Mine

by Susi Fox

  I’ve never felt more alone than I do right now. I wish Bec’s mother, Lucia, was here with me, squeezing my hand. Illuminated by fluorescent lights, the mother from First Steps holds her child upright in the painting above my head. But I’m not the mother at all, I realise with another surge of nausea. I’m the child just learning to walk. And where, I wonder as acid burns the back of my throat, is my mother, holding my hand as I go?

  Twelve Years Earlier

  MARK

  After that first night on the beach, Sash barely spoke about her mother again. Rose had walked out when Sash was young; at least, that’s what I was told. I tried to bring it up with her a few times, but Sash always changed the subject, her eyes blank, her mouth a slack line.

  Sash was happy enough to talk about her childhood, though. Lucia had been like her surrogate mum, taking care of Sash after school, cooking her dinner, teaching her the ways of the world. Her daughter Bec was almost a sister to Sash. They spent their childhoods playing Lego and Barbies after school, racing each other up trees and sprinting their bikes through the local park on weekends. As for Bill, Sasha’s father, he sank into his work, almost forgetting he had a daughter at all.

  I met her father for the first time after Sash and I had been dating a few months. I’d just moved into her apartment the week before. There was a ring at the doorbell. Bill stared over my shoulder as I pulled open the front door. Sash had showed me photos of him, so I knew what he looked like, but he clearly had no idea who I was. I was surprised Sash hadn’t mentioned me. But then, Sash never told him much at all, and I had moved in with her pretty fast.

  ‘Does a Sasha Jamieson still live here?’ he said.

  I extended my hand.

  ‘I’m Mark. You must be Bill. Sash is stuck at work. Please, come in.’

  Bill shuffled on the doorstep. ‘I don’t want to intrude.’ He handed over a bag. ‘I was cleaning out her bedroom. Thought she might want these.’ He stepped backwards, almost tripping over his feet. ‘Please let her know I called by.’

  ‘I will.’

  I sifted through the bag. It was full of square, black-and-white photographs of a serious woman in front of instantly recognisable backdrops: Eiffel Tower, Leaning Tower of Pisa, Colosseum. The woman was beautiful, a younger version of Sash, but with a longer, narrower nose. It could only have been her mum.

  I had shut the bag and stuffed it on the top shelf of the cupboard in the spare room. Back then, I thought it would cause Sash harm to view the photographs. I justified it at the time by promising myself I would show her one day. To be honest, I’m still waiting to pull them out.

  Sash met my parents early on for dinner at a fancy Italian restaurant. As we walked in the door, Mum stood up and held out a stiff hand to Sash. ‘Pleased to finally meet you,’ Mum said. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen my darling son quite as smitten with his previous girlfriends.’ She turned to me. ‘Except maybe that girl Emma.’ She tittered as though it were a joke and returned her focus to Sash. ‘Emma broke his heart back in first-year university.’ Then, with narrowing eyes, ‘I suggest you take things slow with our son.’

  My cheeks burned. Dad only nodded a greeting to Sash as she slid into the chair next to him. She bumped her cutlery with her elbow, knocking a knife to the floor. Dad raised his eyebrows at me.

  ‘Sorry,’ Sash said, reaching for the knife. I didn’t blame her for being flustered. My parents could be a little intimidating at times.

  ‘I promise I’ll take good care of Mark.’ Sash folded her hands in her lap. ‘And we’ll take things slowly.’

  ‘Well, good then. It’s nice to finally meet the woman who seems to be making our son so content.’ Mum’s voice softened. ‘It hasn’t all been happy families, you know.’

  Sash gave a sympathetic smile.

  ‘So, welcome to the family,’ Dad said in a neutral tone.

  As we sipped prosecco and slurped at pasta, I could see Sash was trying hard to use her best table manners. Normally, with her long hours, she was so starving by the time she got home to me that she was almost ready to inhale her food. This night, she wound the spaghetti around her fork, pressed against her spoon. She paused between mouthfuls, nodding at my mother’s inane stories and smiling at my father’s attempted jokes. When she placed her knife and fork together on her plate at the end of her meal, I saw Mum give a satisfied nod to Dad.

