by Susi Fox
Why do I need good luck? Does she say that to all the new mothers, or is that a warning just to me?
I glance over the walkway, but Brigitte’s chair is empty. She didn’t say goodbye.
From the wheelchair beside Toby’s cot, I can see a woman out the window, standing at the bus stop opposite the hospital. She has a baby cocooned in a carrier on her chest, her chin resting on the baby’s head, her hands wrapped around it like ribbons tying a present.
I lift Tobias upright, place him on my shoulder, then encircle him in my arms, to make it look as though I’m snuggling him. The fuzziness inside my brain is diminishing. I can almost feel the drugs being metabolised inside me, chemical compounds concentrating in my sweat and urine, soon to be expelled. Slowly and surely, I’m turning back into myself.
‘Do you know how many other babies were born today?’ I whisper to Mark.
‘No idea. Why do you ask?’
I’ll have to tell Mark of my concerns soon, I suppose. It’s the right thing, the best thing, to do. Holding the baby now has confirmed my fears. My lack of attachment towards Toby is far beyond the normal maternal response. I’m doing everything right, but it still feels all wrong. It isn’t ‘normal’ like Brigitte suggested, nor do I feel at all depressed. I can’t explain away this feeling about the baby. The only possible explanation is that there’s been a swap. A mistake. My real baby must be in the nursery, somewhere. I’m going to need Mark’s help to examine the other babies, to track down our real child. I know he’ll support me in this.
An alarm screeches from a monitor nearby, echoing down the long corridor to the nurses’ desk. Red lights flash on the screen. It all happens too quickly and before I can deduce that it’s Toby’s monitor emitting the alarm, a cluster of nurses has surrounded me. They snatch him from my arms and replace him in the humidicrib. Then they take turns listening to his chest with stethoscopes, plugging and unplugging monitor leads. Mark stands beside me, staring with wide eyes.
The alarm has stopped long seconds ago. Toby is breathing fine now, apparently. Did he even stop at all?
‘An apnoea.’ Ursula clips the side of the humidicrib back into place. ‘It’s not unusual for babies this small to stop breathing for short periods. It can be positional, if their head bends too far forward and blocks their airway. They’ve got very small airways. But I’m sure you know that.’
If only I’d realised what was going on, I could have fixed it myself.
‘Did I do something wrong?’
No one answers. Not one of the nurses will meet my eyes.
As the nurses dissipate, Mark is still staring at me.
I glance to the desk. The nurses are standing in a huddle, observing me from afar. Is this some sort of test of my mothering abilities? A cruel prank for the new doctor-mother: see if she can identify that she has been bestowed a false baby? Surely not – it seems too far-fetched, even given the situation. The mix-up can’t be intentional. With a flash of clarity, I recall Ursula making an error with my name. It’s their fault. The hospital’s.
Against the cotton sheet, Toby lies motionless. Looking at him now, I feel nothing. Holding him, I felt nothing either. I catch Mark’s fearful eyes. There are things I need to say.
‘I know you’ve bonded with this baby. But just because I haven’t doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me.’
It’s beyond Toby’s prematurity, all of this, beyond my guilt and fear, far beyond rationality and love. I know I’m right. That my baby, who appeared to me in my dreams, needs to be trusted, needs to be honoured and believed.
‘Mark. I know what’s wrong.’ The words that will change everything crystallise in my mind, as Toby’s face blurs into the baby from the ultrasound, the baby I knew we were destined to have before I realised I even wanted one, the baby I committed to by becoming Mark’s wife.
‘This is not our baby. Mark, listen to me. This baby is not our son.’
Ten Years Earlier
MARK
What was our wedding day like? It was perfect.
I mean, almost.
Sash wasn’t on her side of the bed when I woke up. She insisted on staying at Bec’s. Tradition, apparently. I can’t say I understood. Adam – Bec’s partner since they met at the jazz club, and my best man – showed up around twelve. We got into our tuxedos, combed our hair and sat down with a beer in front of the footy. He gave me a few jibes about being under the thumb for the rest of my life as we watched the pre-game show. I warned him he was likely to be next. He shut up after that. Besides, Sash wasn’t anywhere near high maintenance. She’s always let me do whatever I liked. In fact, back then she was constantly encouraging me to go out, live a little, try to have more fun.
