by Julia Green
This one was overly bright and cheerful. ‘Morning, Mia! Had some sleep? He’s got a good pair of lungs on him! Why don’t you let us take Baby for a while and you have some more rest? It won’t do him any harm.’ She talked loudly, as if Mia might be deaf. Or stupid.
Mia imagined the two nurses were sending warning signals to each other. That look. The shrug of the shoulders. False smiles.
‘Please. I just want to be left alone. I’m fine.’
She imagined them writing on her notes. Query: not coping? Teenage mum appears rather upset and anxious. Call in hospital counsellor? Keep in for observation.
For now, however, they did as she said, leaving her alone. They left the door ajar. She could hear voices from the corridor, although not the actual words.
The baby’s cheeks were red-hot. He was crying without tears; his eyes squeezed tight, as if he couldn’t bear to see anything, to be here in this room. His hands were little tight fists, knocking against the side of the plastic crib. Mia forced herself to take deep breaths, calm herself down. She braced herself, preparing to scoop him up out of the crib, waiting for the jerking arms and the shrieks of protest at being unwrapped. Each time, she was afraid that she would drop him.
‘It’s OK, little Birdy. Not long and I’ll get us out of here,’ she whispered into his shell ear as she lifted him up, and as if by magic he opened his eyes and the crying stopped. She could hardly believe it! It was as if he’d heard her, believed her! Grateful, she pushed her face against his, nuzzled him. His mouth tried to catch hold of her nose to suck, and she smiled. It tickled.
Suddenly it felt a bit easier to settle him on the pillow on her lap and get him positioned right to feed. Left breast first this time. She relaxed; he sucked. They settled down together.
Ten minutes later, he was still hungry. She carefully turned him round, so he could start on the other side, the right breast.
Mia traced her finger over his cheeks. She noticed a cluster of tiny spots on his nose, and in the middle of his top lip a sort of blister. What did that mean? What was she doing wrong now? Her stomach fluttered with panic again. It’s too hard. I know nothing. I’ve never even held a newborn baby before, and now they expect me to do everything.
He went on sucking, eyes closed. She’d have to ask someone – Dad or Mum, not those horrible nurses.
Mia’s skin prickled. She sensed a shadow at the door. Someone checking up on her, no doubt. Looking for an excuse to whip the baby away. She glanced up at the small window in the door, expecting to see the white cap and professional smile of one of the nurses. Wrong.
Messed-up golden hair. Tense, frowning sixteen-year-old boy’s face.
She almost dropped the baby.
Will sidled in through the doorway and stood with his back to it.
‘No one saw. I just walked in. Unbelievable! Thought there’d be security guards or something.’
‘But it’s only about six o’clock!’
Her heart thudded so loudly she wondered it didn’t startle the baby.
He’s come. He’s actually here. What on earth do I say? What is he doing here? At this hour! What if the nurse comes back?
The silence stretched out. He just stood there, looking at her, and the baby went on sucking, half-hidden by her T-shirt, and she looked down at him, and the bed, and glanced briefly up at Will. She could see how nervous he was, the way his hand twiddled round in his jeans pocket.
‘What are you doing here, then?’ Mia’s voice came out wrong; she sounded cross.
‘I don’t know. I’ve been down on the beach.’
‘All night?’
‘Yes. I walked from Whitecross.’
‘I thought I saw you last night, down in the car park.’
‘No. Not me.’
‘Well, I didn’t think you would. I wasn’t expecting you to or anything.’
‘Don’t say anything, Mia. I mean –’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know.’
More silence.
‘Can I see him?’
‘In a minute. He’s feeding still.’
‘What’s he look like?’
‘Just a baby.’
Will looks all wrong. In here, with his jeans and old coat and scruffy trainers.
Her heart was beating too fast to think straight. He had come, then, he couldn’t keep away after all. He looked so scared and ill at ease it gave her a sort of confidence; she handled the baby as if she was sure of how to do it, supported his head, put him against her shoulder so he could burp up the excess milk and air.
‘So. Here he is.’
