The Decision

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Good,’ he said, but he didn’t seem reassured.

  They wheeled her to the premature baby unit. She said she would walk, and tried to prove it but collapsed, nauseous and weak, halfway along the corridor.

  Their baby was the smallest there; so tiny, so desperately tiny, with a head that looked too big for him, and scrawnily thin limbs. His skin seemed transparent and almost shiny, the veins showing painfully through it. He wore only a nappy; there was a tube through his nose.

  ‘Oh,’ said Eliza, ‘oh, that must be so uncomfortable for him, why does he have that?’

  ‘He can’t suck properly,’ said the nurse in charge of him, ‘and the tube leads down to his stomach.’

  ‘I see. And – how – how is he?’

  ‘He’s doing well. Considering.’ They all said that. ‘He’s breathing OK, at the moment, but his lungs are very underdeveloped. He may need help with that later.’

  ‘Is he asleep?’ she said, frightened by his stillness.

  ‘Yes, he is now. But he has been awake, moving around.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course. He was moving before, in the womb, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, remembering those strong, thrusting wriggles, and felt like crying. He had been so safe then: she had thought.

  ‘So – what might happen next?’ asked Matt.

  ‘We just wait. The next forty-eight hours are pretty crucial. But every day is a bonus. So far his liver function is good, that’s very important, he’s showing no signs of jaundice and—’

  ‘Look,’ said Matt, ‘look, he’s waking up.’

  The baby moved restlessly, turned his head, slowly opened his eyes. Milky-blue unseeing eyes

  ‘Oh,’ said Eliza, ‘look, Matt, he’s looking at us. Oh, baby, I want to hold you so much.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible,’ said the nurse, ‘he has to stay there for a long time yet.’

  ‘I do understand. Can I – can I touch him in there?’

  ‘Of course. Look, there are some holes in the side of the incubator, bit like portholes. That’s how we feed and change him. Put your hand in there – that’s right.’

  She put her hand in very gently; it looked vast next to her baby, half as big as he was. She stroked his skin, his smooth vein-y skin; it was wonderfully warm. She moved her hand near his, tried to lift it, then pulled back.

  ‘I’m afraid to disturb him.’

  ‘No, it’s all right. Put your finger under his hand, that’s right. Don’t be frightened.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Eliza, as the minute hand rested on her finger, ‘oh, my God.’

  God was much in her head over the next twenty-four hours; she prayed relentlessly and silently, sitting by the baby for hours at a time, willing her strength into his. Matt grew restless and miserable; she understood and sent him away.

  ‘I don’t mind, honestly. Go and get some rest or do some work, you’ll be better. There’s nothing you can do here. Come back this evening. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  ‘Have they said anything about why—’ he said.

  ‘No, nothing. I keep asking them, they say it’s just one of those things.’

  ‘So – nothing you – we – could have done?’

  ‘They said not.’

  He nodded, bent to kiss her. ‘I’ll be back later.’

  She watched him going down the corridor away from her, guiltily relieved. He looked older suddenly, old and exhausted and somehow collapsed in on himself, the cocky striding creature that was Matt quite gone.

  ‘Does he have a name?’ the nurse asked.

  ‘No. I suppose he should have.’

  ‘It would be nicer for you.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Can we call him Charles?’ she said when Matt came back that night.

  ‘Yes. Of course. Whatever you want.’

  He obviously thought it was unnecessary, a bit of foolish optimism; she felt angry suddenly.

  ‘Matt, you’ve got to stay positive. He’s going to pull through, I know he is. And he has to have a name.’

  ‘Fine. Call him Charles, then.’

  ‘Right, Mrs Shaw. Time to express some more milk. I’ve got the pump.’

  ‘I’m so pleased he needs it.’

  ‘He certainly does. He’s a lively little thing.’

  ‘Is he? Is he really?’

  Staff Nurse smiled her cautious smile.

  ‘Yes. He is. But he’s got a long way to go.’

  ‘Of course. I understand.’

