by Alison Walsh
She’d woken early that morning with an odd feeling of lightness in her abdomen, as if the baby wasn’t there any more, and she’d had to reach out her hand and touch the mound of her belly to be sure. She sat upright as quickly as she could, a sudden panic gripping her and the sensation that something had emptied out of her. Heart thumping, she’d patted the bedsheets and then she realised that she was sitting in a puddle. The sheets were wet and clammy and she was freezing, her skin covered in goosepimples. She opened her mouth to call Pi, but all that came out was a hoarse whisper. In the end, she had to scrabble around for the mobile on the floor and ring him. His voice was a low rumble. ‘Hello?’
‘Pi, I think it’s started.’
There was a long silence at the end of the phone, and Rosie could see the wheels turning as he tried to work out what to do. ‘Will you ask Mary-Pat to meet me at the hospital?’
He cleared his throat. ‘OK.’ Rosie was grateful to him that he hadn’t asked for an explanation. ‘Can I, ehm, help you with anything?’
‘No, if you could just get the car ready – not the Beetle,’ she added hastily. There was a rumble then a murmur and the phone went dead, which Rosie took to mean that he was doing as he’d been asked.
She was surprisingly calm as she washed and dressed. Margaret had told her not to shower if her waters broke, in case of infection, so she dabbed at herself with a towel, then put on a comfy pair of tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt and fleece. She’d have to ask Pi to help her to lace her trainers because she couldn’t reach. The baby, who normally started every morning with a vigorous bout of kicking, was completely still in her belly, and Rosie felt a flash of panic before remembering that Margaret had also told her that that happened when you went into labour, that the baby was just ‘in the departure lounge’ and didn’t need to move about any more.
She picked up her hospital bag and looked around the room and thought, when I come back, I’ll have a baby with me. I’ll be a mum. And the thought filled her with a sense of wonder. What kind of mum will I be? Will I be like Mammy or like my real mum? Will I know how to do this job as well as Mary-Pat? She’d always thought she didn’t have a rule book, a road map, but now she realised that of course she had. She had one of the best.
And then she thought of Mark and wondered where he’d be right now. Somewhere out there in the world, unaware that he was to be a father. She closed her eyes and tried to picture him, but the picture was fuzzy even now, blurry around the edges. Maybe I’ve done the wrong thing, but please forgive me, she thought quietly to herself before closing the door behind her and shuffling gently down the stairs to where Pius was waiting, a set of towels in his hands, as instructed. ‘I called Mary-Pat. She’ll be along in a bit.’
Rosie nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She leaned gently against her brother, her big oak tree, and closed her eyes. ‘There, there, Rosie-boo, it’ll be OK,’ his voice a deep rumble in his chest as he gave her a gentle squeeze. ‘We’ll all be there for you. Don’t you worry.’
‘Thanks, Pi. I’m sorry for everything.’
‘Sure, for God’s sake, what do you have to be sorry for? None of it was your fault,’ he mumbled into her hair. ‘It’s us who should be sorry, love, that we made such a hash of things. We’ll try to do better with the third generation.’ He smiled.
Rosie tried to argue that he’d been a great brother, that she was lucky to have him, but a contraction gripped her with such ferocity she had to close her eyes and grit her teeth against the pain, the vice which gripped her abdomen and then slid downwards, a great wave of it, which made her grab hold of Pius’s wrist until it passed.
‘Better?’ Pius’s voice was soothing.
‘Thanks, Pi. You’re a natural.’
‘Must be all the practice I’ve had,’ he said ruefully. And then he paused. ‘I’m sure Mammy would be proud of you, Rosie.’
Rosie shook her head. ‘No, Pi. I’m sorry. No. She’s gone. I already have a mammy, or as good as, and I don’t need another.’
Pius looked down at her and then he kissed her forehead. ‘You’re right. Of course you are. And now, let’s go before you have this baby right here. The kitchen’s in a right state.’
Rosie balanced on her pile of clean towels in the passenger seat, gripping the door handle and Pius’s arm as she rode the contractions all the way to Dublin. It was strange, she thought, that she could go from being speechless with pain to being able to continue chatting to Pius about the programme on the radio, a phone-in where people talked about their favourite childhood memories. He kept up a good patter to distract her. ‘Do you remember the time you helped me to skin that rabbit that I shot and Mary-Pat walloped your backside because you got your good dress covered in rabbit blood? And she nearly killed me too, into the bargain. That was you, Rosie, always a tomboy, always getting stuck in.’
