by Carrie Elks
No wonder he looks so haunted. His ex-girlfriend is a tender subject for David. Not to mention the fact she won't let him see his daughter.
“She did? Was Mathilda with her?”
“Nah, it was at some reception thing. The only reason my mum mentioned it was because Claire was with someone.”
“With someone?” I echo.
“A guy. Some businessman, according to Mum. She phoned in a panic, worried he was going to adopt Mathilda. Apparently he's a minor celebrity in town.”
“Rich?”
“Stinking with it.” David shrugs, but I can tell by the way he holds his shoulders that he's not cool with it. I reach out and grab his hand.
“How about your lawyer, has he managed to make any headway?”
“Nothing worth reporting.”
I sit up, swinging my legs around until they're curled beneath me. Then I look at David. “Have you ever considered going there and seeing Mathilda anyway?”
I look over at Max, sleeping quietly in the corner. If Alex stopped me from seeing him I don't know what I'd do.
“I've done more than consider it.” He looks down at his mug, as if he's avoiding my gaze. “I took her for a week, went down to my dad's cabin without telling anyone. That's... um... why I ended up with an injunction against me.”
“You took her?” I don't know how to feel about that. The part of me that's David's friend wants to support him. But the mother in me is appalled.
A pinched expression moulds his face. “This is why I don't tell anybody. Yes, it was stupid and yes, I was a knob, but I was in a bad place. She's my daughter, too.”
I blink at the shortness of his voice. “I'm sorry.” Who am I to judge? I've not exactly been stable recently.
David shakes his head. “Nah, you're all right. It was a dick move. Stupid, too, because it gave Claire enough ammo to shoot me down.”
I'm still trying not to think about someone taking Max away. A whole week? As much as I dislike the sound of Claire, she must have gone through hell.
“Everybody deserves a second chance,” I say with a small voice. “We all make mistakes.”
“Claire doesn't see it that way.” He stares at the ground. “Nor does the judge. I'm too much of an abduction risk, apparently.”
“But you wouldn't take her again, would you? Not after everything that's happened?”
“Of course not. But every day I don't see her, she's growing up. I'm scared she's not gonna know me, not going to want to know me. Claire will find someone else and then Mathilda won't even need me anymore. She'll have a new dad.”
“You'll always be her dad,” I reassure him. “No matter what happens, nobody can change that.”
“What's the use in a title if I can't spend any time with her?” he asks. “She's gonna forget I even exist. I've lost her, Lara, I know I have.”
His face crumples, and I close the space between us, reaching out to hug him tight. For ten long minutes he cries into my shoulder, sobbing for a child he's lost, one he so desperately misses. Though my eyes water, I don't join in. I try to comfort him as best I can, trying so hard not to think about another absent dad, touring over in the States. One who would rather spend time with nameless blondes than call his wife and check up on his baby.
* * *
The next time I attend the PND support group I actually feel able to speak in front of everybody. We’ve taken the babies swimming, and after drying ourselves off and getting our clothes back on, we congregate in a small restaurant at the back of the sports complex. I’ve noticed that we all feel more comfortable with our hands occupied—whether it’s holding a coffee or rocking a baby, and though often we don’t make eye contact, there’s still a feeling of being heard.
The swimming has worn Max out for once. He’s slumped in his buggy, his head lolling to one side, fingers stuffed in his mouth like a soother. I tuck the blanket around his legs before lifting my coffee from the table, and look at the others who are doing the same.
“How has your week been, Lara?” Diane, the group leader asks. I take a mouthful of coffee before speaking, letting the liquid warm my throat.
“I saw a photograph of my husband with another woman.”
There’s a gasp from the others, as they whip their heads up to look at me. Their shock lessens as I try to explain the situation, finding myself making excuses for Alex, but the sympathy in their eyes remains.
“Have you been sleeping?” Diane asks.
“Not much,” I admit. I look down, smoothing the wrinkles from my jeans. “Even when Max is asleep I can’t drift off. I keep seeing it in my mind.”