  Baby Charles, as they called him in the unit, survived his second night; Eliza watched him through much of it. She was supposed to be in bed, but she crept out of the ward which she couldn’t bear anyway, full as it was of enormous crying healthy babies, and smiling, smug mothers, complaining cheerfully about the pain of their stitches and their engorged breasts, and made her way to the premature unit. Baby Charles was sleeping when she got there: very still.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the nurse, seeing her face, ‘he’s been awake, he’s had some milk.’

  They understood every fear that went through her; she felt very close to them, absolutely a part of their team.

  They let her stay however long she wanted.

  She looked around the other babies in the unit: all bigger than hers, all doing well, it seemed. The largest, a pair of twins, together in their incubator, weighed four pounds each.

  ‘They’ll be leaving us tomorrow, going up to the ward,’ said the nurse.

  Baby Charles weighed just under two pounds. It seemed impossible that he would ever be as big as they.

  He woke, she put her hand in the incubator and stroked him, lifted his hand with her finger, persuaded herself he had responded.

  ‘I love you,’ she said, over and over again to him, ‘I love you so much.’

  She wanted him to know that, whatever happened.

  On the third morning, she woke to find her breasts filled with milk, leaking onto her nightdress. She felt pleased, illogically hopeful, that it was a good sign.

  Sandra came in to see her, bringing Emmie. ‘She’s missing you, Eliza, I thought it was best.’

  ‘Of course. Hello, darling.’

  Emmie hugged her, hurting her tender breasts. ‘Where’s the baby?’

  ‘He’s in a special place, where they’re looking after him until he’s bigger.’

  ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, you can’t.’

  ‘But I want to.’

  ‘Darling, no.’

  ‘I want to see him.’ Her clear little voice rang through the ward; Eliza could see the other mothers staring at her, exchanging pointed glances that said ‘spoilt brat’.

  ‘Emmie, darling, in a few days you can see him.’

  ‘I want to see him now.’ Her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘He’s my baby brother, why can’t I? I won’t hurt him, I’ll be very careful.’

  Eliza felt her own tears rising. ‘I know you will darling. But—’

  ‘Emmie, no,’ said Sandra gently. ‘The baby’s not well enough for you to see him.

  Emmie was silent, but clearly upset; Eliza didn’t have the strength to comfort her.

  ‘I think it might be best if you went,’ she said apologetically.

  ‘Of course. Say goodbye to Mummy, Emmie.’

  ‘Bye, Mummy.’ She gave her another kiss; then, ‘Why did the baby come out too early?’

  ‘I – don’t know,’ said Eliza, ‘nobody does.’

  ‘Did you do something? To make it come out?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Eliza, trying to sound brave, but the stinging tears filled her eyes again.

  ‘So why?’

  ‘Emmie, darling, nobody knows.’ She reached for a tissue.

  ‘Emmie,’ said Sandra, ‘you’re not helping Mummy. Why don’t we go to the swings?’

  ‘OK.’ She skipped out, without looking back.r />
  ‘Thank you for looking after her,’ said Eliza, ‘thank you, Sandra, so much.’

  ‘It’s all right, my love. She’s no trouble, really. You take care now. Try to rest. Baby’ll be all right, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I – hope so.’

  She looked after them, Sandra leading Emmie by the hand. She managed her awfully well, Eliza thought. Better than she did. She was a lousy mother altogether, it seemed; couldn’t handle the child she’d got, couldn’t maintain the one in her womb … She pulled the curtains round her bed, and started to sob.

  When Matt came back, they sat watching Baby Charles for a long time. She told Matt to do what she did, touch him, lift his tiny hand; he shook his head.

  ‘I might hurt him. He’s so tiny.’

  ‘You won’t hurt him, Mr Shaw,’ said one of the nurses, ‘go on, touch him, it’s good for him.’

