A Southern Star (31 page)

A think about what I want,
Christie thought with a touch of black humour.
Don’t worry, I have been.
She remained mute as the doctor replaced Christie’s notes, turned back towards her. “What checks were you referring to?” Christie asked, more to avoid the real issue.
 

The doctor shrugged, gave Christie a sudden smile. “Checking who you want to cut the cord. If it’s me, fine, but I just thought I should double check. Rather than you have regrets.”

Christie choked back a bitter laugh.
Regrets…
“I want my baby to have what other babies have,” she said, suddenly sick of hiding her feelings. “All the literature harps on about the father cutting the cord. And her father’s not here, couldn’t care less about her. It just seems easier for you to cut it, really.”
 

The doctor watched Christie for a moment. “Perhaps with Blake’s help?” Christie nodded, blushing slightly; the doctor grinned, asking a nurse to tell Blake he could come back in.

“Everything’s fine,” the doctor said as Blake came back into the room, moved straight to Christie’s side, his eyes intent on her face, glancing over at the baby, his gaze questioning. Christie managed a smile, sure that Blake could see right through her emotions just as the doctor had done, would only cut the cord to humour her. Again, Christie thought of the significance of the ritual, trying to think whether she had done the right thing, knowing she should have simply confirmed the doctor should do it rather than act out what at best seemed a fantasy.

“Christie, I think it’s about time to cut the umbilical cord. Blake, could you just hold these scissors for a moment?” Stunned, Blake heard the doctor continue to give him instructions as she clamped the umbilical cord.
The doctor must think I’m Christie’s partner, the baby’s father…
His mind flashed back to the hospital visit he had attended with Christie months ago, knowing that again this doctor was trying to include him, despite Christie’s strange comment about cutting the cord as soon as possible. His heart lurched.
I know I should say something, but I just…

Blake glanced at Christie, could not read her expression, attempted to find a joking comment as he tried to disguise how he was feeling. Instead, he fell silent, hesitating, the emotion unfamiliar in him, following the doctor’s instructions precisely, watching as the doctor carefully placed a different clamp on the end of the cord after he had cut it. He looked over at Christie quickly as he heard her murmured thank you, realised that instead of talking to him Christie was thanking the nurse who was drying the baby. Now the same nurse was handing him a blanket, obviously assuming he would want to tuck the blanket around the infant.

Suddenly aware he had never held a baby before, Blake took a deep breath, laying the blanket over the baby, trying to focus on tucking the warm square around the squirming body. The nurse smiled, reached down to discreetly assist, then gave the baby to Blake, clearly intending that Blake should hand her to Christie. Acutely aware of Christie’s silence, his heart pounding, Blake handed the baby quickly to Christie. He was suddenly nervous, all the while waiting for Christie to contradict the nurse, become upset at the fact he had briefly held the baby, let alone assisted the doctor to cut the cord.

Christie took her daughter, focusing on the baby’s face to hide her disappointment at Blake’s abrupt hand over, his obvious reluctance to hold the baby or to make any comment on the fact he had cut the cord.
Doesn’t he realise how significant that is,
she thought, disappointed she had foolishly confided in the doctor, wishing now she had simply asked the doctor to complete it. Christie knew she could expect nothing more, but was miserable as the secret hope that had carried her through labour withered and died.
 

— # —

Blake listened, tried to make sense of what the doctor was saying. Realising Christie was becoming distressed, he took a deep breath, spoke calmly. “Christie, don’t worry if you can’t feed her now. Just rest, try again later.”

“I want to feed her,” Christie said desperately, realising with a sinking feeling that the doctor’s assessment at her earlier check-ups had been correct. The doctor looked at Blake, gesturing for him to move closer. He stepped forward reluctantly, still deeply affected by watching Christie give birth, seeing her hold the small infant.
 

“I don’t think that will be possible, Christie,” the doctor said gently. “Remember we talked about this at your check-ups, that with your medical history milk production might be a problem for you. You’ll need to give your daughter formula.”

Is that all?
Blake thought with relief, unable to understand why Christie was so upset, realising again she had kept private something so significant to her. “I wanted to be a perfect mother,” Christie said, tears spilling over as she realised the truth of the doctor’s words. Blake closed his eyes, trying to think, not wanting to leave her but trying to find a solution.

“Christie, for now, let’s just see how you go. I’ll just head out, talk with the doctor.”
 