‘Skinning a rabbit, an essential life skill,’ Rosie joked, before she had to grip the dashboard as another contraction built and then ebbed away again. ‘Oh, Christ, that was a bad one. Are we nearly there yet?’
‘Just another ten minutes. Hang on, Rosie, we’ll make it,’ Pius said, shooting her a worried look.
‘It’s OK, Pi, I’m not going to have it in the car.’ Rosie managed a short laugh before muttering, ‘Oh, crap, another one.’ What had she been thinking, that the pain would just be like bad period cramps? Now she knew why nobody ever talked about it – if they did, there wouldn’t be a woman alive who’d go through it.
Pius put the boot down and they did the rest of the journey at about seventy miles an hour, screeching into the car park and bullying another driver out of a parking space. ‘That’s not like you, Pi,’ Rosie joked weakly.
‘Yes, well, needs must,’ Pius said grimly. ‘Thank God I got you here in one piece. Mary-Pat would kill me if I didn’t. She said she’d break my knees if I didn’t deliver you safely. Now, let’s get you inside.’
Rosie couldn’t walk for laughing.
Naturally, Rosie heard Mary-Pat before she saw her. Margaret was at the ‘business end’ as she called it, examining Rosie to see how many centimetres she’d dilated. ‘Hmm, I’d say it’s early days yet, but we’ll see how we go. We might need to move things along if there’s no progress in the next couple of hours. How are the contractions?’
‘Well, they were really bad in the car, but they’ve eased off now,’ Rosie said.
‘It’s because you’ve come into hospital. They all do that.’ Margaret laughed. ‘They must sense it somehow and decide that they’re not ready to come out and, sure, who could blame them. It’s a scary old world.’
She pulled off her gloves and threw them into the bin and went to make a note in the file when the door crashed open and Mary-Pat bustled in in a grey jogging suit and carrying a large holdall. Margaret’s head shot up and her eyes darkened. ‘Excuse me, no visitors in the labour rooms. Please go to the waiting area.’ And she pointed to the door, in case the person hadn’t quite got the message.
‘I’m her sister. I’m to be the birth partner,’ Mary-Pat barked and marched over to Rosie and gripped her hand. ‘Howya, love. Why are you flat on your back? C’mon, get the hell up.’
Rosie thought she’d never been so glad to see anyone in her whole life. ‘Mary-Pat,’ she exclaimed, trying to lift herself up in the bed, knocking over a cardboard hat that Margaret had offered her to be sick into onto the ground. ‘Thank God you’re here. I can’t do this by myself, I just can’t.’ She searched her sister’s face for reassurance, knowing that she sounded panicky. She was panicky. The contractions and the pain that came with them were coming fast again now and she could feel herself getting tired and weepy and longing for something to take the pain away. Anything. She’d sworn she wasn’t going to have an epidural, but now she longed for it, longed for the blessed release from the exhausting pain.
‘Excuse me, I have a patient here who’s in labour,’ Margaret bristled. ‘She needs rest.’
‘She does in her nelly.�
� Mary-Pat gave Rosie a tight squeeze, before tugging at her gently to get her to sit up. ‘C’mon, love, time to get moving or you’ll never get that baby out.’
Rosie tried to shift forward in the bed, but she couldn’t move. Her stomach seemed to have pinned her there – she was like an upturned crab, arms and legs waving but unable to right herself. Gently, Mary-Pat reached behind her and shifted her forward until Rosie was sitting more or less upright. As she did so, she nudged against Rosie and Rosie felt the hardness of her sister’s stomach, the solidity of it. Surely –?
Mary-Pat looked down, as if seeing her stomach for the very first time, then looked back up at Rosie. ‘It would seem your condition is catching.’
‘You’re kidding,’ Rosie managed.
‘Yes, well.’ Mary-Pat blushed a violent shade of puce. ‘It’s a long story. Blame Victoria’s Secret and a bottle of Chianti.’
‘Oh. My. God,’ Rosie spluttered, then coughed, then burst out laughing, before a wall of pain made her moan and close her eyes, gripping her sister’s wrist.
