Once We Were There

by Bernice Chauly

  What if the baby is breach? What if you lose too much blood? What if the cord is around the neck? You can’t imagine anticipating certain scenarios, especially since it’s your first baby. If you and Omar were living right next to a hospital, a home birth could be an option, but you’re not, and you know how long ambulances take to get anywhere in KL. If it’s rush-hour traffic, or in the middle of the night, you’ll be in serious trouble. Don’t want you to bleed to death now, do we? We can have a birth plan with no drugs, but you need to be in a medical facility. Let’s think of a home birth for your second child, okay? Del! Listen. Look, women still die in childbirth, it’s not as simple as you think. An unexpected complication could be fatal. Let’s not take the risk, shall we?

  Apart from the morning sickness, the pregnancy had been progressing well. I was putting on the right amount of weight, I was healthier than I’d ever been in my life. My face, eyes, teeth, skin. There was a sheen to everything. Like how some film directors used to put Vaseline on the camera lens to soften the image. It felt like that. Omar kept saying that I looked luminous.

  I was constantly active; the nesting instinct had kicked in and one night I managed to put together the cot entirely on my own, to Omar’s dismay.

  Why didn’t you let me help you?

  Because I wanted to do it. I couldn’t sleep and I needed to do something.

  I couldn’t help myself. I folded and refolded baby clothes. I rearranged things in the dead of night. Baby wipes here, nappy cream there. Diapers in the corner. I sat in that nursery for hours, imagining the baby in my arms. I had bought a stack of CDs: music that resembled the human heartbeat, music with the gentlest of drums and flutes, whales’ song, Andean pipes, new age Celtic harp, Gregorian chants. I bought them all.

  A girl. A baby girl.

  We had not thought of a name. She was due in three weeks, and every day my belly grew and grew. The books always said that the last weeks were the worst, and that one had to “rest, stay free from stress, enjoy the last moments of your pregnancy.” I could no longer see my toes. My belly protruded outwards and upwards like a melon, hard and ripe. The baby was now pressing down on my bladder and I would sometimes have preferred to simply stay in the bathroom instead of waddling in and out every fifteen minutes. One night I used an entire roll of toilet paper.

  Women stopped me on the street, in the malls. Asians have a morbid fascination with pregnant women, unabashed in giving thoughts or opinions.

  Wah, your stomach so high, must be a boy. Got name ah?

  So low, must be due soon, huh? Must be girl lah.

  Twins ah? So big!

  I waddled. I could no longer walk straight. The extra weight had added pressure on my lower spine and I had to resort to acupuncture to ease the pain. I stopped spending time in front of the computer, I stopped using the microwave, I rarely used my handphone. I wanted the baby to be clear of all kinds of rays and radio waves. I read all kinds of do’s and don’ts. I wanted the perfect birth. I wanted the perfect baby.

  Miraculously, Papa had started to come around. He started calling me once a week, then once every two days, then once a day. For months, I refused to go to see him, simply because I couldn’t deal with the state of the house. The maid still came to clean and do his laundry but during the rest of the week, piles of plates accumulated on the hallway outside his study, glasses with Milo stains and rings of mould piled up in the sink, unwashed laundry stood almost stiffly to attention, the grass was uncut, the water in the swimming pool resembled tepid tea with loose leaves. I was sure there were frogs spawning in the pool, along with thousands of sacs of squirming mosquito larvae. It depressed me. I had no idea what he did in his room all day, all week, all month. He just read and read. Pored over books on history, religion, theory. Then one day he said this.

  Del, I am going to write a book.

  Really? Oh Papa, I think that’s a great idea. What’s it about?

  History.

  Of…?

  Well, it’s early days yet…but we shall see.

  My father was going to become a writer. I thought it was wonderful. He was energised about the thought that he was going to be a grandfather. He started by taking the car out more, going to the club, hanging out with his old law buddies, talking late into the night over whisky. He started dressing properly again, in tailored shirts and leather brogues; he made an effort, more than he had made in years. His eyes sparkled again and once after I was ready to leave, he reached out for me and gave me a gentle hug.

