by Lisa Swallow
“He’s in the crib in the lounge. He just fed.” I hold up the empty bottle.
“Dylan! You need to follow the schedule.”
“What schedule?”
“Feeding.” She gestures at the list on the fridge.
“He woke when you were in the shower. I think he was hungry.”
Sky’s look darkens, and she drops the cloth. “We talked about this.”
“I know, but your mum said—”
“She’s not an expert on the baby!” snaps Sky. “I’ll check on him now.”
I look from Sky’s retreating figure to the mess in the kitchen and back again. Someone told me some shit about women having nesting instincts before the baby comes but not after. These last few days she’s spent all the time baby’s asleep tidying and organising, complaining she didn’t have time because he came early. Fine, I understand the need to arrange the nursery or plan what we need in the coming weeks. But remodelling the kitchen?
What is wrong with her? She should be exhausted; I am.
SKY
I watch the boy sleeping, tucked beneath a yellow blanket, and only his face and tiny fists visible.
And I feel nothing.
This isn’t my baby.
My baby is a girl. They made a mistake. It happens; hospitals mix babies up, and parents take the wrong one home. This happened to us.
Dylan wasn’t with me when she was born. If he had, he could’ve stopped the swap happening, and I’d have my baby, not somebody else’s. Did they mess up when we arrived at the hospital? I have hazy memories of the birth, and I don’t want to revisit the event in my mind. Jem might know, but Jem’s away and hasn’t time to talk to me.
That’s suspicious.
Dylan told me Jem’s awkward about the situation with him too, and Jem doesn’t know what to say to me. Jem’s promised we’ll talk face to face when he’s back from the States. I’m unsure I can wait that long for him to fill in the gaps.
I look after the little boy as if he were mine, because it wouldn’t be fair to him or his real mum if I didn’t. When they bring my baby back, and we swap, I want his mum to know I did everything I was supposed to.
I’m 100% certain. If this was my baby, when I looked at him I’d feel. My heart would fill with love the way it does for my husband; the way Dylan’s does when he looks at me and the child he thinks is his son. I can care for him, but I can’t love him.
I mentioned my fears to Dylan once, and he thought I was joking. Later, I lay in bed gripped by a scary possibility: maybe he knows. Maybe Dylan wanted a boy and that’s what happened. Sometimes I hear him talking to the doctors and nurses but not wanting me to hear. I’m sure something’s wrong.
The little boy grumbles in his sleep and I chew my lip, hoping he doesn’t wake up yet. I’m sick of smiling and pretending. I can’t do this much longer.
I need to take him back to the hospital and ask them to find my daughter.
29
DYLAN
Tara answers the phone in a few rings, and my question is out before she has a chance to speak. “Is Sky with you?”
“No. Dylan? What’s wrong?”
Why couldn’t she say yes? I’d told myself over and over Sky would be with her. My mouth dries, and the panic I’ve quelled seeps in as I drop a breathless update on Tara.
“Late last night, Sky told me she wanted to see you. I told her not to drive to Bristol, and she agreed to wait. I hoped she’d change her mind because… I don’t know. Something’s off about her. She’d already left when I woke up half an hour ago and it’s only 6:00 a.m. I’ve no fucking idea when she went. And now, where.”
“Have you tried calling her?” Tara’s concern in her voice matches mine, which panics me further.
“She’s not answering. Could you try? We never argued, but I don’t know, Sky’s shutting me out for some reason. Both of us.”
Tara asks the question that’s answer freaks me out the most. “Is the baby with her?”
“Yes.”
There’s a telling pause. “Is Sky not coping, Dylan? She was quiet when I saw her a couple of days ago, not quite with us.”
“I don’t know.” My voice cracks. Did I let her down again? Not read signs? “She seems happy most of the time. A bit full-on, you know how she can be about organising everything.” I rub my head. “Shit, Tara. What’s happening?”
“And the baby…? Is she having issues bonding?”
“She’s looking after him.”