She wanted to say our baby, but she didn’t.
Suddenly Will was crying.
It was a bit like seeing her dad cry. Awful. He tried to hide it; he went over to the window and looked out, but she saw.
‘How did you find me?’ she eventually asked his turned-away back.
‘Becky. Yesterday. Came round after she saw you.’
Good old Becky. Dear, loyal friend.
‘She said she’d never forgive me if I didn’t come. Said no one would. After what you’ve been through.’ Will’s voice choked.
‘So you didn’t want to, then?’ Mia’s voice was cold.
‘I didn’t mean that.’
We’ll get into terrible trouble if they find hint here, Mia thought. And then, So what?
‘I won’t stay. Sorry.’
‘Not sorry. Don’t you want to see him close up? Now you’re here?’
Will turned round, looked at her, then walked right over to the bed, sat down. She held the baby in the crook of her arm. Sleepy, milk-full, he rested there, eyes wide open.
Blue eyes. Like Will’s.
Now her eyes filled with tears.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This awkward, terrified, too-young little family. No one knowing how to be.
Will stretched out his hand and lightly touched the baby’s hair. Dark, like Mia’s.
He got up abruptly, rushed out of the room, leaving the door swinging slightly. The baby, startled by the sudden movement, trembled in Mia’s arms. His lip quivered.
‘It’s all right, little Birdy,’ she soothed him.
She looked out towards the open doorway, the empty corridor. There was the distant bang of swing doors flapping back.
Deep in her belly, Mia felt something new and totally unexpected. Something small and warm. A tiny nugget of hope.
Will’s trainers had left damp, sandy footprints over the grey floor tiles. Next to the vase of white lilies on the windowsill lay a small oval pebble from the beach. When she picked it up, it was still warm from his hand.
CHAPTER SIX
‘That it, then? Got everything?’ Dad paused at the doorway, bags in both hands, and looked back at the room.
‘What about the flowers?’ The nurse nodded towards the white lilies on the windowsill; they’d opened right up in the heated room, so that the stamens spilled out like tongues, dripping thick yellow pollen over the white sill. Their scent was too strong.
Mia shook her head. ‘Nah. Can’t carry them.’ She had the pebble, though, tucked in her jeans pocket for safe keeping.
She followed Dad and the nurse down the corridor; she wasn’t allowed to carry the baby till they got outside the hospital. Something to do with insurance. He was swaddled round in the shawl from Becky’s mum, his fingers poking through the cobwebby wool. Mia had wrestled him into a white Babygro first thing, as soon as they said she could go home – him screaming the whole time, resisting, refusing to let her bend his arms into the sleeves. Now she understood the reason for the open little dresses the hospital provided. And then, just as she got him sorted, he’d done a huge poo – that tarry black stuff the nurse called meconium, which all newborn babies do at first – and it had squirted round the edges of the nappy and down the legs of the Babygro and she’d had to start all over again. Then she had to get herself washed and dressed, and that was a nightmare, too, the baby still screa
ming and upset, and she found she was leaking – milk from her painful, swollen breasts seeping out through her T-shirt, leaving two dark round patches that everyone would see. She didn’t have anything else to wear, though.
‘There you go, then.’
Mia carefully took the baby from the nurse’s arms, cradled him in her own. That was it, then. She was free to go.
‘Bye, then, Mia. Good luck! Don’t forget, anything worrying you, just phone the community midwife’s number. She’ll be coming round to see you at home anyway. You’ve got the number? And the health visitor?’
Dad nodded. He patted his shirt pocket. ‘All here. Thanks, then.’
The nurse was still watching from the steps as Mia followed slowly after her father, clutching the baby to her. What if she dropped him here, in the car park? She held him so tight he started to whimper. Don’t, she hissed under her breath. Don’t cry now, please. It seemed a million miles to the car.
While Dad stacked the bags in the back, Mia leaned against the passenger door. A light wind was blowing; it ruffled her hair. She held her face up, eyes closed, to feel the sun. Such a relief, to be outside, out of that stuffy hot room where someone was always watching, listening in, looking for your mistakes.
