Mine

by Susi Fox

  ‘She never told me.’ Bec’s voice is almost a whisper.

  I do believe Bec. I know I probably shouldn’t, but I do.

  ‘Mum was always asking why I wasn’t more like you,’ Bec says. ‘She loved you more than me.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I say. Lucia never introduced me as her daughter. Lucia never took my mother’s place. I never called her Mum, even though I would have liked to.

  ‘You were her only daughter,’ I say. ‘She wanted the best for you.’

  Bec gives a sniffle. ‘I miss her, Sash. All the time.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  And in some strange way, despite everything, I miss my mother too.

  As if reading my mind, Bec murmurs, ‘Your mother loved you, you know.’

  ‘Right. That’s why she tried to … you know.’

  ‘Sash – we’re all capable of doing the wrong thing.’

  At least I can relate to that.

  ‘Damien,’ I sigh. ‘I can’t believe I did that. He’s my biggest mistake.’

  ‘Sash. That wasn’t anyone’s fault.’

  Technically, Bec’s right. She was in the courtroom when the findings were handed down several weeks after the inquest.

  ‘I hope you’re not still thinking about that,’ she continues. ‘Don’t you remember? The coroner said his death couldn’t have been prevented. Nothing you or anyone else did would have changed the outcome. It was an unfortunate death caused by a deadly disease. You weren’t at fault.’

  There’s only one problem; Bec doesn’t know that my mistake wasn’t just missing his life-threatening diagnosis. It was what I failed to do when the coroner interrogated me.

  ‘Sash, more importantly – your baby. Any progress?’

  I push Damien to the back of my mind, where he will always remain.

  ‘It’s going terribly, Bec. They’ve put up partitions around Gabriel’s cot so I can’t even see him. They seem to think I’m going to hurt him. It’s still looking like he’s going home tomorrow and I can’t bear the thought of not seeing him every day. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

  ‘Breathe, Sash, just breathe. It’s going to be okay. I know it’s been stressful, finding out about your mother. How are you going with eliminating suspects?’

  I take a deep breath and run through the list in my head.

  ‘Brigitte, who thinks she’s Gabriel’s mother, and the nurse Ursula corroborate each other’s stories. They were both in the nursery all morning and saw nothing suspicious. Dr Solomon and Dr Niles are off the list, too. And it’s not Mark, of course.’

  Bec snorts. ‘I told you.’

  ‘So, the only person left is Dr Green. The paediatrician.’

  ‘It’s always the person you least suspect,’ Bec says. ‘Or an accidental mix-up like you thought at first.’

  ‘Or I’m just mentally unwell.’

  ‘Don’t even think that, Sash. You’ve got to have faith in yourself. It sounds like no one else does. Except for me. Stick to the plan. Everything will be fine, okay? Together, no matter what happens, we’ll work it out.’

  When we’ve hung up, I run through the list of tasks left to do before I am discharged. Number one: question Dr Green about her alibi the night of Gabriel’s birth. Number two: pack the zip-lock bag with the umbilical cord. For now, it’s tucked inside my bra, as close to my heart as anything has ever been. Number three: get rid of the breastmilk in the freezer. There’s no way I can get it home without Mark knowing. Besides, Gabriel will be more than capable of breastfeeding when he’s back with me. I’ve achieved my aim of not letting my breastmilk supply run dry, so there’s no need for the frozen jars anymore. Number four: say goodbye to Ondine. She’s more than an acquaintance now. I would call her a friend.

  As I wait for Dr Niles, the curtains in my room flutter in the evening breeze. The flowers printed on the white cotton fabric aren’t quite right. Carnations and violets never bloom in the same season.

  At last Dr Niles appears in the doorway, her phone clasped in one hand, her fountain pen in the other. She seats herself on the chair under the window.

  ‘How are you, Sasha?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I start to chew my nails but stop myself. ‘No worries at all.’

  ‘You must be pleased Toby is doing so well.’

  ‘I am.’ I make myself smile.

