Misconception

by Rebecca Freeborn

  This last thought was a punch to his guts. Still holding the full glass, he edged up the hallway towards the room. The room they’d only just stopped calling the spare room and started calling the baby’s room. There was a gnawing pain in his belly that was probably hunger, but felt like nausea. His heart sank lower with every step. He knew the scene he was going to find, but the impact smashed into him regardless, leaving him clinging to the doorframe.

  The silhouette of the half-assembled cot was pitched to one side, the unattached ends resting in the soft carpet. The bars flung long shadows on the wall that stretched up towards the ceiling. In one corner was the dark shape of the pile of toys that Tom’s parents had been adding to for the last four months. On the white chest of drawers sat a single plush teddy bear. On the wall above where they had planned to put the cot was a frieze of butterflies that Ali had pasted there only a few weeks ago. A beautiful room for a girl who would never have the chance to see it.

  Tom stood motionless in the doorway, imagining how Elizabeth might have looked in two years’ time. How she might have sat in this room for hours, playing with her toys and having tea parties with her teddies. How, as she grew older, she might have read by torchlight until late at night. How she might have skipped in and out of the room, leaping up to try to touch the top of the doorframe. How, as a teenager, she might have stuck KEEP OUT signs on the door.

  Tears began to run down Tom’s cheeks as imaginary scenes played out in his mind, as vivid as if he were watching them now. Scenes that would never happen, because Elizabeth was gone. The glass slipped from his fingers, water soaking into the carpet, and he followed it to the floor, burying his face in his hands. Loud, choking sobs racked his body. He cried for his lost little girl. He cried for poor, broken Ali. And he cried for himself, alone when all he wanted was to cling to the woman he loved.

  Finally, when his throat was raw and his body weak with exhaustion, he struggled to his feet. There would be no sleep for him tonight.

  He switched on the light and used an Allen key to remove each of the bolts he had painstakingly screwed in only hours before. He placed the bolts back in the little plastic bag and carried the long sides of the cot into the double garage and leant them against a wall, then followed suit with the base and the shorter end panels, covering them with a tarp before returning to the room. He dropped the toys, one by one, into a black garbage bag, then opened the drawers and added the piles of little growsuits, leggings, T-shirts, dresses and tiny socks. He tied a knot in the top of the bag and stared at it. One day, Ali might want these things again, but she wouldn’t want to see them now. He stuffed the bag into the space between the top shelf of their walk-in robe and the ceiling, out of sight. Then he retrieved the spray bottle he used for ironing his shirts, filled it with warm water and sprayed it liberally over the frieze until rivulets streamed down the wall. He found a scraper in the garage and began to work at the edges until he was able to lift off each butterfly. Some were more stubborn than others, and by the time he was finished there were several deep scratches etched in the paint. He returned to the garage and found the gap filler, some sandpaper, a paintbrush and half a pot of the paint they’d used on the walls when they’d repainted three years ago. Using the scraper again, he spread the yellow putty over the cracks, waited for it to dry, then sanded it back level with the wall. Then he took the paintbrush, dipped it in the paint and erased the last of the evidence.

  By the time he stepped back to survey his work, the moon had set and first light had begun to creep across the landscape, sifting through the diaphanous fabric of the curtains. Other than the chest of drawers that still sat against the wall, the room might never have been intended for a child. Tom switched off the light, closed the door and lay on his bed to wait until he could go back to Ali.

  Ali

  Dawn brought a new midwife into the room where Ali still lay motionless on the bed. She tilted the slats of the horizontal blind to allow in the fragile light. ‘How are you feeling this morning?’

  Ali didn’t have the words to respond. She barely knew the answer herself.

  The midwife took her blood pressure and her temperature and checked her stitches with kind, gentle efficiency, then withdrew discreetly from the room. Ali closed her eyes against the evidence of what had happened the night before. The shapes she’d been able to ignore when the room was dark had become real objects she could no longer avoid seeing. She’d never shied away from uncomfortable truths before, but this was different. This time she couldn’t dust herself off and continue.