  By the time we left the restaurant and wandered back to our car under the glare of streetlamps, I could tell my parents had been impressed. Frankly, so was I. Impressed that this woman, who had endured such an unusual childhood, yet was so accomplished in her own right, could find a place in a family as dysfunctional as my own.

  Day 1, Saturday Afternoon

  A slim woman, nudging her mid-forties, ambles into my hospital room. She places her cracked leather briefcase on the floor and smooths down her white linen suit. Then she leans over the bed’s handrails and retrieves my medical file from the tray table. Glancing at the front cover, she tips her head, her cropped ginger hair catching the afternoon sun streaming through the glass.

  ‘I’m Karla Niles,’ she says, eventually taking a seat at the end of the bed. ‘I’m sorry for the delay. I came as soon as I could.’

  I frown. ‘You’re not from Administration, are you?’

  She uncaps her fountain pen.

  ‘I’m a psychiatrist.’

  My hands begin to shake. I bunch them into fists and tuck them into my armpits. I suck in air, my lungs tingling.

  ‘I don’t need a psychiatrist.’

  ‘I apologise in advance for the intrusive questions. It’s imperative I speak with you.’

  It’s clear that I need to appear relaxed. Sensible. Sane. I rest my head back against the pillow and paste a tranquil smile on my face.

  Dr Niles asks questions about the pregnancy, the birth, the appearance of my son, and notes down my answers in the medical file with the shiny fountain pen. The minutes drag on.

  ‘Is all this relevant?’ I ask.

  She pauses, the nib poised above the paper.

  ‘You know, your husband says your baby looks like him.’

  My stomach hardens. ‘You’ve spoken with Mark?’

  She clears her throat. ‘Just for the record,’ she says, her voice docile as she winds one leg around the other, ‘I’m here to help.’ Then she delves into unexpected territory, asking about my own family history.

  I’m confused by the nature of her question but, after a moment’s hesitation, I launch into the story of my own birth, the one my father recounted so many times growing up, the only story he’d tell about my mother. It’s a story I prefer to keep to myself, recount to myself when I’m missing her – but it seems pertinent to the current situation.

  For the first twenty hours after I was born, my mother wasn’t allowed to see me. The staff were too busy. She was too weak from blood loss. But she was determined. She demanded I be brought to her; threatened to take herself to me. She loved you so much already, Dad always said. She couldn’t bear to be apart from you …

  Dr Niles jots down a few further notes, her slender fingers gripping the fountain pen like a spear, her nails filed to talon-like points. Then she proceeds to the standard mental-state examination questions, the ones I used to ask as a junior doctor on my psychiatric placement years ago. Have you heard any voices that don’t seem to be from people in the room? Have you seen anything unusual? Are you receiving any messages from the TV?

  No, no and no. I wipe my clammy hands on the bedspread as I deny suicidal and infanticidal ideation.

  ‘I want to find my baby, not kill her – him,’ I say, tripping over the words.

  ‘Standard questions,’ she says, her voice lilting now as though she’s singing a lullaby to pacify a baby. ‘There’s only one more question I need to ask. I understand that your foetuses used to speak to you. Before the miscarriages?’

  I’m stunned into silence. Mark is the only one I’ve ever told. Dr Niles inspects me with ho
oded eyes.

  ‘It was a silly thing I used to say to Mark. A bit like a joke. I’m surprised he mentioned it.’

  ‘I see,’ Dr Niles says, although she doesn’t really appear to see at all. She shuts my file with a snap, then launches into a description of the decor of her mother–baby unit – calming paintings, gentle music, quiet bedrooms – without disclosing what I know it to be: a part of the psychiatric ward.

  I interrupt her. ‘I know what a mother–baby unit is. But there’s nothing wrong with me. You must believe me.’

  Her red hair glints again in the light.

  ‘Your baby will be able to join you as soon as he’s discharged from the nursery.’