The limos were taking a long time to arrive. Sorting out the cars had been my job for the wedding, Sash said. It was all I had to do. It got to one o’clock. The players were starting to warm up on-screen when a text came through from Sash.
Are the cars far away?
I’d booked them for twelve-thirty. They were definitely running late.
I rang the limousine company. No answer. I called the mobile number from their website. Nothing.
‘Fuck, man, did you speak to them recently?’ Adam said.
Nearly there, I texted back. The rosebud in my lapel was already turning brown at the tip.
‘You’re both going to have to get a taxi to your wedding,’ Adam said, shaking his head.
I checked my emails. The limo company had sent through confirmation of the booking. Two limousines, twelve-thirty, Saturday 14 February 2002. 2002? That was next year. I hoped like hell they wouldn’t have taken reservations a year in advance.
I pulled open the front door, peered into the empty street. Adam was on the porch, ordering a taxi. Not a sniff of a limo. Simon wouldn’t have made a mistake like this. What would he do now? I stepped back inside to think.
Dad had an old blue Chevrolet in the garage. It was rusting out in places, but he still ran it from time to time. He’d offered to take Sash for a ride when we first visited their house. She politely declined; antique cars weren’t really her thing, she said. The car might have been old and small. But I had to call Dad, even if he’d already left for the church. That car was my best hope.
Sash looked stunning as she walked down the aisle. Her smile was dazzling, her braided hair glistening. I don’t think I’d ever seen her look quite so beautiful. At the altar she turned to face me and took my hands in hers, squeezing them tight. Then she smiled her radiant smile at me again. I knew she had already forgiven me for stuffing up the limos, for having to drive her to the wedding, for seeing her before the ceremony began, for getting her to the church more than half an hour late.
With the sunlight that filtered through the stained glass playing on her face, I could hardly focus during the ceremony. I even stumbled over the vows. We’d written them the week before – Sash did most of the work, but I’d been happy to go along with the sentiments. Something about honesty. Something about love. It didn’t really matter what we said, anyway. All that mattered was that we loved each other. That we didn’t want to spend our lives with anyone else. That we’d be together ’til death do us part.
In retrospect, I probably should have said more: all the reasons I loved Sash. Her compassion, her thoughtfulness. Her passion for anything she set her mind to. Her integrity, to a fault. She was someone I could depend upon, someone I could trust; who believed in me and my wild dreams, who I wanted to create a family with. I couldn’t wait to start our lives together, to be everything Sash would want, give her everything she could ever need.
After the formalities were over and we stepped out of the church into blinding sun, Sash leaned against me, a hand cupped against my ear. ‘Great work with the car,’ she said. ‘That’s one of the things I love most about you, Mark. You never quit. You always find a way around problems. And you never give up on me.’
Day 1, Saturday Lunchtime
I shrug the woollen blan
ket off my lap, down to my ankles. It’s a relief to have finally said it.
Mark’s mouth snaps shut. He leans in closer, checking whether any of the staff or visitors have heard.
‘Not our baby?’ he hisses. ‘That’s not funny, Sash. Is this supposed to be a joke? Like that April Fools’ Day when you convinced me there was a brown snake in the bathroom. This is a joke. Right? Right?’
The baby is asleep before us, resting on his side like a marooned boat. I gawk at his translucent skin.
‘He’s not ours,’ I say again in my serenest tone, the one I would employ with patients when they were agitated or upset. It’s the same voice I used when I spoke with Damien’s parents on that fateful night eleven years ago, when I was still training to be a paediatrician. Seated on his mother’s lap in the emergency department, Damien had red, tear-stained cheeks. His chubby limbs thrashed against me like a wild animal as I examined him. I was reassured by his energy and his normal observations. His temperature had settled with medication. He even gave me a miniature smile as I made a funny face.