  Cramps twisted her abdomen, and she rolled onto her side to face the window before opening her eyes. All she could see was sky. It was a blank sky, not grey but not white either. It looked cold, uncaring. Ali shivered, and another cramp sliced through her. The two ibuprofen tablets she’d rejected hours ago still sat beside her half-drunk glass of water on the white laminate table next to the bed.

  At last her gaze was drawn inexorably to the clear plastic bassinet one of the midwives had wheeled in shortly after the birth. It was lined with a white sheet and a scratchy-looking blanket with pale pink, blue and yellow stripes. Ali wondered whether they had a room full of bassinets already made up like this, or if they had put the blanket in to make everything seem more normal. Elizabeth would have spent the night there if Ali hadn’t insisted on the autopsy. Her chest squeezed with the same heartache she’d felt when Sally had taken her baby from her arms.

  There would be no happy ending here. She and Tom would not be taking their longed-for daughter home with them. When they left, they would leave not as a family but as two individuals, steeped in grief. It was impossible to believe now that she’d once thought that could ever be enough.

  Sleep was impossible. Ali could only stare at the blank sky through the window, turning over the past week in her head. Yesterday she’d been pregnant, and now she wasn’t. Her stomach felt spongy, loose, empty. The tiny baby they’d gone through so much to create, the baby she’d nurtured with her body, her heart and her soul, was no more. No heartbeat, no feet wedged in her ribs, no dreams for the future. Again, pointlessly, she tried to remember the last time she’d felt her move.

  How could she not have known? There must have been a moment, a split second when the baby’s heart was still beating, and the next it wasn’t. Surely she should have felt something change in that moment as life had passed into death? Had she been at work, toiling over another media release? Or had she been asleep? Eating breakfast? Had there been a sign and she’d missed it?

  But around her speculation edged another question, the most dreaded question of all. One she wasn’t yet ready to face, that was trying to worm its way to the front of her mind.

  Was there anything she could have done to prevent this?

  Tom

  Tom forced down a dry piece of toast and an espresso, threw a change of clothes for Ali into a backpack, and had a quick shower. His face was dark with stubble, but he didn’t bother to shave.

  Back at the hospital, he found the labour ward and tried to remember which corridor Ali was hidden down. A couple passed him going in the other direction, the father cradling a tiny newborn swaddled in the same striped blanket as the one in Elizabeth’s bassinet. They each gave Tom a little smile. He didn’t smile back.

  Ali was sitting up in bed when he walked in. A different midwife stood by her side, taking her blood pressure.

  ‘You must be Tom. I’m Fiona,’ she said with a warm smile. She removed the pressure cuff from Ali’s arm. ‘That’s looking good, Alison. You’re doing well.’

  Ali didn’t look like she was doing well. Her face was drawn and grey. Her blonde hair, dark with oil, hung limp and close to her head.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Tom asked.

  She nodded briefly, but her eyes slid away from his almost immediately.

  ‘Shall I bring Elizabeth to you now?’ the midwife asked.

  ‘Yes please,’ Tom said.

  Fiona wheeled the blood pressure m
achine out of the room, leaving them alone. Tom noticed a tiny pink dress and little patchwork quilt lying on the end of the bed. A blue cardboard box with a rainbow and multicoloured birds sat beside them. He wanted to ask where they’d come from, but it didn’t feel like the right time.

  ‘Did you get any sleep?’ he asked instead.

  Ali shook her head.

  ‘Me neither.’ Tom sat down carefully on the side of the bed and bent to kiss her forehead. Her skin was papery, insubstantial. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘There are forms to fill out.’ Her voice was dull, expressionless. ‘We have to see a social worker before we leave. We need to decide on burial or cremation. Funeral director. Whether we want photos. Hand and footprints.’ She listed them off dispassionately, as if dictating a shopping list.

  Anger swelled inside Tom. How dare the staff overwhelm her with all this information when he wasn’t there to support her? But then he remembered they’d mentioned most of these topics during the labour last night, kindly, sensitively, and he’d shut them out, unable to process their meaning.

  ‘We can take our time with that stuff,’ he said. ‘No pressure.’

