by Jane Shemilt
‘This looks like a strawberry naevus, unless it’s a port-wine stain. Where’s Mr Sutton?’ An older paediatrician, he and I often worked together at difficult births. I wanted his gruff truthfulness now, not this nervous boy.
‘His day off. I’m covering,’ he said apologetically.
‘We need to scan the lesion.’ It was simpler to think of it as a surgical issue. If it was a port-wine stain, it might be linked with an underlying arterial-venous malformation that would need treatment.
‘Of course, though I’m sure it’s a typical strawberry naevus. It’ll get bigger for the first few years, then fade completely.’ The registrar paused and blushed. ‘As you know. We’ll keep you in for a couple of nights as he’s three weeks early but there shouldn’t be any problems.’
I tuned him out. As I brought the baby to my left breast, he turned his head inwards, the small mouth seeking the nipple. From this angle the red stain was invisible. He might have been completely normal.
Adam touched the baby’s head reverently. ‘It couldn’t matter less about the mark, Em. You won’t even notice it in a few days.’
My eyes filled with tears. Duncan rested his hand briefly on my shoulder. ‘Time to do the repair work. Ready, Emma?’
The midwife guided my ankles into stirrups. A needle slipped into my bruised flesh like a bee sting and then the anaesthetic began to numb my perineum.
‘John, after my father?’ Adam cupped the tiny bloodstained foot.
‘Samuel.’
‘Where did that come from?’ He bent to kiss the curling toes.
‘Alice. She’s reading Lord of the Flies. It was going to be Samantha for a girl.’ But the faint image of a tiny dark-haired girl had disappeared, bleached out under the bright lights.
‘What wrong with John?’ he asked.
‘Let’s please Alice for once.’
‘Samuel. Sam.’ He walked around testing the name. ‘I like it. I’m sure there was a judge in the Old Testament called Samuel.’ He smiled. ‘It means “heard by God”.’
I was too tired to smile back – even my voice was thin with exhaustion. ‘It’s a name, Adam, not a biblical reference.’
A name Alice had got from Lord of the Flies for a boy who faced fellow tormentors, as this child might unless the mark faded before school. In the silence I could hear the squeak of thread as Duncan pulled it through the layers of tissue, the click as he cut the end. I closed my eyes and slept.
CHAPTER TWELVE
London, early December 2013
The front door opened downstairs. Silence followed. Adam’s head would be tilted while he worked out where the screams were coming from. Four seconds passed, maybe six, then his feet came fast up the stairs. From the timing of the thuds, he was missing every second step. The bedroom door was flung open, letting in a rush of cold air. A light dusting of snow lay on his shoulders, His dismay seemed to fill the room and then he moved rapidly to the cot, pulling off his coat.
‘Jesus, Em.’
The screams took on a downward, shuddering tone, Adam threw off his jacket, picked Sam up and began to walk rapidly backwards and forwards, cradling the baby against his chest.
I typed a couple more references. The digital clock at the corner of the computer read midday: feeding time, according to the chart I’d made the night before. I moved to the bed. Adam kissed the top of Sam’s head and put him into my arms, then he sat down next to me, his face in his hands. The weight made the mattress dip and I half fell into him. He smelt of the cold, the tang of alcohol wipes, the hospital world.
Sam’s wet face turned into my breast. As his mouth fastened onto my sore nipple, it was as though hot needles were piercing me. Adam, audibly wheezing, pulled out his inhaler and took a puff.
The small sounds of snuffling and swallowing seeped into the silence; I was too tired to explain that I’d been trying for a routine. The days and nights had blurred into a cycle of feeding and crying, an exhausting round, unlike anything I could remember. I probably wasn’t producing enough milk.
Adam’s voice was muffled in his hands. ‘Can’t you take a few weeks completely off just to settle him?’
‘How much time have you taken “completely off”?’ As I twisted round to speak to him, Sam was pulled off the nipple and started crying again.
Adam didn’t answer. I settled Sam against me. Energy seemed to drain out of me as he sucked. The naevus was uppermost, the red skin shining where the tears had tracked. I looked away. From here I could read the results of the comparison paper on ventouse deliveries that were still on the screen. Somehow I had to finish editing it for next month’s Journal of Obstetrics and Gynaecology.