“It’s not just about being a new mum, Dylan. What happened to her would freak anybody out. Sky won’t talk about it, but it was bloody traumatic.”
“Don’t you think I realise that?” I snap as Tara’s words drag along my raw nerves.
Tara switches to a soothing tone. “She’s probably on her way to mine and doesn’t want to talk while driving. Or she had to stop to feed him. Or something.”
“Can you call Sky? In case I’ve upset her? She was a bit pissed off I wouldn’t let her leave last night. Maybe more than I realise?”
“That’s probably it,” says Tara, but her reassurance isn’t convincing. “Call Cerys. Maybe she went there instead? She’s closer.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” I take a shaky breath. “What if something’s happened, Tara?” My head floods with images: car crashes, Lily, empty car seats. Sky and the baby dead. No. Shit. I’m the one overreacting to the situation. But in my heart, I know something is wrong.
SKY
I arrive at the hospital early morning, and sit in the car, scanning the car park for anybody who looks like press. Several cars parked, but no people, 6:00 a.m. too early for most. Plus, no famous babies born in the place since mine a week ago equals lack of interest.
I drift off back to the day my baby was born, clutching at memories and images the way I do daily in an attempt to remember when my daughter was taken. Everything morphs into a haze of fear and pain. I remember up until the birth, and then I’m unsure what’s real and what I dreamed.
Jem.
I called him last week. As usual, the man was reticent to talk to me and stuck to pleasantries. Now he’s overseas, and I can’t see him. I need to see him. Only the three of us and Ruby know Jem was there, the story not leaked. Yet. Talk about story of the year when this gets out… Jem stayed away in the days after the birth. Did Dylan tell him to? Maybe he can’t face me after what happened. We hardly had a solid friendship before that evening’s craziness.
But Jem was there.
He held her.
Jem travelled with me in the ambulance afterwards. I swear he held my hand and coaxed me down from the painful, fearful height I found myself at.
Did Jem see what happened?
I pull my phone out and call him.
No answer.
Twelve missed calls from Dylan, and half a dozen texts look back at me from the screen, asking if I’m okay and to contact him. I stare blankly as the phone rings again, the sound passing over me the way it did as I drove here.
Dylan could’ve helped. He should’ve listened to me.
I’m a mother. I know whether a baby’s mine or not.
Baby sleeps in the car seat behind, as quiet as always. Will my daughter be as peaceful as this baby? He cries and fusses like all newborns I’ve met, but he settles easily. Can he tell I’m not his mother? That I don’t love him?
I snap back to my phone and text Jem. He might want to stay out of the situation, but he can’t avoid the secrets anymore. He knows something.
< I need to talk to you. Did you see what happened to my baby?>
There’s no immediate reply, and I zone out again, the air in the car cooling around me. I try again.
My fingers tremble as I type the words, heart aching. The baby grumbles in his sleep, and I fold my arms across the steering wheel, rest my head, and quell the tears.
They won’t get away with this.
Cold wind blasts my face as I clim
b from the car and head to the back seat to take him out. He remains asleep through all the tugging at belts and sliding the car seat out. I grab the bag filled with bottles and nappies and sling it over one shoulder. Head down, I stride to the hospital’s rear entrance and press the intercom.
A nurse appears and her brow furrows as she looks between me and the baby through the glass. Opening the door, she studies me closer until recognition flickers across her face.
“Sky?”
I don’t know her.
Not speaking, I step into the warmth and calm, gripping the car seat in both hands. My arm aches, the seat’s weight adding too much to baby’s.
“Are you okay? Is something wrong with baby?” The nurse leans down and peeks at him.
Yes, screams a voice in my head as I walk past her.
I pass the poster I stood and stared at last time I was here, promoting breastfeeding and sickening me with guilt at the time because I couldn’t face breastfeeding this intruder. I pass the next poster, about vaccinations, until I reach the nurses station. Opposite, there’s a glass partition overlooking the small nursery.