‘He’s okay for now,’ I recall saying to his parents in my most placid voice. ‘I know you’re worried. Why don’t you take him home, see how he goes overnight. You can always bring him back in the morning if you’re still concerned. Yes?’
His father nodded, taking in every word. His mother cradled Damien in her arms. I thought they were overreacting to his fever, like so many other parents I had seen before. I thought that reassuring them was the right thing to do. How could I have known he wasn’t going to be fine at all?
I catch Mark’s eye and force him to hold my gaze.
‘Mark, I’m being completely serious.’ I point at the sleeping child before us. ‘This is not our baby.’
‘Jesus.’ Mark’s eyes widen. ‘How … I mean … Shit, Sash. Are you sure? Because this could be very tricky. It’s not something to joke about.’
‘I’m not joking. You have to believe me. I’m certain.’ My calmest voice again.
‘But how the hell could that have happened?’
‘I’m not sure. Easily enough, I suppose. Particularly if someone isn’t paying attention.’ Anatomical specimens get mixed up, mislabelled, lost in the system, all the time at work. Pathology reports, too. ‘And I know it has happened before, in the States. Lots of other places, too. And now it’s happened to us.’ There’s a lightness in my chest now I’ve said what I needed to.
He scrutinises my face.
‘And you’re sure about this?’
I nod and grasp at his hands.
‘He isn’t ours. And now we need to find our real baby.’
He squeezes back. Don’t worry. I believe you.
His hand in mine is warm and smooth, like that first night we met, seated on the beach in the moonlight, cool sand on our calves. After he told me about his brother, Simon, I told him the story of the last time I remember seeing my mother. He didn’t laugh or look incredulous. Instead, he listened as I described my mother’s hair, gleaming golden under the porchlight. She had turned and placed her finger across her lips as if binding me to silence before she slipped away into the night.
Mark has gone, striding across the nursery before I can say any more. Trying to stay calm, I hunch down in the wheelchair and retrieve my phone buried in the pocket of my dressing gown. No messages. I guess Mark hasn’t yet had time to send out the birth-announcement text we crafted together a week ago to our friends and family.
The nurses aren’t watching me. I can’t see where Mark has gone; presumably he’s tracking down a midwife. Slowly I punch the words ‘Baby mix-up’ into the search engine with unsteady fingers. I nearly drop the phone as the page loads. Fourteen million results?
My mouth gapes as I scroll through the search finds. It’s like I told Mark, except it’s more prevalent than I realised. France. Brazil. Poland. South Africa. Canada. Every state of Australia. High-profile cases before the courts across the world. Nearly always accidental. The mothers often knew instantly, and when the authorities believed them, their babies were returned immediately. Yet sometimes the mistakes took hours to recognise and rectify. In the meantime, women were left to feed the wrong babies. And, sometimes, the women weren’t believed by authorities for years. Or at all.
It’s already been hours since our baby was born. At least she won’t have been fed by the wrong woman. She might have been given her milk, but she won’t have been able to breastfeed. She’s too young to have sucked the milk from another woman’s breast.
I scan through more pages for anything that could help. The hospital administrators are quoted in the news articles with sincere apologies, promises to fix the system. Snippets of dialogue from court cases, quotes from the children themselves as adults. Nothing from the mothers. Why aren’t they speaking out?
Maybe I should call the media, lawyers? No. Better not to make waves. Mark’s more than capable of sorting all this out. He’s stuck with me, believed in me through everything, even when I thought I couldn’t go on. And doctors are reasonable. They believe other doctors. I have to trust it’ll be put right, that we’ll have our baby back any time now.
A chill comes over me. I tug the blanket from my ankles up to my lap. I’ll expect a sincere apology, of course, once I finally have my beautiful baby in my arms. But the hospital should be glad this has happened to someone who understands how fallible humans are. How easily mistakes can occur. Even if they hardly ever happen to me.
At least half an hour later, Mark still hasn’t returned. Presumably he’s on the trail of our baby. But I can’t just sit here helplessly. I need to do something, find my own proof. After all, I’ll recognise my baby instantly – really, I’m the best person to look.