“Do you think there’s anything in it?” Debbie, one of the other mums, leans forward. “You seem remarkably calm.”
“I don’t know… I don’t think so. We’ve been together for seven years and he’s never ever strayed, even when he’s had opportunity to.” I look up, catching her eye. “He’s had a lot of opportunity, as you can imagine.”
“Have you asked him about it?”
I shake my head. “Remember I told you about his phone? I can’t bring myself to ask him over somebody else’s connection. What if we end up talking for hours? What if he hangs up and I can’t get hold of him? This is something I need to do face to face.”
“That sounds sensible,” Diane says. “From what you’ve told us, you’ve both in a volatile position right now. And this is a conversation you really should have in person.”
She’s right, I know that. Because I need to see his eyes when I ask him, to see his expression when he tries to explain the situation. More than that, I need him to see me, the way his actions are affecting me, the way I sometimes feel like I’m falling apart.
The only problem is, there’s still another six weeks until he comes home.
18
Two days later Max has developed a hacking cough that a sixty-a-day smoker would be proud of. Loud dog-like barks wrack his tiny body, making him cry with the shock of it all. In spite of the heat, I wrap him up and take him to the doctor's surgery, only to be told that colds are to be expected and I should keep him cool and hydrated, and that I shouldn’t take him swimming again until his breathing is better.
Though the doctor didn't say it, I got the sense he thinks I'm being neurotic. He only has to see my notes to know I've been diagnosed as having PND. Though I've heard from the others at the PND group that they have the same problems with their own GPs, this is the first time I start to wonder if it really is me.
Maybe I am being neurotic.
Alex has called twice since the weekend. Even over a dodgy connection he could hear Max's wheezing, and he sounded sweetly concerned, telling me to try the doctor again, offering to call his mum for advice. I have to admit I tried to play down my worries.
And, yeah, I didn't ask him about the picture, in fact it didn’t even cross my mind until we’d finished talking. Maybe it was his concern that won me over, or my need to hear another human voice. All I do know is I have to ignore the nagging in my head that tells me I'm stirring up heartache, that I should get everything out in the open where it belongs.
On Thursday night, Max can't sleep at all. His nose is stuffed, his lungs full of mucus, and I have to keep him upright to help him breathe. In my sleep-deprived, slightly panicked state, I finally call Alex's mum, desperate for another opinion. Having been effectively laughed out of the doctor's office, I'm finding it hard to judge the situation. To see the line between concern and anxiety.
“Have you tried Oil of Olbas?” Tina suggests. “Fill a bowl with hot water and put a few drops in. Make him breathe in the steam.”
I don't bother to point out the dangers of hot water near a baby. If I dangled Max anywhere near a bowl of boiling water, he's bound to lunge at it. The scald risk is too great.
“I don't have any,” I lie. Alex has some stashed in our bathroom cabinet. He swears by it, like his mum.
Max wheezes loudly. The air he inhales mixes with the fluid in his airways, whis
tling as he tries to take it in. He wriggles in my arms, his sad eyes staring up at me. It's as if he's begging me for help.
That only makes me feel more useless. I hold him tight, whispering everything will be okay, and his soft cheek feels hot against my own. His chest moves rapidly with his shallow breaths, the skin beneath his ribcage looking hollow and tight.
“I'm going to try to get him to sleep,” I tell Tina. “I'll let you know how he is in the morning.”
“Call me first thing, I'll pop over with some stuff for him. Give you a bit of a break.”
Max refuses to settle, which isn't a surprise. For the past twelve hours he's hardly taken in any liquids, turning his head away every time I offer him a bottle. His lips are red and cracked, eyes haunted and sunken. And as the night progresses, his cries become weaker.
I don't know what to do. By this time his temperature is sky high, skin red and tight. It's like holding a hot water bottle in my arms. I try to reduce his fever with a cool flannel, but he pushes it away weakly, whimpering.