  Your mother, she would have been so happy…so, so happy, Del.

  I hugged him back tightly, my belly pressing into him, my heart leaping for joy. How the eminent birth of my child had transformed my father. How the years of sadness had fallen away, and given us the possibility of new life again.

  I should not have driven that night but I did.

  Sumi needed to talk about the state of her relationship with Fairman and we decided to meet at a café in Bangsar. I was two weeks away from my due date but I wanted to see her, wanted to carry on the way I had been throughout the pregnancy. Being active was part of the plan, right until the baby was on her way out.

  The café was crowded and full of boisterous teenagers eating cake and drinking sparkling wine. It was a trendy-looking French-fusion bistro which specialised in desserts, with comfy leather seats, chrome and marble furniture and Art Nouveau prints on the walls. The teens looked like they were back from summer holidays. Rich kids with fancy handphones, coloured hair and new accents.

  We found a quiet table in a corner and as I tried to sit down, Sumi remarked, Jesus, you’re huge!

  Tell me about it. I feel like a beached whale.

  I had peppermint tea. She had white wine. After one sip she blurted out that they were at a point in their relationship where it was either going to lead to marriage or a prolonged cohabitation with no end in sight.

  So how?

  He hasn’t mentioned it, but I have a feeling that it will come up soon.

  Why don’t you mention it?

  I don’t know. I guess I still believe in courtship.

  Are you happy?

  Yeah. I think we’re really meant for this. Never thought I’d love again. I think I want kids…

  Does he?

  Yeah… He talks to Omar a lot. You know, about the future.

  Really?

  Yeah, it’s good that they can talk.

  It’s important.

  So Del, what do I do? I need to know where I stand!

  You don’t want to seem desperate, so just wait a bit more.

  For how long? Maybe he’s not sure.

  I really doubt that. You guys are good. Just give it some time. Trust him.

  That’s just it. Trust. Can I really? Is this guy for real? After what I’ve been through?

  Shit, Sumi. Look at me. I am going to be a mum! I’m fucking scared. This is for real!

  And there it was. It all came out. How I did not want to end up like my mother, distant and afraid. How I wanted to love my child, to be everything a mother should be and more. How petrified I was. How everything was so unknown.

  Lisa kept saying, The birth is a few hours but you will have to parent your child for the rest of your life. All my focus had been on the birth and the pregnancy, being well and healthy. What if I became a shitty mother? What if I didn’t bond with my child? What if I developed post-natal depression? What if my milk didn’t come through? What if I tore badly during the birth? Would I still be able to have sex? Would it hurt?

  Sumi heard me out. She sat and listened and held my hand all the way through dinner and dessert and walked me to the car and made sure I put my seatbelt on.

  Get Omar to call as soon as you go into labour, okay? Go home and get some sleep. Rest. Stop worrying. You have to take this one step at a time.

  I nodded.

  Hey, Fairman will ask you to marry him. I know it.

  Sumi nodded and blew a kiss.

  SMS me when you ge
t home?

  I drove out of the parking lot and eased the car onto the street, thinking of what we’d said to each other. Omar was working late so the thought of a hot bubble bath and another cup of tea was comforting as I drove past young couples, clutching each other, readying for the night of partying ahead. I drove slowly, deliberately. Home was minutes away.

  I waited for the lights to turn green, and as I turned onto the road, I heard a crash and a hard jolt on my right. The force pulled my body to the left, something hit my head then I blacked out.

  I woke up and heard shouting. The windscreen was spiderwebbed and through it I saw a couple screaming at each other. A hard knock on the driver’s side window. Slowly, I wound it down.

  Are you all right? Can you open the door?

  An old Chinese face looked kindly down at me.

  My arm hurt, but I got the door open, unclicked the seatbelt and tried to get out of the car.

  His eyes flicked with concern when he saw my belly and he started dialling his handphone.

  I am going to call an ambulance. Are you feeling okay? Is there anyone I can call? Your husband?