When she opened her eyes again, Mary-Pat was patting her rounded tummy. ‘It’s no feckin’ joke. I’m forty-three. And the kids are mortified, of course. Melissa says if I think she’s going to push a pram around Monasterard I’ve got another thing coming. And John-Patrick has barely spoken to either of us since we told him – I think he’s too embarrassed at the notion that these old age pensioners are still at it. Still, it was worth it, if you catch my drift.’
‘TMI, Mary-Pat.’
‘I know.’ Mary-Pat shook her head ruefully. ‘I didn’t actually mean it like that. I just meant that I’m glad to have PJ back.’
I didn’t know he’d gone anywhere, Rosie thought, but then, why would I? I never asked my sister about her marriage or about how happy she was. I didn’t care, because I was too caught up with my own dramas. And she felt ashamed that she had no idea that her sister was pregnant. ‘I’m sorry, Mary-Pat, I truly am. I had no idea. I wish to God I had, but …’
‘Sure you had your own pregnancy to be getting on with, love. And,’ she put up a hand as Rosie went to object, ‘I know why you didn’t tell me, and that’s fine – Melissa never shut up about it, to be honest – but I would have liked to be able to be there for you, to make it up to you for all the shit we’ve put you through. And … well, I hope it’s not too late.’ Mary-Pat blushed at the uncharacteristic expression of feeling. ‘I know,’ she said, seeing Rosie’s look of incredulity. ‘I’ve been practising talking about my “feelings”.’ She used air quotes and rolled her eyes to heaven.
‘Well, it suits you.’ Rosie tried to get the words out but gave up as the contraction gripped her. ‘Oh, for Jesus Christ’s sake,’ she roared. ‘The pain is fucking killing me. When the hell will this baby come out?’
‘That’s the contractions talking, pet. Means they must be working.’
At this point, the two women looked at Margaret, who was trying to busy herself at the foetal monitor, her face a picture as she tried to absorb the story she was hearing. Mary-Pat turned to her then. ‘Don’t worry, we’re the only two that are up the duff. The others are grand. And I’m married at least, which is more than I can say for herself here. Although that’s the way nowadays, isn’t it?’
Margaret nodded and said diplomatically, ‘They’re all mothers to us.’
‘You’re dead right. Now, do you think Rosie could get up and start moving around, or else this baby will never go anywhere.’
‘Well, she just needs to be monitored for a few more minutes and then—’ But Mary-Pat was ignoring her, ushering Rosie gently up on the bed. ‘C’mon, Rosie-boo, up we get, there’s work to be done.’
Margaret tutted and rolled her eyes to heaven, and Rosie shot her an apologetic look. ‘Off you go,’ she said reluctantly, removing the straps of the foetal monitor from Rosie’s belly.
‘Thanks, love,’ Mary-Pat said. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea? I’m parched.’ And then, as the door swung shut behind the retreating Margaret, ‘What’s wrong with that woman? You’d swear I’d asked for cocaine.’
Rosie was shaking with laughter now as the pain gripped her, so that she was laughing and moaning at the same time. ‘Oh, Mary-Pat, stop making me laugh, it’s making things worse.’ She gritted her teeth and grabbed her sister’s wrist. ‘I won’t be able to do it, I won’t.’
Mary-Pat held onto Rosie, matching her grip, her strong hand grasping Rosie’s, giving it a tight squeeze. ‘You will, love. You will, and before you know it, you’ll be looking at your baby and you won’t be able to believe he’s yours and you’ll start out on the greatest journey of them all. I know, because I’ve been there myself, and there’s nothing like it. It’s a miracle.’
A miracle. It sure didn’t feel like it right now, Rosie thought. She lay back on the bed, and Mary-Pat fussed around, pulling a little facecloth out of the holdall and soaking it in cold water from the sink before folding it and placing it on Rosie’s forehead. Rosie felt the damp, cool cloth soothe her, the lull between contractions a blessed relief. ‘Mary-Pat, I’m glad you’re here.’
‘Well, I’m glad to be here too, love. And I’m sorry about everything, I really am.’ Mary-Pat took Rosie’s hand in hers and gave it a squeeze.
‘You don’t have to be sorry, MP.’
‘I do, love. I was trying to protect you. It wasn’t a nice story and we all felt ashamed that something like that had happened to you. You just got caught up in events that weren’t of your making, pet. Sometimes people do dreadful things, even though they don’t mean it. Mammy and Daddy weren’t bad people, just foolish and a bit naïve, I suppose. They didn’t understand that what they did affected others.’