Adam lifted his face from his hands, following my glance. He got up, walked to the computer and picked up the little chart I’d made, with its columns and boxes. ‘What’s this?’
I didn’t answer. He knew what it was.
‘Breastfed babies can’t be fed to a routine at four weeks.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘Think of the girls.’
‘I am thinking of the girls. They were never like this – Sam cries for food after half an hour. I’m awake five, ten times a night.’
Alice had hardly cried. She’d been wakeful, but peaceful. I remembered gazing for hours at the minute perfection of her face and toes. I’d worked while she slept. Zoë had been predictable: she slept, fed, played. I used to pick her out of the cot, just to hold her. She’d smelt of new bread and baby soap.
Adam returned to sit next to me. I braced myself to avoid rolling into him, I hated him for that little laugh and didn’t want to touch him, even by accident.
‘I know it’s hard.’ Adam stroked Sam’s hair. ‘Do you think he could be extra hungry? He may need more milk than Alice or Zoë did. Boys are hungrier than girls.’ He smiled.
Sam was smaller than the girls had been at this stage; he didn’t need so much food. I pushed myself further away along the edge of the bed.
‘I’ve been wondering if this could be, you know, some sort of postnatal depression.’ Adam didn’t look at me. His tone was cautious, almost apologetic. ‘They say it’s more common with babies who are premature.’
Sam had come three weeks ahead of time. That was all. I wasn’t depressed, I needed to work and sleep, I was exhausted all the time. These facts didn’t add up to an illness, but if I objected Adam would think he had a point. He might even ask our GP to come round.
He sighed and stood up. ‘My clinic starts in twenty minutes. I just came back to check you were all right.’ He looked out of the window at the falling snow, his hand scratching his neck, then he turned to me. ‘I’ve got the answer. I’ll get some bottles and milk powder after work. I’ll give him a bottle at night. He’ll sleep, you’ll sleep. It’ll all feel better.’
I didn’t reply: if he thought the problem could be so easily resolved there seemed little point.
When he’d left, I put Sam back into the cot. He protested but I ignored him and he began to drowse. I started tapping in the results again.
It wasn’t Adam’s fault that he thought I was depressed. He was searching for something that made sense. Now that the scan had proved it was a simple strawberry naevus with no underlying lesion, he considered the problem solved. If I told him why I avoided picking Sam up, he wouldn’t believe me. It would make no sense to him that every time I looked at that small marked face I felt the dull weight of failure.
I told Megan, though. She came early one frosty Sunday morning, her cheeks flushed with cold, carrying a basket of knitted toys. She handed Alice a tiny owl with round button eyes. Alice held it up to her face but in a few moments she’d left the room. She had retreated further since Sam’s birth; she talked to Adam but answered me in monosyllables, slipping from the rooms that I entered. Adam said it was normal and that she just needed time to get used to the new, bigger family.
Zoë spent hours stroking Sam; it was as though she’d acquired a new pet. Megan had knitted her a baby zebra with deep mauve stripes and Zo�
� threw her arms around her, shouting with delight. Sam had a white blanket and a small grey elephant with leather ears which Megan tucked into my arms next to him.
‘Take him if you like. He won’t break.’ I held Sam out to her.
She took him, her eyes wary. ‘He’s so light.’
‘That’s because I’m not producing enough milk, according to Adam. He gives him a bottle at night now.’
She burrowed her face into the baby’s neck. ‘He smells wonderful.’
‘Baby sick and urine. Probably needs a nappy change.’ I was flipping through some papers at my side. It wasn’t true. He had a scent like warm hay.
Megan shook her head, her hands tightening around his shawl. ‘He’s lovely, Emma.’
My eyes filled with tears. ‘He’s not, though. Look at him.’
She gazed fondly at Sam’s face and her lips curved into a smile. ‘If you’re worried about the mark, how could it matter?’
‘Maybe it shouldn’t affect things but it does.’ As a child at school, Megan had been rejected because of the way she looked. Of course appearances mattered, she must know that better than anyone. ‘When I look at him, I want to cry,’ I said.