  The young woman was now hitting the man she was with. I could not make out anything they were saying. There was a small crowd gathering and we were blocking traffic. Cars started honking impatiently. I nodded at the man, who had taken my hand and was guiding me out of the crowd. A police siren edged closer, scaring the couple. The girl went hysterical when she saw me.

  You fucking piece of shit! Look what you did! She’s pregnant, you fucking idiot!

  Then she ran towards me. Her eyes were completely glazed. She was obviously high.

  Are you okay? So sorry…are you all right?

  I sat down on the pavement. My elbow throbbed. I could not turn my head to the left. My neck felt sprained. There were police, faces peering at me. An ambulance. Then Omar. His crazed eyes. Being lifted onto a stretcher, oxygen. Hospital doors. Lights. Darkness.

  When I woke up again, I saw Papa and Omar on either side of the bed. Sumi almost tripped coming through the door.

  She’s awake! Then a furtive kiss from Omar. Papa grabbed my hand. Sumi squeezed my other hand until it hurt.

  The baby’s fine, she’s fine. Not a scratch, no distress at all.

  Papa shrank into his chair. He hated hospitals. His face was pale with fright. Another car crash. Sumi took him home after the doctor came and said that I could leave the next day. Then it was just me and Omar. I didn’t know what he was going to say. His back was to me and when he turned, his face was contorted with pain.

  Del, when I got that call, I punched a wall. I know it wasn’t your fault, but why? Why, for god’s sake, did you go out? The baby is two weeks away, what were you thinking?

  He was a mess. I sighed. I didn’t feel like saying anything because there was nothing to say. It was a senseless accident. The car was hit by a teenage boy, off his head, high as an elephant on ketamine. It was not my fault. But Omar needed to rant.

  I want to wring his fucking neck! I could kill that little shit!

  Omar, calm down.

  Del, I can’t lose you. This accident made me realise that you, this baby, you’re everything to me. My life. All that I live for. I mean, I know, but the thought of losing you now, like this. I can’t. I can’t.

  Strangely, I felt calm. I had to be the strong one then. He climbed up onto my bed and I held him, he clung to me, like a terrified child. The baby started kicking, and Omar placed his hands over my belly.

  I felt them both, my husband and my baby, needing me. Finding strength in me, in my body. Our hands intertwined, holding each other’s bodies, giving what we needed. I felt more courage that day then I ever felt in my life.

  Later that night there was panic on the floor. Nurses were running around, visibly upset. Then Omar got a call on his handphone. It was Fairman, his voice so loud Omar pulled it away from his ear.

  Turn on the TV, now!

  In that hospital room, from a television high up in the corner, we saw the planes fly into the twin towers in New York City, we heard the screams of patients from the other rooms, we saw the collapsing steel and concrete, the inferno. We saw multiple dots falling to the ground, people falling or jumping to their deaths. I felt hot tears on Omar’s cheek. I could not cry. The horror. The absolute, inexpressible horror of it all.

  Two weeks later, I was back in the hospital, this time with a dilated cervix, fast pulsating contractions in a tornado of pain.

  The contractions were a surprise, at first bearable, but then they bore deeper and deeper into my body, like a drill that charted a course through bone, blood, sinew. It was a primal pain, visceral, profound. She was moving through me, pushing through me. I felt like I was going to break, like the splitting limbs of a doll being torn apart. I had not known that the human body was capable of delivering such pain. I sat up, I sat down, I kneeled, I squatted, I growled like an animal, crawling around on all fours. I breathed in and out and groaned. Deep guttural moans. There was music in the room, and incense, and Omar and Lisa.

  I didn’t want any drugs, so the pain was excruciating. I lost track of time, but it had been hours. By the time I was fully dilated, I was on the verge of exhaustion. And then I had to push. Pushing a baby out of your vagina is a wonder, a feat only possible when you’re in the thick of it. When Lisa said Push, Del, push, I did.