  She begins to drone on about a medical student from years ago, a previous patient. The flowers on the curtain shift and sway in the wind until my ears prick at the word suicide.

  ‘… I realised it had been right in front of me.’ Dr Niles stares hard at me, her amber eyes darkening. ‘Have you had any suicidal thoughts since you’ve been with us, Sasha?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s just that, given your history … And I was led to believe you had an episode about ten years ago?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  Mark. Betraying me again. I’d trusted him not to say anything to the medics. He should have known how greatly his disclosure of my suicide attempt to a medical professional could have sway with the Medical Board – more so, even, than a diagnosis of postpartum psychosis – and how it would affect my career.

  ‘Whoever told you was mistaken,’ I snap.

  ‘You were never on antidepressants then, either?’

  ‘Well, yes. I suppose I was.’ She’s again missed a spot of foundation, over a pale patch of skin on her temple. ‘After a tragedy.’

  Dr Niles rests her hand in her chin. ‘A child who died.’

  A sob wells within me, but I fight it back. ‘A baby.’ Dr Niles joins me on the bed and places a hand on mine.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, sitting up and forcing a smile. ‘It was such a long time ago.’

  She fixes me with a pointed stare and removes her hand.

  ‘You’re not the only one who’s ever made a mistake. We all do. Even the best of us.’

  ‘I was wrong.’ It’s hard to say aloud. ‘And I don’t think I can ever forgive myself.’

  After the coroner had handed down his findings, after the exoneration, I remained fixed to the seat. If I stayed like this, still and unmoving, I could pretend I was a relative of the deceased, or simply an interested stranger. Not the doctor responsible for Damien’s death. In all the mess, I had forgotten who I was pretending for. Was it for his family, or for me?

  Dr Niles turns to me. There are deep creases around her eyes, the legacy of all she’s seen. Has helping other patients allowed her to get over that one patient’s suicide? Am I part of her healing?

  ‘For the record, self-compassion requires practice. It’s one of the hardest skills to learn. For a doctor. For anyone.’

  ‘I’m fine, really I am,’ I lie, crossing my arms. ‘I hardly think about it anymore.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Dr Niles smooths down her hair. ‘And I presume you are taking the medication every day, as prescribed?’

  ‘Of course.’ I try to look incredulous.

  ‘And it is helping?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘You think Toby is your baby.’

  It’s a statement, not a question, and I know the correct response.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And you don’t feel like harming yourself?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You’ll let me know if that changes? I don’t want a repeat of my previous mistake.’

  ‘Neither do I.’ I give her a brief, conspiratorial smile. It’s amazing what doctors will see if they want to: a success story, a shot at redemption. And of course, as a doctor, Dr Niles sees herself in me.

  ‘I should also warn you, Sasha … Don’t be alarmed if you begin to develop the desire to be beside your baby every moment.’

  She goes on to describe primary maternal preoccupation, a well-recognised psychological state where the mother and baby merge into the equivalent of one being for a short period of time immediately after the birth, a stage in which the mother is attuned to her child’s every need. The on
set might be delayed for me, she explains, but I should still expect it to occur.

  My mother was in a place like this, separated from me when I was only six months old. Did she miss me while we were apart? Or was she relieved to be free of the endless demands of a small baby? Perhaps it was her times in the psychiatric ward that convinced her it would be better to take me with her when she died.

  Dr Niles’ eyes fall on me kindly as though she understands. Perhaps she does, after all. She stands, smoothing down her skirt.

  ‘I’ll reassure your husband you’re fine. He’s been worried about you.’

  At the window, the curtains billow about, and we’re both momentarily distracted.

  Dr Niles goes to leave, but pauses at the door.

  ‘You’re doing very well, Sasha. You have had excellent reports from the staff I’ve talked to. You’ve made such good progress, and in less than a week. I’m happy to authorise your discharge for tomorrow. I’ll let the nurses know.’

  I attempt to smile. How much I have had to keep inside to deceive those around me, in order to be perceived as mentally well.