  Ali threw him an impatient look. ‘We don’t have time, Tom. They’ll need to do the autopsy soon, while they still can.’

  Tom clawed at his hair. This was too much, to decide on all these things now. His brain felt muffled, still blocked with disbelief. He knew he should be taking over, shielding Ali from all this, but his boyish sense of justice wouldn’t allow him to accept that someone else, some kind of authority figure, wasn’t going to step up and make these impossible decisions for them.

  Fiona returned, Elizabeth in her arms, and Tom stood to take the small bundle. He touched Elizabeth’s cheek, then snatched his hand back in shock. Her skin was cold. The realisation hit him hard. Of course she was cold; she’d been in a fridge for hours. Bitterness rose in his throat, choking him.

  Ali held out her arms, her face contorted with pain. He wanted to warn her, but he didn’t know how to form the words. He eased the baby into his wife’s arms. Ali held her close and kissed her. If she was surprised by the sensation, she didn’t show it. Slow tears fell from her eyes and dripped into the soft down on Elizabeth’s head.

  Fiona brought over a tray of food for Ali: Weet-Bix, a small bottle of milk, a container of yoghurt, brittle toast, sachets of butter and strawberry jam. Tom knew Ali wouldn’t touch it, but he thanked Fiona anyway.

  ‘What are these for?’ He gestured to the dress, quilt and rainbow box that still sat on the end of the bed.

  ‘We take photos and hand and footprints in these situations as a matter of course, even if you decide not to take them with you,’ Fiona said. ‘The dress and quilt are for the photos, and the box is for you to use for any keepsakes that remind you of Elizabeth. Ultrasound pictures, that sort of thing.’

  Tom nodded and pressed his lips together. He and Ali had spent so much time poring over those ultrasound pictures, marvelling at her perfectly formed limbs, picking out the features that reminded them of each other.

  ‘Do you think you might like the photos and hand and footprints?’ Fiona continued, her voice patient, soft.

  ‘Neither,’ Ali said, without looking up from Elizabeth.

  Tom put his hand on Ali’s shoulder. ‘Honey, I know it doesn’t feel right now, but one day you’ll want something to remember her by.’

  Ali looked up then. Her eyes were haunted. ‘Once this is over, she’s gone. Photos and handprints aren’t going to bring her back.’

  Tom felt hollow. He wanted to insist, but he didn’t feel that he had any right while Ali was suffering so much.

  ‘You don’t have to decide now,’ Fiona said. ‘We’ll keep them on file in case you change your mind in the future.’

  Tom nodded as Ali bent her head once again to croon over the baby.

  ‘If you’re ready,’ Fiona went on, ‘I can send the social worker in to see you now.’

  ‘Fine,’ Ali said.

  ‘Do you want some breakfast?’ Tom asked when they were alone again. ‘I can hold her while you eat?’

  ‘No thanks,’ Ali said.

  ‘Why don’t you just eat a little bit?’ Tom suggested. ‘Get your strength back?’

  He wished he would stop turning every statement into a question. He wished he could rewind the last twenty-four hours. He wished Ali would look at him.

  ‘I’m not hungry. You can have it.’

  Her eyes never left Elizabeth. She seemed to be drinking her in, memorising every smooth plane of her tiny face, storing the memories away so she could call on them later. Tom took the seat beside the bed and cupped the top of Elizabeth’s head in his hand. She was still cold, but this time he expected it and didn’t recoil.

  ‘How could I have let this happen?’ Ali’s words came out in a raspy whisper.

  Tom was about to wrap his arms around her, to tell her that none of this was her fault, when Fiona reappeared with a middle-aged woman. ‘Alison, Tom, this is Brenda, one of our social workers. While you’re talking, I might take Elizabeth to have the photos done.’

  Fiona picked up the little dress and quilt from the end of the bed and tucked them under one arm, before gently easing Elizabeth from Ali’s reluctant arms. Ali watched them leave as the social worker sat down beside Tom and cleared her throat.