‘If I were you, it would make me love him more.’ She kissed the top of his head. ‘To me he’s perfect.’ She glanced at me. ‘You have a perfect family, Emma. You’re lucky.’
She gave me a warm hug. This was the nearest she’d come to admitting she minded not having children. It should have been me comforting her but all I wanted was to lay my head on her shoulder and cry.
After that Megan came round often. She organized a cinema outing for the girls and took the cat off our hands early, making good her promise to look after him while we were away. She never seemed to mind caring for Sam if I wanted to work or even sleep. Sometimes I wondered what I’d done to deserve such generosity. As she was leaving one day after dropping the girls, I asked her why she was so kind.
‘You’d do the same for me.’ She must have seen my doubtful face. ‘I’ve never told anyone else that stuff from my childhood, but I told you. You listened. It felt like you really understood.’
I had understood; it wasn’t hard. I knew exactly how the past can live inside you and for a moment my father’s face was between us, with his downturned mouth and tear-filled eyes.
As Megan turned to go out of the front door, she glanced back into the hall, which was strewn with toys, the pram and Zoë’s scooter. ‘And I love being with the children. It’s you who’s kind.’
A few days later, she saw me organizing papers on the dining table. ‘Got your certificate?’ she asked, rocking Sam in her arms.
I was printing the last documents I needed for my research. I caught the sheets as they shot out of the printer. ‘Mine are done. The girls’ last jab is tomorrow.’
Megan laughed. ‘No, the certificate to practise – you know, the Botswana Health Professions Council Certificate. I got Adam’s a while back.’
‘I’m going to work from home. That’s the point.’ I stacked the sheets together and stepped back to admire the neat piles. ‘There’s enough here to keep me going for months.’
‘If you want to gather more data or even observe a clinic you’ll need it. Adam’s came through quickly.’ Sam’s eyes were travelling rapidly backwards and forwards under drooping lids. Bending her head, she dropped a kiss on his nose. ‘Just give me your CV, academic certificates and a copy of your passport and I’ll sort it for you.’
A couple of weeks later she presented me with the certificate. Later that night I packed it into the case in my study along with my papers, grateful but convinced she had wasted her time. I glanced round the familiar space, the light in the corner, my father’s desk, the piles of books heaped on its surface. I snapped off the light as I left, feeling a tingle of apprehension. Despite Adam’s organization and careful planning, the maps, the books and the equipment, we were going into the unknown.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Botswana, March 2014
The boy veers down a smaller track and through a gate, his long legs flickering in and out of the headlights. I follow, braking sharply when he dodges in front of the car before vanishing. The engine cuts out.
In front of us a rondavel is attached to a squat building, the tin roof glittering in the moonlight. Dark shapes huddle around a small fire. We get out of the car, the girls clinging to me.
‘Dumela.’ A tall figure moves from the shadows. ‘Kgosi Momotsi.’ He bows. Firelight flickers over a long, handsome face, as stern and still as if sculpted from stone. His grip is firm.
He leads me to a seat; a cup is pushed into my hand; Zoë burrows into my lap and Alice presses against my side. The people around the fire get up silently and disappear into darkness. Ginger beer burns a fiery track down my gullet.
‘I was in the clinic, this afternoon. I work with Esther …’
He nods. He knows this already. He would have known about us from the beginning; though we neglected to pay our respects, now we need his help.
‘My baby was stolen today.’ Will he believe me? ‘He has a mark on his face,’ I continue, circling my own right cheek, as if that would anchor my story.
‘Who would do this?’ Chief Momotsi asks quietly, his eyes intent on mine.
Who? Like a swarm of insects, the questions have been circling loudly, more closely: Teko, who loves him, whom I found crying in the corner? Josiah, who is old and kind? Elisabeth? She was there all the time. No one else had been around that day, apart from Kabo, and he’d been with Adam. A random criminal, then, but what could have been the motive?
‘I have to go. The police might have come by now.’