Hauling myself to my feet, I nearly double over from the fiery ache in my guts. I should have accepted at least a small dose of morphine, I suppose. I begin to move jerkily from one humidicrib to the next. There are ten of them in total lining both walls of this corridor; I’ve counted them three times to be sure. The girl in the first humidicrib beside Toby’s has a downy scalp and stubby nose. The second girl along, tubby fingers and curled-up toes. I can see Mark again, engrossed in a conversation with Ursula at the desk. I quicken my gait, glancing through the perspex of each crib as I pass, focusing more on the babies with pink namecards. So many children, each of them needing love. I’m surprised their parents aren’t by their sides. When I find my baby, I know I won’t be leaving the humidicrib for even a moment. I continue up the row.
Thin legs, dark skin. Stuck-out ears, jutting chin.
I round the corner of the nursery’s L shape, clutching my aching belly as I stumble between the open cots in the smaller wing, all eight of them.
Black eyes, ruddy face. Dark hair, chubby waist.
Next cot, then the next, then the next. Finally, I’m at the end of the nursery. I can’t have missed any of the babies. So how is it possible that none of them looks like mine?
I sink against a nearby bench, clinging on to remain upright despite the pain, which is now a sword stabbing deep into my guts. Behind me, there’s a squeak. Ursula, directing a wheelchair towards me.
‘You shouldn’t be wandering around in your state,’ she says. ‘Most women can’t even walk the day after their caesar.’ She levers me into the chair and wheels me back through the nursery. ‘I’ll take you back to your room shortly. Mark had a chat with me. We’ll sort this out. Do you need some painkillers in the meantime?’
‘I don’t need painkillers. I just need my baby,’ I say, my heart hammering. ‘Right away.’
‘Of course,’ she says, parking me in front of Toby’s cot. ‘In the meantime, I suggest you spend some time by this baby’s side.’
Before she steps away, an idea comes to me, a way I can begin to assemble irrefutable proof. I lift my head and try to compose myself.
‘Can we weigh this baby, please?’
Ursula’s mouth forms a neat red bow. ‘Oh, but he’s already been weighed today.’ Sh
e points to the sign at the end of his cot as she pulls up the wheelchair. ‘One point nine kilograms. He’s a healthy weight.’
‘It won’t take a moment.’
‘You wouldn’t want to disturb him unnecessarily, would you? He needs all the growing time he can get.’
It was Ursula who got my name wrong at the start. Could she have something to do with this?
‘I’m just a little concerned, that’s all. I’m not sure they weighed him correctly.’
Ursula tilts her head. ‘You missed the first weigh. I understand. I suppose just this once.’
The trolley clacks over the lines in the vinyl as she wheels the scales from the formula room. She places Toby on the metal like a netted fish. He doesn’t make a sound. The numbers flash red until they come to rest: 2070 grams.
‘I knew something was wrong,’ I say, adrenaline thrilling through my limbs as I indicate the discrepancy between the two weights. ‘This is not my baby.’
Ursula bundles Toby back into the humidicrib and snaps the side shut.
‘I should have said. The nasogastric tube and the connector leads all add a little mass, you understand. We subtract the estimation for them in our calculation of your son’s weight.’
She kneels beside me, rubbing her hand on my forearm. I nearly recoil from her touch, from her change in manner, but stop myself just in time. ‘It’s a shock, isn’t it? They look different when they’re premature. He’ll grow into his wrinkles and his skin, you’ll see.’ Her tone sharpens, almost imperceptibly. ‘You need to believe this baby is your son.’
I want to slink down, pretend none of this ever happened. Instead, I straighten my spine against the back of the wheelchair.
‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’
Ursula steps back from the chair, her lips thin.
‘I have to be honest: I am very concerned for the health of your child. And for yourself.’ She points at the humidicrib with a stern finger. ‘This is your son, Sasha. Look – his wrists and ankles, both labelled.’ She leans for his file on the bench and, with the writing facing me, flicks through the pages. ‘All the documentation, in order.’