Mine

by Susi Fox

  Toby has slipped into sleep, his cheeks a dusty pink. I watch the rise and fall of his chest against my own. In this moment, with the warm weight of him resting on my skin, there’s nothing else to do.

  Day 2, Sunday Midday

  Toby is deep in slumber when Brigitte, the mother of the baby under the blue lights, hobbles into the nursery. Her hair hangs down her back in two loose plaits like reins. She takes a seat beside her son’s humidicrib, opposite Toby’s, and removes his padded quilt from the perspex. Finally, someone who might understand.

  ‘Sasha, wasn’t it?’

  The blue light gives her skin a wan, eerie glow. In his cot, her son, Jeremy, caws and arches his back. She slides her arms inside and rests her palms against his skin.

  ‘There, there.’

  He quietens and softens on the mattress.

  ‘Damn jaundice,’ she mutters. ‘I wish his level would go down. I just want him to be okay so I can get him home. Hospitals are dangerous places, don’t you think? So much could go wrong.’

  It’s hard to know how to reply.

  ‘His colour doesn’t look too bad from here.’

  ‘It’s the blue lights. They make everything look better. He’s yellow all over when you get him out.’

  Brigitte’s eyebrows are creased, her forehead lined, as if with waves about to break. I feel like I should rest my fingertips on her temples to smooth out the skin. Her face looks haunted.

  ‘He was too small, you know,’ she continues in a monotone voice, her eyes transfixed on her baby. ‘He stopped growing in my womb. First they stuck gel in me. Then the infusion. It turned my womb into a battering ram. You’ve seen it, I suppose?’ She doesn’t wait for my nod. ‘Then he flew out of me before I was ready. He tore me all the way to my bottom. They had to stitch me back together afterwards. I didn’t get to hold him for almost an hour. But when I finally had him in my arms it made it all worth it.’ Her brow ripples as Jeremy’s face contorts with a sneeze. ‘I can get past all that. As long as he’s okay.’

  We’re comparing birth stories. I suppose that’s what new mothers do. My turn. I pause. How much to tell? What to say? I tell the barest threads, the ones I’ve already recounted to her. The blood clots. The emergency caesarean. I stop. She spurs me on, her hand firm on her baby’s back.

  I tell her everything I can recall from my hospital notes. The amount of blood I lost. The rapidity of my heartbeat. The volume of fluid they pumped in through my veins. Massive lumps of blood concealed behind the placenta. I don’t remember any of it, but it must be true. I add in a detail that wasn’t in the notes: Mark was with our son the whole time after the birth.

  It must have been in that brief fragment of time when the switch was made. I don’t mention the last part.

  When I look up, Brigitte’s whole body is trembling, her hand quivering against Jeremy’s aquamarine skin.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Was it too much?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘Not at all.’

  She’s the first person I’ve told. What I don’t tell her is that I heard Lucia’s voice, as calming as water lapping against a bank, as I lay drenched in blood on the hospital bed. My darling, oh my darling. Just breathe.

  We sit in silence for a while, Brigitte stroking her son’s back through the portholes, me running my fingers down Toby’s bony spine. He is a little like a cuckoo, the wrong baby bird in my nest.

  ‘Were you trying long for him?’ Brigitte says.

  My fingers pause on Toby’s neck.

  ‘Years,’ I say. ‘We were going to keep going until we had no choice but to stop.’

  ‘Us too,’ she says quickly, her hands coming to rest on the crown of her son’s head. ‘We even talked about adopting. Seeing him now, I’m so glad it didn’t have to come to that. Which of you does your son look like?’

  I stare at her.

  ‘You or your husband?’

  I scan the cribs lining the corridor as if they could provide the answer. Mark is right. I’ve never been good at lying.

  ‘My husband says he has my nose and his eyes. You?’

  She smiles, a lovely smile that illuminates her whole face, making her look so alive despite her haggard features.

  ‘Everyone’s been saying Jeremy is the spitting image of my husband, John.’