  My limbs feel like they’re shuddering. I only hope she can’t see it.

  ‘I really don’t think I need –’

  Ursula appears at the door. ‘There’s an urgent phone call for you, Karla,’ she says without looking at me. ‘Something about a rescheduled embryo transfer?’

  Dr Niles excuses herself and walks out with Ursula, their voices fading as their footsteps pad down the hall. Her briefcase is still beside the bed. My medical file is lying closed on the tray table. I have the right to read it, surely? To know what they’re saying about me.

  All remains quiet outside my room. The babies must be feeding, or asleep. I manoeuvre myself to the edge of the bed and lower my feet to the floor. Heat sears through my belly. I bite my tongue to stifle a groan and shuffle to the door. The nurses’ station opposite my room is deserted. The corridor is empty. I turn to the tray table. As I reach for the file, Dr Niles’ fountain pen crashes to the floor. I pause and listen. Nothing.

  I seat myself on the edge of the mattress and flip open the folder. My fingers turn numb as I stare down at my name, printed in thick black capitals in the corner of the page, next to a six-digit identification number.

  The top piece of paper is a Request – the first of two forms that would need to be signed off by two doctors to certify a patient mentally ill. They’re not seriously thinking I’m unwell? I’m usually a speed reader, but today I need to run my finger under the words to make sense of them. At least I can discern the information I need from a medical file quicker than most.

  At the bottom of the page, the Request is signed. Dr Solomon. The page beneath is a Recommendation. There’s a blank space next to Dr Niles’ name, ready for her signature.

  Fucking hell.

  If Dr Niles signs this, I’ll be sectioned. Forced against my will into the mother–baby unit. They’ll be observing, keeping track of me. I won’t be able to leave. And when I do find my baby, being a psychiatric inpatient might mean they’re reluctant to return her to my care.

  I flip through the rest of the pages, the words pulling into focus as my vision tunnels. My admission, the caesarean, the anaesthetic. It’s all there in scribbled medicalese. I read every line, trying to retain it, with the pervasive sense that this is all happening to someone else. Not to me. Surely not to me.

  This morning’s nursing notes are towards the back of the folder.

  0700: Mother confused about sex of her baby.

  I can’t believe they’ve even documented this. My questions were based on medical tests. I wasn’t confused at all.

  1200: Patient agitated, refusing medications and attempts at blood test.

  Did I ever misrepresent patients in this way?

  1330: Special Care Nursery staff reported that patient’s baby experienced an apnoea while in her care. Exact circumstances unwitnessed.

  Except by me. Surely they don’t think I was trying to hurt him? I shudder, my breath catching in my throat. I turn the page, to the notes Dr Niles has made today.

  ‘Just knows’ her baby isn’t hers.

  Denies suicidal/infanticidal ideation, but note midwives’ concerns re: same.

  Tears catch behind my eyes. I blink them back. I’m going to need every inch of my strength for what is to come. They listened to my mother in the end, took her to her baby after her repeated insistence. For some reason, right now, they’re choosing not to listen to me.

  From the dark peripheries of my brain, a thought clarifies. I could track down the birth register, the enormous black book containing the list of every newborn, the details recorded in longhand. At the hospitals I’ve worked at, it’s always been stored at the nurses’ station. It will have recorded the date and time of every baby born in the hospital. Thank goodness the health system is so far behind every other industry with digitisation. My own baby’s details will be in hard copy in that book.

  My abdomen throbs as my feet scud across the carpet. My legs are swaying sticks under me, ready to give way at any moment. I steady myself against the wall as I go.

  The nurses’ station is still empty, the ward eerily quiet. No one is about. Presumably they’re taking their afternoon-tea break, the one I never had time for as a junior doctor. I peer over the faded brown laminex ledge. No sign of a birth register on any desk.

  ‘What are you doing up and about again?’

  Ursula steps out from the back office, her hands pressed against her hips.

  My tongue thickens. ‘I wanted to check the birth register,’ I say. ‘I was interested in who was at the birth.’