  Dr Niles rests her hand on the doorframe. ‘You’ll be glad to know that as your symptoms have resolved so quickly and have had no effect on your medical work, I’m not mandated to mention your admission to the Medical Board. And we were both right, by the way. I looked it up. Jonquils are a species of narcissi.’

  ‘They’re nearly out of season,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, but I can still smell them as I pass the open windows. I suppose I’m imagining it. Though some fragrances linger more than others.’ She gives a brief wave goodbye, switching off the light on her way out of the room.

  I keep the smile on my face until her footsteps disappear, then let my mouth drop. I tug the curtains open so I can see a sliver of night sky, stars, a new moon sparkling through the darkness for me.

  Day 7, Friday Morning

  I’ve come to the nursery this morning with a plan. Before I go home, I need to hold my son. I have to take this chance as I don’t know when the next one will come.

  Gabriel’s cot is still surrounded by partitions, only this time they’re not completely closed. Catching a flicker of him under the aqua lights in the gap between the screens, my nipples prickle, followed by a hot flare of breastmilk pooling in my bra. The fluid leaks onto my T-shirt, but after yesterday I’ve realised the importance of wearing black.

  Ursula, hunched over a baby in an open cot on the far side of the nursery, is the only person visible when I look around the corner; the other nurses must be at handover. I creep back to Gabriel’s cot and peer through the crack in the partitions. Empty, except for Gabriel. I slip inside. Through a thin crack between the panels, I can see all the way to the nurses’ station. I’ll have more than enough time if anyone approaches.

  Gabriel lies still, his mouth curled into a slight smile, his eyelids closed, his long lashes brushing his cherubic cheeks. It’s hard to assess the extent of his jaundice under the blue lights. I reach over to lever his toes apart. Webbing would be a scrap of proof that would force even Mark to take note.

  Yet again, before I have a chance to check, there’s a creak and the partitions are thrust open. Mark’s clean-shaven face peers between the screens.

  ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’ He takes in Gabriel, then me with my hands thrust through the portholes resting on Gabriel’s feet. His mouth gapes open and closed like a goldfish.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  I yank my hands from the humidicrib and snap the portholes shut. ‘Nothing.’ I push past Mark and into the open part of the nursery.

  Mark slams the screens closed and begins to pace back and forth in front of me. He looks like a caged animal; a lion, perhaps.

  ‘I thought you understood you have to stay away from Jeremy.’

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ I say.

  He continues pacing back and forth, muttering to himself.

  ‘You don’t need to tell anyone,’ I say. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  He stops still. ‘How many times have you been near his cot? How many times have you touched him?’

  ‘This is the first.’

  He resumes the pacing, his hand pressed to his forehead.

  ‘Please don’t tell anyone,’ I say.

  He stops and stares at me as if I’m some sort of a threat. A chill runs down my torso to my feet, which are frozen to the floor.

  ‘Please don’t tell. Please.’

  His body is rigid.

  ‘It was a mistake.’

  ‘A mistake.’ The lines around his nose and mouth deepen into crevices.

  He won’t believe me until I have irrefutable proof. The only thing left is to try and lie.

  ‘Jeremy was crying and crying and the nurses were busy and no one was helping the poor baby, and I thought it was the least I could do to help Brigitte out and –’

  ‘You weren’t trying to hurt him, were you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ How could he even suggest it?

  ‘You can’t do anything like this again. You understand?’ His mouth clamps shut as Ursula makes her way towards us.

  ‘Is there a problem here?’ Ursula tugs at the neck of her pinafore as she addresses Mark. He gives her a small smile.

  ‘Sasha has been telling me how well Toby’s doing.’ He doesn’t look at me. ‘Isn’t he, sweetheart?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He really is.’

  Ursula recedes into the background. Mark, his knuckles paper-white over the humidicrib’s metallic rail, is peering down at Toby like he’s a priceless jewel.