The baby’s grumbling turns to whimpers, and I place the seat on the floor, looking around for the nurse in charge. The annoying one who met me at the door, who insists on speaking, appears. She crouches down, pushes baby’s hat from his face, and touches him. Her dark ponytail sweeps forward against his face.
“I haven’t hurt him,” I snap as she checks him.
“I didn’t think that.” She looks up at me. “Did you need me to find a doctor? Are you worried he’s sick?”
I wrap my arms around myself. “I want my baby.”
The nurse stands and touches my arm, and I shake her off. “He’s here. Look.”
“You don’t understand!” My voice rises, and I clear my throat. “I want my baby, not this one.”
Silence. Exchanged looks. Does she know what happened?
“Come and sit down, Sky. I’m Mandy.” Mandy takes hold of the car seat and leads me to a small, yellow sofa beneath a brightly lit window. She places the seat down and sits. “What do you mean, Sky?” she asks in a gentle tone.
I sit too and cross my legs, before pulling my phone from my coat pocket. The ringing earlier annoyed me, and I switched it off, but I need to see if Jem replied. Nothing. I grip the phone and look back into Mandy’s smiling face. I bet she knows.
“I mean, this isn’t my baby.”
“Isn’t he?”
“No.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” she asks, again in the cajoling tone pissing me off.
“I want somebody here to tell me what happened. You gave me the wrong baby. My baby is a girl. I had a girl. This is a boy.”
Mandy doesn’t speak, and I stare at the phone again. Come on, Jem.
I glance up at another nurse who’s joined us, missing what Mandy says to her. “Hello, Sky. Do you remember me? I’m Suzanne.”
Curly brown hair. Short woman. Smiles. Always smiling. I nod my head.
“Does Dylan know you’re here?” she asks. “Is he with you?”
“No. He doesn’t listen to me.”
Suzanne squats down and looks at baby too. “I haven’t hurt him,” I repeat. “I don’t want him, but I looked after him.”
Suzanne’s game face matches Mandy’s. Were they expecting me? “Did you come a long way today? Or are you living in London at the moment?”
“The other house,” I mumble and stare down at my phone. “Berkshire.”
“How about I find you a warm drink? You must be tired after your long drive.” Mandy stands and smiles down at me.
“I can give you a break from baby, if that’s okay?” asks Suzanne. “What’s his name?”
“He doesn’t have one; I can’t name somebody else’s baby. Please, can you find out what happened?” My eyes fill with tears. “I don’t care if you take him, he’s safe here.”
“Sure. Let’s find somewhere quiet, and I’ll bring you a coffee.”
I rub my face and stand, head hurting. “And you’ll find out for me?” I ask. “Where she is? You can look at your records or whatever?”
“Come on,” she says. “How do you take your coffee?”
I follow Mandy in a daze, who leaves me in a room, alone and I sink back in the armchair in relief. The weight dragging me down the last few days lifts.
Everything will be fixed now.
DYLAN
I’ve faced some shit in my life, but the phone call I end breaks apart my world.
The moment the caller mentioned she was from a hospital, I freaked, coat half-on and car keys in hand, yelling at the poor girl. Images of Sky and the baby hurt punched me in the gut, but when the nurse explains in a soft voice where Sky is, and why, the pain shatters my heart and the pieces cut deep.
At first I only register the fact Sky took the baby to hospital and demand to know what’s wrong with him, angry Sky didn’t tell me she thought he was sick. The nurse tells me baby’s fine, but Sky’s distressed, whatever the fuck that means. Secret medical code to calm me the fuck down?
I shout I don’t do this shit over the phone, hang up, and leave. In the car, I repeatedly dial Sky’s number, but again, straight to voicemail.
A couple of hours later, I swing the car into the hospital car park and repeatedly buzz the intercom, frustrated, desperate. A nurse answers the door and attempts to escort me to one side when I walk in.
“I need to speak to my wife,” I say in a low voice and sidestep her. “I need to see my baby.”
The young girl reaches out a hand to touch me and changes her mind. Against policy? Or too scared to touch a pissed off Dylan Morgan?
“Where are they?” I demand.
