‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ she said.
‘Really?’ She stared at her.
‘Yes. Why shouldn’t he be?’
‘Because he’s twelve weeks early, that’s why, I’d have thought you’d know something so basically important—’
Her voice sounded harsh even to her; the nurse flushed, looked at Eliza, embarrassed.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.’
‘Well, perhaps you should check on your information before you give it out. Upsetting people—’
‘Mrs Shaw,’ said another nurse, ‘let’s get you back to bed. I’ll check on your baby and let you know if there’s any news.’
There wasn’t any news, except that the baby was still alive.
‘He’s doing well,’ said Staff Nurse, adding, lest Eliza might grow too hopeful, ‘considering the circumstances.’
‘Can I see him?’
‘Of course. We’ll take you down there later. And meanwhile, I’d like you to try to express some milk – colostrum anyway.’
‘He’s feeding!’
‘Of course he is. You can’t starve babies, Mrs Shaw, you should know that. Does them no good at all.’
The morning – a thunderous August version – suddenly seemed brighter, her heart lighter.
Matt arrived, silent and tense; she smiled at him.
‘So far – so good. He’s still all right. I’ve even had to try and express some milk for him.’
‘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.
‘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.’