‘Hop in the back, then. You’d better put the seat belt on, then hold him tight. I haven’t got one of those baby seats for him yet. Haven’t had a moment.’
‘Dad! I told you. It’s not safe. And it’s illegal!’
‘Yes, well, I’m sorry, Mia, but I’ve still been trying to work while all this has been going on. You can’t take grandpaternity leave, you know. I’m doing my best.’
Mia closed her eyes again, blocked out the voice. She wished she could just walk home. Leave the baby in the car and start walking. Along the river, down to the estuary, then all the way along the beach to Whitecross. And further. Just keep on walking.
A little hand clawed through the shawl at her T-shirt. His head batted against her, searching her out. She felt the still-strange sensation of warmth flooding in her breasts, as if they were something quite separate from her. Her milk. The let-down reflex. All these things had a name, she was discovering. So weird. Her body knowing she was a mother, responding as it should, without her having any say in it.
What should she do now? Dad was concentrating on starting the engine. He glanced at her in the mirror briefly – ‘Ready?’ – and she nodded, and he started off. Once she was sure he couldn’t see her, she pulled up her damp T-shirt and unwrapped the baby a bit, so he could find her nipple and start to suck. As long as they didn’t see anyone they knew. Didn’t brake suddenly. Didn’t crash.
It was odd, driving into Whitecross along the main Ashton road, past the stone cross, the off-licence, the old garage. They went past the row of lime trees next to the bus stop. Her bus stop, where she’d spent so much time last summer, hanging out with Becky, and Will, and everyone. It all looked exactly the same. There was no one around this time of day; no one to witness her return, this new Mia, with a newborn baby cradled in her arms. The news would already have gone round the straggle of houses in the village – a brief ripple of gossip. She’s had it, then? A boy. How will they manage? That poor man. And him a teacher. The shaken heads.
Arriving at the house was a different matter. She’d only been away a couple of days, but it felt so much longer. She’d crossed over to a new world, hadn’t she? Where she was now mother. The house itself seemed smaller, messier, darker. Mia stood in the hall, the baby in her arms, and looked around her. Dad had made some sort of an effort: there were flowers from the garden in vases everywhere, even the kitchen.
She slumped down on the sitting-room sofa. Ginger-and-white cat hairs were stuck all over the cushions. He could have cleared them up! But he wouldn’t have noticed, would he? It had never bothered her before. The baby trembled in her arms, his eyes all round and big and staring. At least he wasn’t yelling any more, like when they’d first got out of the car.
‘Shall I bring the Moses basket downstairs for you? You could lie him down in it for a while, give your arms a rest! We could put it near the French windows. That’s what we did when you were a baby. You liked to watch the leaves in the ash tree.’
Mia didn’t answer. She was so tired. Her legs ached just from that short walk at the hospital and then in from the drive. There was a lump in her throat.
Dad reappeared with the basket and put it down beside her.
‘Now. Glass of juice or a Coke or something else? Hungry?’
She shook her head.
He kept talking from the kitchen, clunking mugs down on the table, filling the kettle.
‘We can’t keep calling him Baby, can we? Any ideas yet?’
It washed over her; the dreary, everyday ordinariness of home. She was back. This was it now. Her life, how it was going to be. Like a huge grey wave, swamping her.
Suddenly she was stricken with sobs which wouldn’t stop. She was flooded with them, shuddering and heaving and sobbing her heart out.
It’s too much. I can’t do this. I’ve made a terrible mistake.
Dad came and sat down beside her. He put his arm round her shoulders and held her. She let him. It felt nice. She wanted to lean back into him and let him take over. She’d be a little child again, and he’d be the daddy, and he’d make everything all right.
‘I know, I know,’ he said softly, over and over. He didn’t, though. How could he? He hadn’t a clue what it was like. Not really. His face was furrowed with worry.
Once she’d got to the hiccuping stage, he relaxed a bit. ‘Here, hand him over, and you put your feet up and get some sleep.’ He arranged the cushions behind her. Patted her arm.