  He looked at her, then grasped Eliza’s hand and very slowly and cautiously put the other one into the incubator, stroked the baby’s head; she watched it, the large, male hand, incongruously strong, reaching out to his son. And realised that Matt’s eyes too had filled with tears. He saw her looking at him and half-smiled, embarrassed.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Matt, it’s OK. You can cry.’

  ‘I – I – oh, God,’ he said, staring into the incubator. ‘Oh, God, he’s so helpless.’

  In the morning, her breasts aching with their load of milk, she made her way down to the unit; the nurse looked at her warily, clearly feeling awkward.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Shaw.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s – not quite so well.’

  She felt sick.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I think you should talk to the doctor. He’s developed a slight liver infection.’

  ‘Oh, God. Well, where is he, where’s the doctor?’

  ‘He’s on his rounds, he’ll be back soon.’

  ‘But I want to see him now.’ She heard her voice rising. ‘Please get him.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that. He won’t be long. Please try to be calm.’

  ‘Calm! You tell me my baby has a liver infection and the doctor won’t talk to me and then you tell me to be calm—’

  ‘The doctor will talk to you when he gets back. Which won’t be long. Now excuse me a moment please, I have babies to feed.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Eliza, suddenly shocked at herself, ‘I’m so sorry. I—’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  She sat down by Baby Charles, her heart pounding, an odd echoing roar in her ears. He looked the same. Well – maybe he didn’t. He was very restless; his movements were different, somehow quicker, almost twitchy, and smaller.

  ‘Don’t,’ she whispered, ‘don’t get sick, don’t, stay well, stay strong, please, little one, stay well.’

  Her helplessness was almost the worst thing.

  The doctor was very honest.

  ‘I’m afraid his liver function isn’t so good. It happens with these babies.’

  ‘And – so?’

  ‘Well, he could get jaundiced, and of course it increases the danger of a haemorrhage.’

  ‘A haemorrhage?’

  ‘Yes. Into the brain.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Eliza, ‘oh, no, please no.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But it hasn’t happened yet. It may not. It’s just important for you to know that it might.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘But how do they know?’ said Matt. She had rung him at the office, and he had arrived within twenty minutes.

  ‘Oh – just blood tests, I think.’

  ‘Could they be wrong? Should we get someone else to see him?’

  ‘No,’ said Eliza, ‘no, of course not. These are the very best people to be looking after him.’

  ‘How do you know that? I think we should get another opinion, just to be sure.’

  ‘Matt,’ said Eliza gently, ‘this isn’t helping. Please stop it, please.’

  He argued for a while, and she knew why, it was because he felt it was something he could do: rather than just watch and wait. He even asked the doctor – quite politely – if he was sure, if there might be some mistake, some treatment the baby could be given. And the doctor, charmingly and patiently courteous, said that there was no mistake, that there was no treatment.

  They resumed their vigil, watching Baby Charles and his helpless, feeble movements.

  He died twelve hours later. It was a haemorrhage into his brain, they said, a very big one, he couldn’t have survived it. And nor would they have wanted him to, they were told, he would have been helpless, a baby for ever.

  ‘I would though,’ said Eliza, tears streaming down her face, ‘I would have looked after him, I would have loved to, don’t say we wouldn’t have wanted it.’

  They let them hold him, once they knew it was hopeless. The nurse wrapped him tenderly, so tenderly, in a shawl and handed him to Eliza; she sat staring down at his tiny face, peaceful now, feeling his warmth, feeling him alive. She lifted him, kissed his head, stroked his cheeks, took the tiny frond-like hand that she had held so often now, and kissed that too.

  ‘It can’t be true,’ she said to Matt, ‘he can’t be dying, he feels – feels like a baby, an all-right baby.’

  He said nothing, staring at the baby in silent shock.

  ‘Take him, hold him.’

  ‘No. No, I can’t.’

  ‘Matt, you must. It’s important.’

  ‘I’m so afraid of hurting him.’

  ‘You won’t. You really won’t.’