  She draws her phone from her pocket and spins the screen to me. It’s a black-and-white scanned photo, presumably of her husband, in a white christening gown and cap, with dimpled cheeks, bald head and chubby limbs.

  ‘Jeremy’s him all over.’

  An alarm squeals from my phone. The meeting with Dr Niles, back at the mother–baby unit. I mustn’t be late.

  ‘Are you heading back to your room?’ she asks, her hands cupping her baby like a present.

  I nod as I replace Toby, still sleeping, in his cot. ‘Visitors.’ I roll my eyes.

  ‘Don’t let them exhaust you,’ Brigitte says. ‘I guess I’ll catch you on the postnatal ward. I could pop in later to say hi if you want. Which room are you?’

  I snap Toby’s porthole covers into place, trying to hide the tremble in my hands.

  ‘I can’t remember the number. I’m sure I’ll see you back here soon, though.’

  Brigitte offers me a gentle smile as I trundle out of the nursery, my heart thundering. Perhaps I’m not as bad at lying as I’ve always believed.

  I must be late. I rest my elbows on the nurses’ station and try hard to project an aura of serenity in spite of my racing heart.

  ‘You’re on time.’

  It’s Dr Niles behind me, her lips pressed into a small smile. She directs me into a cramped interview room, only just big enough for a small table and four chairs. The door closes behind her with a harsh click. The room resembles a prison cell with its lack of ventilation and grey stucco walls. The downlights are luminescent like interrogation lamps. I have to squint to read the notice pinned to a noticeboard: Our staff are here for you. Our aim is to help, support and understand you.

  ‘My idea,’ Dr Niles says, following my gaze. ‘I’m here for the patients. As we all should be.’ She takes the seat nearest the door. It’s a safety measure, like she’ll have been trained. I used to do it, too.

  I pick the seat opposite her. Less of a threat from me. She can play out her interrogation fantasies now.

  Smoothing her ginger hair down flat against one side of her head, Dr Niles wordlessly passes two sheets of paper to me: a weekly schedule.

  Monday – group therapy

  Tuesday – video: caring for your baby

  Wednesday – yoga

  Thursday – morning: walk; evening: spirituality practice

  Friday – free time

  On and on it goes, and over on the next page.

  ‘Two weeks of schedule?’ I grip the base of the chair.

  ‘We plan ahead here.’

  ‘But what if I get discharged earlier?’

  She raises her sculpted eyebrows.

  ‘Let’s wait and see how things play out. It’s important that you know our sessions are compulsory. We record attendance.’

  My fingertips are turning numb.

  ‘I’m here for two weeks.’

  ‘You could think of it as a bit of a holiday,’ Dr Niles says. ‘All mums need a holiday.’

  I try to slow my breath by concentrating on the motes floating under the downlights. The hovering specks are like cells under my microscope, each one a tiny sliver bearing no resemblance to the whole.

  Dr Niles clears her throat and I snap my attention back to her. I need to keep my head on the main game. Dr Niles won’t help me find my baby. She will, however, be responsible for declaring me sane and discharging me, both important steps in bringing my baby home. I bring my head forward with a coated smile.

  ‘You like dogs.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  I point at the I heart Rottweilers printed in small maroon lettering on the front of her shirt.

  She glances down at her chest.


  ‘I wear this on Sundays. My partner and I breed them. My top bitches are Henrietta and Goldilocks.’

  ‘Lovely,’ I say, although I’m more into cats than dogs.

  Her eyes scrutinise what I know to be my straggly hair, my cracked lips, the black circles beneath my eyes.

  ‘You shouldn’t be in a rush to get out of here, Sasha. I suggest you attempt to learn more about others. And yourself.’

  She rambles on without waiting for my reply. ‘I know it can sometimes be hard as a doctor to let yourself be the patient. You need to trust me. With a combination of the medication, some downtime and group therapy, plus seeing Toby in the nursery, you’ll be feeling better in no time. I’ll visit you early every morning where possible and have a chat. See where I can be of assistance.’

  I don’t know how she can possibly help.