He moved on to the armchair near the window and lay the baby along his knees, so he could look straight up at him. ‘Here you are, Baby. Little blue-eyed boy. Home now, Baby Blue.’
Mia watched them for a moment. Baby Blue. It was from a song Dad used to listen to, wasn’t it?
She closed her eyes, let herself drift, let the sound of his voice soothe her, too.
Dad’s words got through, though, as he chattered on to the baby. ‘Do you like the flowers? All freshly picked this morning. Julie arranged them in the vases to welcome you home.’
Julie. She was here, then. In the morning, which meant she must’ve stayed the night. So while I’ve been in hell in hospital, having a bloody baby, Dad has been sleeping with my old teacher. Great welcome. Some home.
Mia curled herself round into a ball. Wished she were dead.
She was woken by the sound of the doorbell, and voices: Dad’s and someone else’s.
‘Come on in,’ he was saying. ‘They’re both asleep. No, it’s fine.’
Her belly was full of the dizzy, sinking feeling that had accompanied every waking up: where’s the baby? She swung her legs round and sat up. He was tucked in the basket under the blanket, but he looked all wrong, she couldn’t see his face. Dad had put him in face down. You were not supposed to do that any more. The baby could suffocate. They’d showed her in the hospital how to put him on his back, or his side. Mia grabbed at the basket and that startled him. His arms shot out, and his first muffled cries bleated into the room as Dad opened the sitting-room door, and behind him she saw the face of Will’s mother, Annie. Oh no.
Mia held the wailing baby too tight. His face got redder, like hers, like Dad’s. Annie came to the rescue.
‘Oh, Mia, I’m so sorry. My ringing at the door. I’ve woken him up. Look, I’ll come back later.’
‘How about a cup of tea or something? I’ll make us all one. Mia? Tea? Or juice or something?’ Dad had picked up the cue.
They are both so obvious, Mia thought. Trying to be understanding. Not to interfere. Annie has probably been reading up about it. Or talking to her friend who works with teenage mums.
Meanwhile the baby screamed the house down, his little fists curled tight, his eyes squeezed shut, his body arching away from her. He’d probably stop crying immediate
ly if Annie picked him up. Someone calm and sensible. A proper mother. But she wouldn’t let her. No way.
Annie brought in a tray with a glass of apple juice, and an orange divided into easy-to-eat segments, and two digestive biscuits on a plate. She set it down on the side table.
‘Shall I take him while you have a drink?’ she offered, too thoughtfully.
Mia shook her head. ‘I’ll feed him first.’ She didn’t smile.
‘OK. I’ll pop back later, shall I? If you don’t mind? I just wanted to meet him, you know, and see how you are, Mia. Is there anything you need?’
The question hung unanswered. So much she needed, and impossible to ask for any of it. Annie wanted something, too; Mia could tell that Annie was longing to hold the baby, to claim him: my grandson, too.
It seemed that was what all the grown-ups wanted. Their share. Apart from her own mother, of course. She’d made it quite clear that she would not be part of the childcare arrangements. And anyone might have thought Mia would be only too glad to hand the baby over, get a break for a few minutes. Yet something fierce and stubborn deep inside her resisted them, wanted to hang on tight, keep the baby close to her. Hands off. Leave us alone.
Does she know that Will came to the hospital? Mia thought she didn’t. Will wouldn’t have told anyone, especially not Annie. He knew she was already in too much of a panic about him messing up his exams.
‘Poor Baby,’ she whispered into his damp hair. His head still smelled of her body, the rich iron smell of blood. He was so new, and frail, and vulnerable. He needed her. She mustn’t let him down now. ‘Let’s go upstairs, Birdy. Out of the way.’
She walked really carefully up the wooden stairs, supporting his head against her shoulder with one hand, the other around his bottom. That meant no spare hands to hold the rail, so she had to be especially careful. The kitchen door creaked open: Dad was watching her. She ignored him. Behind him, Annie was silhouetted against the window, mug of tea in one hand, watching, too. Neither said anything.