  He took it, the tiny creature in his blue blanket – how sweet, Eliza thought, that they had even found that for him, the right-coloured blanket – and sat cradling it. A tear splashed down on the peaceful little face, and then another: Matt’s tears. ‘Sorry, son,’ he said and wiped them tenderly away. Eliza slid her hand into his and rested her head on his shoulder, gazing at the baby. Time passed, but they had no idea how much of it. They only wanted to be with their baby, sharing what was left of his life.

  He left them with a small turn of his head towards Eliza, who was holding him once more, and a soft, long sigh; and then they realised with something that was shock in spite of everything, that all his movements had stopped, and the faint strength they had still felt in him, was over.

  The staff were wonderfully kind and gentle, said they could stay and be with him for as long as they liked; for a while it seemed the right thing to do, but then slowly it felt wrong. Matt went to find a nurse and she came back, stood very still for a while, and then said softly, ‘Shall I take him now?’

  ‘No,’ said Eliza, suddenly fierce, holding the baby closer to her, ‘no, don’t take him, not yet.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  The nurse went again, and the scene was repeated twice before they could bear it; before slowly, falteringly, Eliza felt able to pass the baby over. It was a dreadful moment, when finally he left her arms; when she stood staring at him, his tiny face dully still now, quite different – and she realised how truly alive he had been, a real baby, her baby, their baby, taken from them so cruelly and so wrongly: a piece of true and awful injustice that anything so perfect, so ready for life, could actually be dead.

  ‘Stop,’ Eliza said, as the nurse turned away with the baby, ‘wait—’ and then, as she turned back, ‘let me say goodbye just once more.’

  She did not take him, then, but bent over him, kissed his head for one last time and then he was gone, gone from the room, gone from their lives and from his, taking all that he had promised with him.

  They held a funeral for him in Wellesley village church. It seemed important, made him important, a real person who had lived, however briefly.

  They laid him in a small white coffin, with a spray of white roses on it, and put inside it a letter Eliza had written to him, telling him how much she loved him and how she would never forget him or his short, important life.

  Matt, white-faced but
dry-eyed, carried the coffin alone into the church, Eliza walking beside him, and they stood holding hands, through the short, painfully sweet service. There was only the family there, Scarlett, fighting back tears, Sandra and Pete, Sarah, and Charles who said he was so proud that the baby had been given his name. It was felt to be too much for Emmie to cope with; she was left with one of Eliza’s friends.

  They sang no hymns, but the organist played very beautifully and at the end, Eliza read the lovely Gaelic blessing, that felt so appropriate:

  ‘May the road rise gently at your feet.

  May the sun shine warmly on your face.

  May the wind be always on your back.

  May the rain fall softly on your fields.

  And until we meet again

  May God hold you in the palm of his hand.’

  How she got through it she never afterwards knew and she broke down once, but for the rest of the time her voice remained strong and steady and as Matt picked up the coffin again at the end of the service, she bent her head over it and kissed it and even smiled as she said, ‘Goodbye, little one.’

  And then she could be brave no longer and ran ahead of Matt out of the church through the graveyard, and was found by Charles, leaning on a tree, literally gasping with pain, and looking with huge trepidation at the thought of the rest of her life.

  Chapter 36

  It wasn’t what she wanted. In fact it was pretty well the opposite. But having done ten presentations in ten virtually identical boardrooms to ten groups of stony-faced and/or patronising board members, she felt she had no choice. At least he knew her, knew her track record, and had some respect for her abilities. Just the same it was potentially pretty humiliating.

  She called him in his office and invited him to lunch. After a lot of predictable innuendo, about how she must be very busy shopping these days, he said he was free the following Monday, ‘but it’ll have to be fairly quick, very busy at the moment and where did you have in mind?’ The slightly stunned pause – albeit brief – when she said briskly ‘the Savoy Grill’, was worth enduring every one of the innuendoes.

  ‘You girls really do get everywhere these days, don’t you?’ he said finally.

  ‘And further every day. Twelve forty-five all right? I’d say one, but I’ve got a three o’clock myself.’