  ‘We all need a little extra care at times. As psychiatrists, we have mandatory supervision. We discuss difficult cases in a group. Sometimes the other psychiatrists bring their personal issues up too. Their infertility. Their marriage problems …’ Her voice trails away. ‘No one is immune from distress, Sasha. We are all human.’

  As she stands to usher me out of the room, I pipe up. ‘Maybe you can show me some photos of your dogs one day.’

  ‘Lovely.’ She gives me a slight wave with her hand and steps away.

  The dogs are a good start. If she sees me as a person, even as a colleague, rather than a patient, she’s more likely to let me out sooner rather than later. But how little she comprehends me. How little anyone does – even Bec. I set my shoulders straight. In my state of forced complicity, I must remember not to allow the hospital staff to tear me down. What I can do is use my time here wisely. I need some semblance of a plan.

  I have it, I realise with a start at the misleading sign on the noticeboard. I will go behind their backs. I will order the DNA tests myself.

  Childhood

  MARK

  Our childhood wasn’t so bad, but you couldn’t call it idyllic. Dad ruled the house with his belt. Simon always seemed to be in trouble. I was usually the one getting him out of it.

  When we were eight, Simon pinched ten dollars from our aunt’s purse to buy a comic book. I denied it, but Mum and Dad knew it was one of us. Dad was ropeable. As he stormed out to the bedroom to get his belt to whip us both, I tugged ten dollars from my piggy bank.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, holding the note up as Dad approached. ‘I’m really sorry. It was me.’

  Dad twisted the belt round and round his fist.

  ‘Lucky for both of you that you fessed up, Mark. I’ll pass on the belting … this time.’

  I spent the rest of our childhood protecting Simon from Dad. In high school, some of the kids tried to target him, labelled him fatty. I tried to teach him to act cool, let him hang out with my friends, invited him to all the best parties. I didn’t mind that he tagged along behind. He was amusing to hang out with, fun to play video games or watch movies with. I liked him. Being his twin felt like a blessing, a gift. We were always a team of two.

  One night, when we were seventeen, I dragged Simon to a party. In an uncharacteristic turn of events, he managed to pick up a girl. I left him there, pashing her, and took a cab home. But at 4 am, Dad woke me up: Simon still hadn’t returned. Dad was about to call the cops.

  When Dad had retreated to the kitchen, I snuck to the front door and slammed it shut, then thundered to Simon’s room, crept under his doona and thrust it over my head.

  ‘You’re grounded, Simon,’ Dad shouted from the bedroom door. ‘You only just missed a whipping. Mark would never do something like this.’

  From beneath the covers, I mumbled a reply.

  Simon was grateful when he snuck back in at mid-morning.

  ‘Thanks, Mark,’ he said. ‘I owe you big time.’

  Even after we left school, Mum was always comparing Simon with me. Simon didn’t make the state basketball team. He didn’t date the Home and Away actress. He didn’t get the Apprentice of the Year Award.

  ‘You two are so different, aren’t you?’ she would say to us from time to time. ‘I guess it makes sense. You are non-identical, after all.’

  Simon would shrug, his cheeks falling flat. I’d wink at him, try to make him feel better despite Mum’s snide remarks. He’d smile shyly back at me. I knew he always tried his best.

  Simon had become an apprentice carpenter by that stage, working with Dad on his developments.

  ‘He isn’t up to standard,’ Dad used to say to Mum when Simon was out of the room. ‘He needs to shape up his work.’ Then he’d scan his eye over my carefully arranged cooking creations. ‘I think you’d be good with a hammer, Mark,’ he’d say. ‘Wish you’d come work for me.’

  ‘Simon will get better,’ I’d always reply. ‘You just need to give him time.’

  ‘Time is all he has on his side.’

  Then everything changed.

  Simon began to head to bed earlier than before. He declined my invitations to parties, saying he wasn’t feeling well. He began to lose weight. In the bathroom, the bristles of his toothbrush were stained a pale shade of pink. There were smears of blood on his pillowcase in the mornings. I didn’t say anything. I’m not sure he would have listened to me anyway.

