go to hell. She’d never hold out an olive branch again.
Vincent fed his baby daughter and took pleasure from the fact that she finished her bottle to the last drop. She was a little fighter, he thought proudly. She’d put on another couple of ounces and the staff were very pleased with her. It was a pity he couldn’t be as pleased about Emma. She was so lethargic and down in the dumps. The nurses said new mothers sometimes got a little overwhelmed but surely she should have been over that by now. Her lack of interest in the baby was extremely worrying. Emma was due to leave hospital in a few days time but Julie Ann would be in her incubator for the next two months at least. Emma would have to make daily visits to the hospital to feed her. They were going to stay with Pamela and the judge. It would give Emma a chance to get back on her feet, and Foxrock was much nearer to the hospital than Glenree. He’d far prefer to be in his own home but Pamela had insisted. Emma wanted to stay with her parents, and he wasn’t goin
g to argue.
It was by the grace of God he’d seen Ellen marching along the corridor, en route to Emma’s ward. In the humour Emma was in there could very well have been another row. Ellen had an awful nerve anyway. Did she think a bunch of flowers and an apology would make everything all right? Waltzing around as brazen as you like, not a bit ashamed to be pregnant. The trouble with Ellen was that she didn’t give a damn about anything.
Several days after her abortive attempt to visit Emma, Ellen sat in Doctor Elliot’s waiting-room. She’d finally decided the time had come to see him. The door opened and she tensed. Bonnie Daly walked in and made a beeline for her.
‘Thank the Lord, it’s not packed,’ she said breathlessly, as she plonked down on the chair beside Ellen.
‘I’ve only to renew my blood pressure prescription and do you know, Ellen, every time I’ve come there’s been dozens here. I’ve never seen so many people down with flu at this time of the year. How’s poor Emma and the little dote? Have you seen her yet?’
‘She’s in an incubator so only Emma and Vincent are allowed to see her. Emma’s getting out of hospital tomorrow. She’s going to stay with her mother for a while.’
‘Hmmm . . .’ Bonnie nodded knowledgeably. ‘A girl likes to be with her mother after her first. Especially when she’s had a hard time like poor Emma. I saw Miriam and her little lass the other day. It was nice that Emma had a baby girl too, they’ll be great company for each other.’
‘Yeah,’ Ellen said unenthusiastically, wishing heartily that Bonnie was a million miles away. Of all the people to be alone in the waiting-room with, it would have to be her.
‘Isn’t it great for Sheila to have two new granddaughters? Four grandchildren now. She’ll be kept busy,’ Bonnie prattled on. Ellen was sorely tempted to make a run for it.
Promises, Promises Page 17