  Ursula frowns. ‘All that information is in your baby book. You can read it in the nursery. But, right now, you need to get back to bed. You need rest, Sasha.’

  ‘Where’s the birth register?’ I try to sound casual.

  She looks nonplussed. ‘It’s all stored on the computer these days.’

  How much has changed since my obstetrics rotation; and how much hasn’t. I stumble back to my room, Ursula’s eyes like an owl’s, trailing me.

  Back in bed, the sheet chills my neck as I flick through my mental contact list. Bec is the only one I can think of who could support me, who might understand.

  At school, Bec tended to hang around her own group of friends in the centre of the quadrangle. They played elastics, British Bulldog, and later, towards the end of primary school, the whole gang of them would hang out in the sun, gossiping and laughing. I used to eat my Vegemite sandwiches alone under a gum tree in the far corner of the yard. The other girls never seemed to like me. It didn’t bother me much. I knew I didn’t belong.

  One day at Bec’s house after school, she switched the TV off at the end of Neighbours. ‘It’s not that the other girls don’t like you,’ she explained. ‘It’s just that you always come top of the class. Maybe if you didn’t try so hard, they might let you in the gang.’

  I didn’t want to be part of their gang. Playing with Bec most days after school was enough for me.

  High school was more of the same. I focused on my studies, spent my lunchtimes in the library. At the end of year twelve, I entered med school. Bec, who had glided through school without appearing to study much, decided to pursue a career in law. At the last minute, she changed into medicine too. At uni, Bec partied a lot. I tended to stay at home on weekends. I shared my lecture notes with her, helped her with her studies. It was only when we hit specialty training that we went our separate ways.

  Bec moved to London to complete her emergency physician fellowship. She and Adam got married, settled over there. With oceans between us, our friendship gradually trailed off. In our occasional correspondences, I would always encourage her to come home. ‘Maybe next year, Sash,’ she used to reply.

  It was at Lucia’s funeral that we reconnected. Bec disclosed the trouble she was having falling pregnant. Mark and I had also been struggling to conceive. Bec and I picked up our old friendship, contacting each other after every failed cycle, and after my miscarriages, to commiserate. We spoke over the phone several times a week for years, discussing every test result and brainstorming every possible option. That is, until I discovered I was pregnant. I texted her right away with the news, before anyone, even before Mark. She didn’t ring, not that night, or the next. It took me a few weeks to realise she might never call again.

  When she fina
lly phoned several weeks later, all she said was, ‘Congratulations, Sash. I guess you were always first to the finish line.’

  Since that night, it’s been hard to contact her. She’s been busy: work, IVF consultations, family functions. I haven’t wanted to push it. After all, I know more than anyone what she’s going through. But this time she picks up on the first ring.

  ‘Sash!’ She yawns. ‘My God. It’s 6 am here.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Bec – I didn’t know who else to call.’

  ‘Please don’t stress. My roster’s all over the shop at the moment. And I’m supposed to be on this morning anyway. So how are you coping?’

  I tug my childhood quilt from the bag beside my bed and place it on my lap. Coping? Mark must have told her.

  Bec was also the first person I rang all those years ago when Mark refused to do IVF. He didn’t want any child of his starting life in a test tube. Petri dish, I corrected him. And he didn’t want to see me suffer. I’m suffering now, I’d said.

  It always seemed as if there was another reason he wouldn’t go ahead with IVF. I sensed he was holding back, yet I couldn’t get it out of him no matter how much I pushed. I wasn’t Simon; I didn’t have cancer, I didn’t need chemotherapy, I wasn’t going to die. So did he even want to have children with me? Of course he did, he insisted. Then why not give IVF a try? Each time I asked, he would shake his head and turn away.

  ‘What’s more important, Sash,’ Bec said at the time, ‘a husband or a baby?’ I knew I didn’t want to be a single mother. So I stayed. And hoped. And waited. Persistence, patience and Bec helped me through the years of infertility. Despite the distance over the past few months, I feel sure she’ll have my back with this baby mix-up too.

  ‘So, you know the whole story?’ I say into the phone.