In desperation, I try to call Alex. Though I'm trying to be strong for Max's sake, tears fill my eyes, my lip wobbling as I dial the number. And of course I get Stuart's voicemail. But this time I leave a shaky message, asking Alex to call me back, hoping he can hear how much I need him.
By 3:00 a.m. Max is quiet. His body has stopped wriggling, and he lies limply in my arms. At first I think he's asleep, but when I look down I'm shocked to see his eyes are still open. Unfocused and hazy.
Something is very, very wrong.
I'm not imagining this, am I? His sickness isn't a figment of my neurotic depression. His chest flutters beneath his white vest, his dry lips trembling as he tries to get enough air in. All the time he's staring at something that isn’t there.
By the time I call for an ambulance I'm practically incoherent. The operator tries to calm me down, asking questions with a calm, patient voice. I answer them hysterically, noticing the skin around his mouth and nose is turning blue, crying hard as I realise he's barely breathing.
“The paramedics will be with you in five minutes. Can you make sure the front door is open for them?” she asks calmly.
“Yes, I'm going down now,” I manage to answer. Holding Max in one arm and my phone in the other, I clamber down the stairs, wrenching the front door open.
“Lara?” A sleepy David opens his door. He's only wearing pyjama bottoms. His chest is bare. “Is something wrong?”
Tears trail down my cheeks. Sobbing, I try to explain. “Max isn’t breathing properly. The ambulance is on its way.” I look down at him. He wheezes loudly.
“Shit. Let me grab a top.” David disappears, returning less than a minute later, wearing jeans and a crumpled t-shirt. Gently, he touches Max's face. Wincing as he brushes his skin. “How long did they say the ambulance would be?” He steps through the front door, craning his head to look down the street. A few minutes later, the white van arrives. Though the blue lights fixed to the top are flashing, the sirens are silent. I'm not sure if this is a good thing or not.
The next moments are a blur. The paramedics gently take Max from my arms, laying him on the hall floor as they carry out an assessment. They attach an oxygen mask to his face, then turn to me, explaining that he needs to go to hospital, where he'll get the appropriate treatment. Then they carry him into the ambulance, placing his tiny body on the gurney, one paramedic holding the oxygen mask while the other closes the ambulance doors, getting into the driver’s seat.
It takes ten minutes to get to hospital. This time the sirens are loud, wailing through the night air like a lamentation. They echo my own cries as I watch the paramedic helping Max to breathe. His body is still limp and unresponsive. I keep checking my watch, shocked to see only a few seconds have passed, each moment feeling like a long, drawn out torture.
“Nearly there, love,” the paramedic says. “I told your husband to meet us at A&E. The roads are pretty clear tonight.”
My husband? My first thought is, how the hell did they call Alex? It's only then that I realise he's talking about David.
I hate the way the disappointment tastes bitter in my mouth.
God, I need him. I start sobbing again, so scared that Max is dying. Though I can’t see his face beneath all the plastic tubes, I try to hold things together as they wheel him into the hospital, covering my mouth to muffle the sobs as I follow the gurney.
They take Max straight to an examination room, while a friendly-faced junior nurse leads me to the waiting room, explaining that someone will be in to talk to me soon. When I protest, wanting to stay with Max, she rubs my arm softly.
“I know you want to be with him but there isn't enough room,” she explains. “You're his mum, he needs you to be strong. Let the doctors do their job, and as soon as he's ready, I promise you'll see him.”
I draw in a ragged breath. “Will they look after him?”
“They're the best.” She says it with a serious face. “He couldn't be in more caring hands. Now sit here and I'll ask one of the receptionists to bring you some forms to fill in. Is there anybody you can call?”
How sad I must look, crying on my own in the middle of an empty waiting room. I nod, showing her my phone. “I can't use this here, can I?”
“In here is fine,” she reassures. “Just not near the equipment.
David arrives a few minutes later, rushing into the waiting room and looking wildly around. As soon as he spots me, he runs over, scooping me into his arms. I sob into his shoulder as he strokes my hair, my face. “Where is he?” His voice is raspy and low.