  ‘Hi, I’m Brenda,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

  Her eyes were soft with sympathy, and Tom was gripped by an absurd pang of pity for her. She must be used to seeing these tragedies day after day, but surely it couldn’t get any easier to deal with people on the worst day of their lives. And it struck him that this was the worst thing that had ever happened to him, and he couldn’t imagine how he was ever going to get over it.

  ‘We’re shattered,’ he said shakily. ‘And angry that we have to make all these ridiculous decisions now when we’ve just lost our daughter.’

  ‘That’s totally understandable,’ Brenda said. ‘It’s such an awful, difficult time. Part of my role is to help you with some of the paperwork. The midwives have filled most of it out for you, but we can go through the rest now, if that’s OK?’

  Tom nodded numbly.

  After a brief pause, Brenda continued. ‘As Elizabeth was born after twenty-four weeks’ gestation, we need to register her birth, but you won’t need to fill out a death certificate. Because Elizabeth never really lived, it also means she never died.’

  ‘What?’ Tom knew the law was clinical, but this was too much, too unfeeling, too final.

  ‘I know it’s confusing,’ Brenda said. ‘Have you decided whether you’ll have an autopsy?’

  Tom nodded.

  ‘In that case, there are a couple of forms to authorise the autopsy and for the results to be released to your obstetrician.’ Brenda handed the forms to Tom. He wondered whether it was an automatic action to give this responsibility to him, or whether she was just going on instinct, gauging their reactions to see who was fit to perform the task.

  ‘There’s also a form to claim a bereavement payment from the federal government.’ Brenda added yet another piece of paper to Tom’s stack. ‘It’s the equivalent of the paid parental leave, but for those babies who…’ She paused again. ‘Who don’t make it.’

  ‘I don’t want money for losing my baby,’ Ali said. Her lips were pale. ‘There’s no consolation prize here.’

  Brenda looked at Ali sadly. ‘I appreciate that. Many parents choose not to claim it, and it’s totally up to you whether you decide to. It doesn’t have to be done straight away, but it can help with the funeral costs and anything else that might come up. Have you been in contact with a funeral director yet?’

  Tom clawed at his hair. A funeral director? It was nine o’clock on a Sunday morning. Elizabeth had been born less than twelve hours ago. When exactly would they have had time to contact a funeral director?

  ‘We won’t be having a funeral,’ Ali said, her voice flat. Final.

/>   ‘What?’ It was the only word Tom could get out.

  Ali glanced at him once, briefly, then looked away again. ‘People would only be there to feel sorry for us. No one else knew her. No one else even saw her.’ She threw a helpless hand towards Brenda. ‘She never even lived, apparently.’

  ‘But—’ Tom spluttered, faltered, struggled to understand. ‘What about our families? Don’t they have the right to grieve for her? And… what about me?’

  Ali maintained a stony silence.

  Brenda cleared her throat again. ‘You don’t need to make a decision right now. Since you’re having an autopsy performed, you’ve got a bit of time. But you will eventually need to make the arrangements for cremation or burial. We can contact a funeral director on your behalf if you’d like.’ She waited a few seconds, but neither of them spoke, so she handed Tom a pamphlet. ‘This is some information about Sands, which offers miscarriage, stillbirth and newborn-death support. They can provide support to help you through the grieving process. I do recommend you have some sessions with a counsellor to help you through your loss when you’re ready.’

  Fiona re-entered the room with Elizabeth, and Tom jumped up to take her. The pink dress, which had looked so tiny lying on the end of the bed, was huge on her. She was loosely wrapped in the quilt.

  ‘Those are all the main things I needed to go through with you today,’ Brenda said. ‘I’ll be here as long as you want to talk, but once your doctor has given you the all-clear, you can go home.’

  Tom looked down at Ali, but her gaze was fixed on Elizabeth in his arms. ‘Thank you, Brenda,’ he said. ‘I think we’re OK from here.’

  Brenda stood up. ‘Please do get the staff to page me if there’s anything else I can help you with. I am so, so sorry.’ She placed a brief hand on Ali’s shoulder before making her way slowly to the door, as if giving them the chance to call her back. As she left, Kathy, the blue-eyed doctor, came in with Ali’s case notes.