“The doctor’s talking to Sky, and then she’d like to talk to you.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” I dodge past her and stride into the main reception area. Another nurse looks up, replacing her surprise with what I can clearly see is a game face. “Somebody tell me what the fuck is happening!”
Game face switches to alarm face, and I close my eyes. “Sorry. What’s happened?”
“I’ll bring baby, Dylan, and we can wait until Sky’s free. Let’s talk in private.”
Head fucked, I follow the young nurse. “They’re okay though?” I repeat. “They’re not hurt?”
I know the nurses are doing their job, following their training on how to handle situations—and people—in this way, but the careful question deflection irritates me. Only when the young nurse brings me my son wrapped in a blanket I remember buying with Sky, yellow and covered in teddies, do I calm.
He blinks at me as I look down at him, and I hold my lips against his forehead, breathing in his baby scent. One half of my world is in my arms, but the other half is missing.
A coffee cup cools on the table as I cradle my son and wait for the doctor, but it doesn’t take much to figure out what’s wrong when they use words like distressed and unwell. I’m angry with myself for not noticing Sky was ill. I know about postnatal depression, worried my perfectionist, list-making girl might fall into a hole, but she didn’t seem low.
A woman comes into the room. Dressed in a skirt suit. Friendly, calm.
Tells me my wife’s suffering from psychosis.
I tell the doctor she has no idea what the fuck she’s talking about, that Sky is a loving mother and wife, and she would never hurt anybody. Ever.
The woman waits for me to calm and explains what she means, explains postpartum psychosis. I hold my son tightly, the words washing over me because they can’t be true, because my strong beautiful girl isn’t allowed to suffer like this. All I wanted was for us to be a family, to be perfect, to love and laugh and live. I’m not stupid. I know parenthood will have its tough moments, but those moments should be sleepless nights and my fears I won’t cut it as a dad. Not Sky believing these awful things; scared, hurting, and hiding her pain.
Sky’s alone in a room, curled up on a sofa staring at her
phone when I go to her. I leave the baby with a nurse, worried how Sky’ll react. Her eyes are reddened by tears, and the moment she sees me she stands.
“I’m sorry, Dylan,” she whispers. “I should’ve told you where I was going before I left today.”
“Tell me what’s happening. I’m confused, Sky.”
“They say I’m mistaken. Do you believe me?”
“I believe you should take time out. You’re exhausted.” I bite my lip, fully aware the psychiatrist I spoke to wants to admit Sky to a clinic for a couple of days. I tell her she needs a break, but Sky’s resistant.
“They think I’m crazy, Dylan. Do you think I’m crazy?”
I cover my mouth with my hand because I have no words. Then I grasp Sky in my arms and hold her tight, wishing I had our son here too, and we could all hold each other. I hold back the terror over how I’ll cope without her strength. As she hugs me, I bury my face in her hair, breathing my strawberry scented Sky and wanting to fix her.
But I leave her.
After an hour trying to talk Sky around, promising her I’ll make everything okay, and I force myself to walk away from a Sky who’s confused and in tears. I’m on the verge of returning to her, but the nurse and doctor convince me this is what I need to do, if only for the rest of the day.
I take our son to the London apartment, then almost fall apart myself when I realise all I have for him is the bag Sky took to the hospital filled with his clothes and essentials.
He cries, muffled by his attempt to suck the blanket around him and I snap out of my self-pity to organise a bottle.
Get a grip. Stay strong.
The tiny boy cuddles in the crook of my arm as I feed him, his hand curled tightly around my finger.
“I guess it’s just you and me for now, buddy,” I whisper against his cheek and fight the rising surge threatening to weaken me when I need to be at my strongest.
I have never been this lost in my whole life.
30
DYLAN
My heart is torn in two because I don’t know who needs me most right now. The woman who is my world, or the person who joined us in it just days ago.
The next few days blur as I hold the remaining pieces together. I rage inside because I want to be with and helping Sky, but I can’t stay with her permanently. She’s cared for while I take care of my son.