‘The elders will meet in the kgotla to discuss this.’ He stands too. ‘My son will drive you home now. Tomorrow my wife, Peo, comes to be with you.’ He turns to indicate a tall woman at his side; she nods gravely.
Why would we need anyone unless they help us find Sam? But Chief Momotsi bows and turns away. The arrangement is already in place.
A tall boy steps close, his large spectacles neatly patched with tape. I drop the keys into his palm. The girls scramble ahead of me into the back seat and the jeep moves off jerkily.
Back at home, in London, the kitchen would have been full of uniformed men in minutes, notes taken and information flashed between teams. Records would be checked even as cars were dispatched, sirens screaming down the roads. And then? There were babies in England who were never found; police were fallible everywhere. Sam could be just as lost, but at least everything would be familiar: I would know where to turn and who to call. Megan would be there, dealing with the children, making tea.
The headlights on the road pick out the twisted shapes of thorn trees at either side. Beyond, in the darkness, the empty land stretches for hundreds of miles.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In transit, London—Botswana, December 2013
In the night sky five miles above Paris, the plane banked. Adam and the girls slept, while Sam dozed in my arms. Imagined horror played like a film in the back of my mind. A bomb explosion, mechanical failure, even a moment of inattention from the pilot, and we could all be spun down through space. Would Alice, deeply asleep, wake before she lost consciousness? Or Zoë, leaning against Adam’s shoulder, snoring lightly, feel even a second of pain as the impact splintered the eggshell bone of her ear canals? Sam might survive a crash, being tiny and sheltered by me, but would perish in the fire that followed.
Hundreds of passengers slept. No one else was torturing themselves as I was – as I always did on planes. Adam usually held my hand but he was two seats away, head slumped sideways. He looked remote in sleep but in the last weeks he’d become remote anyway. He’d been staying late at the hospital preparing for the trip, whereas I got up early to finish editing the paper on ventouse deliveries. By the time he came home I was usually asleep. He’d settled on his diagnosis of postnatal depression: it was simpler for him to think my lack of interest in Sam was an illness that
Africa might cure. We hardly talked any more. In a few hours we would arrive in a bright, different world but, contrary to what Adam thought, sunshine wouldn’t cure anything.
Sam’s head dropped backwards in sleep; his mouth slipped slowly off my nipple, pulling it as he went, raising a blister. The skin would burn and bleed when he latched on again. A thin skein of milk stretched from his lips and broke, trailing on my shirt. I lifted him to my shoulder. The flight attendant paused as she bustled past. Her eyes widened as she took in the birthmark; she saw me watching and gave a brief professional smile. She probably thought I was used to it.
I wasn’t used to it. How could I be? How could I get used to a birthmark that spread like a stain, over the face of my child? I glanced around: the other parents looked so peaceful, sleeping alongside their children as they were transported through the dark skies. Somewhere in the world there must be parents like me, who didn’t like the way their children looked, burying repulsion and burying guilt. Megan was the only one who knew how I felt, and now she was thousands of miles away. My thoughts, guilty and wretched as they were, would have to stay hidden.
The plane shifted, seeming to change course as it navigated towards Africa, taking us somewhere we had never been before. A tiny clutch of hope followed this thought, as if a hand had just taken mine. Something might be waiting for us that could change things beyond imagination. The warmth of Sam’s body against me was hypnotic. In the dark I could pretend he looked completely normal. Despite my fear of the plane, the muscles of my face began to slacken and my pulse to slow as I slid into sleep.
The metal rail was hot as we stepped down the rickety stairway to the ground. Sensations crowded against my skin: heat, as if blown from an oven; light, thick and yellow as treacle; the scent of eucalyptus, fuel oil and dust. I wanted to absorb this moment of arrival, but my mouth tasted stale, my nipples were sore and Sam was wriggling in my arms. Adam was ahead with Zoë, Alice between us, half running after Adam. Beneath my shoes, the tarmac felt tacky. Around the airport, flat brown land stretched to a distant rim of hills. Next to the terminal there was an untidy sprawl of abandoned buildings and a wire fence, behind which two thin donkeys cropped a dusting of brown grass. Zoë’s head turned to follow them as Adam guided her forwards.