  Omar was behind me, his arms wrapped around mine. His lips on my neck, whispering. Baby, you can do this. Love you, love you. Come on, baby. Push. My thighs pressed against my chest, my neck arched in pain. I felt a contraction coming, and pushed with all my might. Every bit of strength, with every ounce of the possible, I pushed. I saw the bright flicker of light, the lotus flower of serpent energy, coiling up and up and down and down, the oily scent of blood and birth, and my slippery baby easing into the world.

  There she was. She opened her eyes, and I felt a powerful slap from the universe, a surge of love, pleasure and pain. She was out of me.

  Omar cut the cord, and my baby girl was taken away to be weighed and cleaned.

  Push out the placenta, Del, just a soft push now.

  I felt it slip out, like a large sponge; it looked like a round lung, bubbly and bloody.

  She’s losing blood, it won’t stop. There was panic in Lisa’s voice. She needs a shot. Now!

  I felt light, weak. The room was folding in. I heard the baby cry.

  Del, Del! Omar grabbed my arm.

  It kept flowing out of me, this blood. I could smell the salt and metal of it, I felt nauseous, my head fell backwards, I slumped into the warm pool.

  Del! Lisa, do something!

  I sensed Omar’s fear. Then felt a sharp prick in my thigh. A cold patch spreading.

  It’s stopped. The bleeding has stopped.

  Thank god!

  Lisa pulled me up gently towards a pillow. They turned me, pulled away the plastic sheet with my blood. Omar came towards me, with our daughter.

  Her face, still spotted with traces of afterbirth, was scrunched into a frown; she uttered a sharp cry and her eyes flickered open. Wide and green, like her father’s.

  I saw the universe and the greatest of loves.

  I guided her to my breast and she opened her mouth to suckle. There she was.

  Omar and I looked at each other, and we saw only love. And then, kisses of joy.

  Four

  Alba

  “Alba. Alba.”

  Omar breathed in her name again. Alba.

  “My daughter,” he said.

  She was fast asleep, her eyes shut, her tiny fists in tight little balls. They had just come home to their apartment, and in the sanctity of their home, he could finally breathe, and reflect on the single most profound moment of his life. His mother filled the fridge with food before she left and the sickly sweet smell of flowers overpowered the apartment. He sat on the couch and gazed at her, asleep in his arms.

  She was so small. He cradled her gently in the crook of his left
arm, not wanting to wake her, and he let his eyes rest on the miracle that was his daughter. Her head of dark brown hair, her fair skin still flushed from the birth. The midwife had exclaimed at how much hair she had when she crowned.

  Alba, swaddled tightly in a light cream blanket, her rosebud lips, her eyelashes long and curled upward, her cheeks pink. How beautiful and perfect she was. Ten fingers and toes, all there.

  Omar was stunned, wordless. Nothing had prepared him for this moment. No one had told him that this love would be like a kick in the balls, in the gut. He had never imagined a moment like this was even possible. This was the kind of love that drove men to fists, to blood, to bitter court battles, to the ends of the earth and back.

  She yawned suddenly, her tiny mouth opening and closing in minute perfection. His heart leaped with joy, then pain. He felt confusion, then wonder. How could she yawn and then go straight back to sleep? He then remembered the pain that he had felt when Del had the miscarriage. He remembered the despair, the loss of hope.

  This was a gift from the gods. His prayers had been answered. He wanted Del to be happy again, but he had underestimated his own emotions. Everything he had done in his life had led him to this moment. All the achievements, all the mistakes, his fuckups, his misanthropic moments, his personal battles, his doubts, all the women he’d fucked and not fucked—everything had led him to this. All roads had led him to Alba. This glorious, magical moment where he held his daughter in his hands.

  He wanted to weep, but instead made a silent vow. He would love and protect her and be the best father to her, he would raise her to be a good and righteous person in society. And then he remembered what his father had said to him: “Whisper the Shahadah in her ear when she is born.” Omar leaned over and whispered:

  Ashadu allah illa ha illalah

  Muhammad ar Rasul lullah

  Baby girl, come to god

  Baby girl, my baby girl

  * * *