  The following week, I playfully punched him on the arm. A violet bruise sprang up almost straight away. It was still there a few weeks later, mottling, turning greyish-black.

  ‘You should get that looked at.’

  He humphed and picked up the Game Boy console.

  I still blame myself a little, even after all these years. Maybe if I’d pushed him harder to see a doctor, getting treated earlier might have made a difference. It took another month to be diagnosed, another eighteen months of him enduring chemo, watching him shrivelling to sinew and bone. As Mum and Dad shrank into their clothes with each setback, I wished it was me in the hospital bed.

  After the funeral, Dad spent his evenings staring at the blank TV screen, downing stubby after stubby. When he failed to heed Mum’s requests to stop drinking, she would leave the room in tears. Why couldn’t they see I was the one who’d lost more than anyone? He was my twin; my other half. Back then, I couldn’t see how hard it must have been for them, losing their son.

  The night Simon passed away, I made a promise to him. I swore that I would live my life as if it were his own. Two lives, essentially, to make up for the one that Simon had lost. Whenever I have to make a decision, I think of what Simon would have done, and I follow his lead. It hasn’t been easy, I’ll admit. But I always stand by my word. And his companionship – of a kind – has stood me in good stead for all these years.

  As for Simon’s funeral: I was too upset to give a speech. Dad gave the eulogy. I did help to carry Simon out of the church, though. He had always been solid, yet bearing that coffin, my hand slippery on the silver rail, was like carting air. I imagined that the two of us were floating into the sky, helium balloons adrift on the wind, into the upper stratospheres of the earth.

  I know what Simon would have done with Sash. He would have stood by her, supported her. So that is what I remain committed to doing. I will not give up on my wife.

  Day 2, Sunday Mid-Afternoon

  Mark catches me outside the nursery door.

  ‘I’m so glad you’ve decided to come, Sash. Mum and Dad will be here any minute. I know it’s been tough going for you, but it’s a big day for them, finally meeting their grandson.’

  He guides me through the sea of humidicribs to Toby’s cot, which is now also covered with a padded quilt: lurid orange with bright purple spots. I assumed the quilts were to stop me from seeing the other babies. Was I wrong?

  ‘I’ve just spoken with Dr Niles. I told her you were keen to get out of the unit.’ His hand is like a parrot’s claw on my shoulder, piercing my skin. ‘She thinks it should be okay for us to go out of the hospital for a few hours at some stage. I can take you for a drive. Maybe we can get some dinner. Won’
t that be nice?’

  A familiar ‘Yoo-hoo’ reverberates from the other side of the nursery. It’s Mark’s mother, Patricia, waving as she marches towards us, her hand held upright like a policewoman directing traffic. Her favourite cashmere shawl is slung over her shoulders. Ray, Mark’s father, trails behind her, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his jeans. He nods at me, then looks away.

  ‘Sasha, my dear,’ Patricia says. ‘Sorry to hear you haven’t been well.’ She doesn’t hug me, but instead leans down to place a kiss on my cheek as though I’m a china doll.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, my eyes fixed on Toby.

  Early on in our relationship, Mark would defend me when his mother made underhanded remarks. I failed to notice that at some point in the last few years this had stopped.

  This winter, his mother had addressed me as she carved into the neck of a roast chicken at the table’s head.

  ‘You’ll be breastfeeding, dear? And having a natural birth, I presume?’

  My empty plate was a pale moon. The eyes of Mark’s relatives were all on me. Of course, I wanted to say, but my mouth was too dry to speak.

  ‘The main thing is for our baby to be healthy,’ Mark said. ‘I don’t care how it is born or what it’s fed.’

  I gave a silent cheer.

  ‘Of course,’ Patricia said, laying the slices of meat flat on a tray.

  I only noticed later that he said nothing about me.

  Standing erect beside Toby’s cot, Patricia inspects the padded quilt.

  ‘What is this? Is this one of your creations, Sasha?’ Before I can reply, she tugs it away, then places her hands on top of the humidicrib, tapping her acrylic nails on the plastic. ‘How’s our baby boy?’