“Being examined. They said they'll come and talk to me soon.”
“Is he okay?”
I shake my head. “I don't know. The paramedics said something about an infection, but it all went so fast. I couldn't concentrate.”
David holds me tighter still. “Of course you couldn't.”
Half an hour later, Tina and Amy have joined us, their faces pale, lips pinched. Andrea is apparently on her way, too, and Beth has already texted to say she'll catch the first morning train to London. So I sit, surrounded by a makeshift family, feeling desperately lonely without my two lovely boys.
Sensing my fear, David folds my hand in his, squeezing tight. I notice Tina glancing our way, staring pointedly at our hands, but I can't bring myself to care. Instead, I look at the clock fixed high on the wall, willing the minutes to pass quickly, wondering what is taking so long.
Is my baby able to breathe? What if he isn't? What if they're putting off coming to tell me bad news?
I bite my mouth closed, swallowing my sob. My arms feel achy and empty. Having held Max all night, I'm bereft without him.
“I'll try Alex again.” Tina presses some buttons on her phone, putting it to her ear. I can tell by her expression it goes straight to voicemail. She leaves a short message, explaining the situation, asking him to call back. I'm trying to work out the time difference between here and Chicago, when a pale-looking young man walks out into the waiting room, his light green scrubs denoting his job.
“Mrs Cartwright?”
Of course, Tina and I both stand up. Despite being long divorced, she's still kept the name of her only husband.
“I think he means me,” I say gently.
The doctor walks forward and offers me his hand. “I'm Doctor Logan. I've been assisting Doctor Kulkarni with your son.”
“How is he?” I'm aware of how desperate I sound.
“I'm afraid he's a very poorly boy.” The doctor offers me a seat, pulling his chair up beside me. The others huddle in, as anxious as I am for news. “We believe he has a condition called Bronchiolitis, which is a chest infection caused by a virus called RSV. Basically all the tiny airways in his chest have swollen, making it hard for Max to breathe.”
I'm finding it hard to breathe, too. “How serious is it?”
“His oxygen levels are low, in the mid-eighties, and he's very dehydrated. We need to attach him to some tubes to help
him out.” He smiles reassuringly. “In most cases there's a full recovery, but the next two days are crucial. We need to increase his oxygen levels enough to kick start his system.”
“Is he going to live?” Tina asks, leaning forward.
“There are no guarantees, but I can tell you that ninety percent of babies go on to make a full recovery.”
My voice is small. “What about the other ten percent?”
Of course, there's no answer to that.
The doctor shifts his feet. “Would you like to come and see him, Mrs Cartwright?”
I nod, standing up. The others stand too, David grabbing my hand again, Tina pushing to the front.
“I'm sorry, only Mrs Cartwright at the moment. We're moving Max to a ward and all the other children are asleep. You'll be able to see him tomorrow.”
I sense, rather than see, Tina's disappointment.
Following the doctor, I walk through the dimly lit corridors and up two flights of stairs. The children's ward is at the top of the sixties-built block, secured by electronically locked doors. When he presses the code and ushers me in I notice the brightly painted murals adorning the walls. Ariel, Belle and Cinderella on one side, Buzz, Woody and Monsters Inc. on the other.
They've put Max in a room to the left of the nurses’ station. The doctor explains that until the tests come back tomorrow, letting them know the type of virus he's contracted, his isolation is a temporary measure.
Nothing can prepare you for the sight of your child lying in a hospital cot. Even through the window I can see him there, naked save for his nappy. There are tubes fixed to his tiny nose, and a drip is attached to his arm. Though he's still, his tiny chest flutters rapidly, the tight skin below his rib cage concave as he breathes.
I don't think I've ever felt so helpless.
“You can go in,” the doctor says, opening the door. A young nurse looks up at the sound, gifting me a reassuring smile.
“Look Max, your mummy is here.”
I choke, covering my mouth with my hand, trying to swallow the sobs back down. It’s hard to recognize the scrappy little thing lying in the plastic cot. I've never seen Max so still.