  ‘You need to believe me, Sash. Toby is our son. That thing he does before he sneezes.’ He looks up, crinkling his nose. ‘And the crease in his brow.’ He points to the space between my eyebrows. ‘You have the same.’ He stares at me, his pupils dark tunnels travelling to nowhere. ‘Please promise me you’d never hurt a baby.’

  ‘You wouldn’t ask that if you really loved me.’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ His voice is soft, frightening in its quietness. ‘I do love you. That’s why I lied, why I told you I was with him the whole time after the birth.’

  Ursula stares in our direction, but she’s not looking at Mark and me. Her gaze is fixed on the window beside Toby’s cot where hailstones as large as golf balls have begun volleying down.

  ‘I wasn’t allowed in the operating theatre,’ Mark continues, staring at the thundering hail. ‘They made me wait outside, so I went straight to the nursery. As soon as he got up here, I stayed with him, during the resuscitation, during everything. I didn’t leave him alone.’

  I don’t know who to believe anymore.

  ‘Was me getting locked up your doing? Did you want me in here so you could quietly become a partner in the restaurant without having to worry about your mentally ill wife disturbing you? Like those husbands who used to have their wives committed to asylums when they’d had enough of them?’

  ‘You’re acting crazy,’ he says, his hands tightening on the rail. ‘I’ve been doing everything in my power to get you out of there.’

  Outside, on the street, cars are reducing their speed in the hail. Time itself has slowed. We’ve entered a parallel universe where things aren’t as they’re meant to be. Then the hail stops. Fluttering, twirling, rising into the air on a wind current, then swirling to the asphalt, are snowflakes; an extremely unusual occurrence for such a warm spring.

  ‘I suppose the reason you told Dr Niles everything about me is because you love me too, right?’

  Mark shakes his head. ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘You told her about Damien. About me being suicidal. About the foetuses talking. Why did you have to tell her everything?’

  Snowflakes now stream from the sky in clusters and gather on the roof of the bus shelter, the concrete footpath and the road before they’re crushed to sleet by passing cars.

  ‘I didn’t tell her anything. Except about the
foetuses. She dragged that out of me.’ Mark’s expression blurs into all the other versions of his face; the occasions he’s given me his wooden smile, the times he’s avoided my gaze.

  ‘You knew about my mother this whole time, didn’t you?’

  ‘Sash, please. I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I can’t believe a word you say anymore.’

  Mark snaps the humidicrib doors back into place. His face is knotted into a shape I’ve never seen before, beyond worried or frustrated, bordering on disgust.

  ‘I’m supposed to be taking you home this morning.’ He glances at Gabriel’s partitions. ‘I think I’d better give you some space to clear your head.’

  He doesn’t know the half of what is in my head.

  When Mark has departed, I examine Toby. He is quiet. His limbs are creamy white, his breathing shallow and rapid. His eyes flicker in the weak light. Is he too still? Is there something wrong?

  I inspect his chart. I’m not happy with his observations. There is a variability in his temperature and his heart rate. It’s a subtle increase – I can see why the nurses have missed it – but it’s there.

  Dr Green, the paediatrician, is making notes at the nurses’ station. I haven’t spoken to her properly since Sunday, when she refused the DNA tests. I call her to my side. Her heels clip on the floor until she halts at Toby’s crib, her hair falling into clean, straight lines. Her pleasant floral perfume wafts over me.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  I point to his chart and indicate the fluctuations, the abnormal patterns.

  ‘I thought you ought to know.’

  She traces the lines on the graph. Then she opens Toby’s crib, palpates his abdomen, rests her stethoscope against his chest. When she’s finished, she glances up at me.

  ‘You’ve only just noticed these … irregularities?’

  I nod.

  Dr Green grabs the chart and heads back to the nurses’ station where she picks up the phone. I was supposed to be questioning her about her alibi and motives, but I can hardly do that now. Toby needs someone by his side. Lucia wasn’t my birth mother, but she was there for me. I can be there for Toby this morning. He is innocent in all this and he needs someone to love him today.