‘I know, Mary-Pat, but can we talk about it another time?’ Rosie moaned, unable to respond because another contraction had gripped her. She held Mary-Pat’s hand so tightly she could feel the bones in her sister’s hand rubbing against each other. ‘Sorry,’ she managed, through gritted teeth.
‘Ah, for God’s sake, less of the sorries, pet. Now, before we all slit our wrists, let’s take a little walk, will we?’
‘Thanks, Mammy,’ Rosie joked.
‘Enough of the Mammy shite. Not that old,’ Mary-Pat barked, but Rosie knew that she was pleased.
Later, much later, Rosie was kneeling on the bed, cursing and swearing, her face covered in a sheen of sweat. She felt as if she would split in two, so searing was the pain. The baby cannot come out that way, she told herself. He or she just can’t. She won’t fit. A cold sheen of sweat broke out on her forehead and a wave of exhaustion swept over her. She leaned forward and rested her head on the pillow. She was done. She’d had it. She couldn’t give birth to this baby and that was it. She leaned her head against her arms and moaned softly to herself. She could hear the two women arguing somewhere behind her, but it felt as if she were underwater, unable to surface. She suddenly wanted Mark; wanted to have him hold her hand and crack jokes to distract her. He should be here, she told herself. Why didn’t I tell him? I need him to be beside me. ‘I need him here now,’ she moaned softly to herself, then louder to Mary-Pat. ‘Mary-Pat, I want Mark here now. Get him for me, please. I don’t care what you have to do.’
‘Let’s just let Rosie calm down and gather herself for a few minutes, shall we?’ Margaret was glaring at Mary-Pat.
‘Look, if she gives up now, she’ll just get too tired and won’t be able to push,’ Mary-Pat said.
‘She’s too tired now, Mary-Pat.’ Margaret was trying a conciliatory tone.
‘Ah, for feck’s sake,’ Mary-Pat said. ‘Rosie, will you listen to me. That fellow of yours can’t be here right now, because he’s on the other side of the world, but we’ll call him as soon as we can. Now, if you don’t push, some pimply young one of a house doctor will be in here with the salad spoons to pull that baby out of you and, let me tell you, you won’t like that. So when you get your next contraction, I want you to push harder than you’ve ever pushed before and we’ll
get this baby born, what do you say?’
Rosie nodded, a vision of a small doctor waving a very large pair of salad servers flashing into her mind, which alternately terrified and amused her, and she found herself laughing and crying at the same time as Margaret and Mary-Pat urged her on, whooping and cheering as if she were nearing the finishing line in a race, which she supposed she was, in a way. ‘Oh, here’s the head,’ Mary-Pat squeaked. ‘Feckin’ fantastic, Rosie.’
Margaret tutted. ‘Right, Rosie, one more push and we’re there.’
Rosie thought the bottom half of her would just fall off. ‘I have a bowling ball inside me,’ she gasped. ‘I can’t push it out, it’s too sore.’
‘Well, you sure as hell can’t keep it there,’ Mary-Pat said. ‘It won’t like being jammed halfway up your ass, that’s for sure.’
‘Oh, Mary-Pat, stop,’ Rosie said, bracing herself again as another contraction hit. She gritted her teeth and wondered if that burning sensation would just go on and on and whether she’d split open in the process. And then, she felt a gush of warm water leave her and the baby slid out, like a warm fish.
‘Will you look at the head of hair on him,’ Mary-Pat exclaimed. ‘You’ve given birth to a mop.’ She laughed as Margaret lifted a large pink thing covered in goo up.
‘Congratulations, Rosie, you have a grand big boy.’ She beamed and darted Mary-Pat a dagger look while she was at it.
He was big, Rosie thought. Big and red and angry, with his tiny fists clenched up close to his face and his eyes clamped shut, mouth wide open as he let out a loud roar.
‘He has a fine set of lungs anyway.’ Margaret laughed as she urged Rosie to sit down and began to tidy her up. ‘You just hold him for a while, pet, and then we’ll dress him to keep him warm.’
Rosie could feel herself tremble as she held her son, warm and heavy in her arms, a solid mass of gorgeous lobster pink, even now, little folds of fat at his wrists and ankles. Her teeth were chattering and her skin was covered in a riot of goosepimples, and the elation was like nothing she’d ever felt in her whole life.