Leaving Christie with the midwife, Blake left the room, waited for the doctor to come out into the hall. “What are the implications?” he asked tersely. He listened as the doctor gave him a detailed explanation of the current research, the guidelines promoting the worth of breastfeeding. “But I was raised on formula,” he said abruptly.
 

The doctor smiled. “A lot of babies are. But the New Zealand health system is very supportive of breastfeeding. I’ll speak to the nurses, ensure they are aware of the situation and don’t upset her. But it’s clearly a disappointment to her, a lot of mothers feel inadequate if they can’t breastfeed.”

“Is this a definite thing?” Blake asked, wondering about Christie’s medical history, knowing he couldn’t ask without betraying the fact he didn’t know. “The lack of milk, I mean.” The doctor nodded.
 

“Can we…” Blake paused, realising what he had said. “Is a second opinion available, a specialist?”
 

The doctor smiled understandingly. “I’m a specialist, with an interest in lactation,” she said. “But I can easily arrange for a second opinion from one of my colleagues. And you can talk to the midwife about formula.”

Blake thanked the doctor, asked her to arrange that and also asked about Christie being transferred to a private room so she could rest. He looked at his watch, was shocked to see it was early afternoon, realised Christie’s mother would be arriving in a couple of hours. Brenda had left earlier, clearly emotional and subdued; luckily, Christie had not yet asked where she was.
This could be an ideal chance to explain things to Christie
, Blake thought savagely. He cursed himself as he braced to return to Christie, trying to plan ahead on her behalf.

— # —

Eventually, the midwife suggested helping Christie have a shower; she agreed quietly, still conscious of Blake’s presence. The midwife’s suggestion only emphasised to Christie the physical reality of the birth process, that Blake had been present for a birth that left little to the imagination. Christie was also reluctant to leave her daughter, even as she told herself the further checks and bath were necessary for the baby, would be relatively brief. She looked around, wishing Blake would stay with the infant, knowing this would be unlikely given his attitude.
 

Holding her breath, Christie heard the doctor suggesting Blake come through to see the checks, even help with the baby’s bath. Blake glanced at Christie, unnerved at her sudden distance even as he told himself her total focus on the baby was understandable. “Yes,” he said to the doctor, feeling his way in the face of Christie’s absolute silence, her lack of any comment about what she might want him to do. “But first I’ll just help Christie through to the shower, stay with her in case she needs—”

“No.” Christie panicked, humiliated at the thought of Blake assisting her to shower on top of everything he had already seen, been involved with, even as she desperately wanted his reassuring strength to lean on. Fleetingly, she wondered where Brenda was.
Brenda’s tall
, she thought suddenly.
Taller than me, even. She could easily help me to the shower.
 

Blake tensed, realising that Christie was on edge for some reason, did not want him around. He saw the doctor calmly come over to Christie, smile at her, at the baby. “Christie, it might be a good idea if Blake helps you through to the shower. You’ve had an epidural, after all, and that will have barely worn off, even with the tapered dose. He’s probably better to lean on.” The doctor smiled at the midwife, who was barely of average height, far shorter than Christie. “And of course you’ll still have your privacy in the shower. There’s a handrail, and the midwife will stay around. Then Blake can stay with your daughter while you’re having a shower.”

Christie nodded silently, guiltily aware the doctor had suggested exactly what Christie wanted to happen, her own practical common sense reasserting itself. At this point, Blake was hardly going to care what he saw of Christie and if her baby had anyone—even someone as disinterested as Blake—with her while she was having her checks and bath, well, that was more than she’d have otherwise.
 

Christie was silent as she handed her daughter to a nurse, awkwardly tried to move off the bed, pulling the hospital gown around her.
As if that matters now
she thought, fighting the irrational urge to laugh at her own belated modesty. She caught her breath as Blake gently lifted her fully off the bed, held her in his arms, about to carry her through to the shower. “I can walk,” Christie said, an unintentional edge to her voice as she tried to remain calm, her mind clamouring to remind her of the previous times Blake had carried her.

Knowing Christie’s fierce streak of independence, knowing she did not want his help, Blake debated continuing to carry her or putting her down; he knew he should put her down. Carefully, he lowered Christie to her feet, keeping a supporting arm around her back, staying next to her. “You need to hold on, Christie.” She caught her breath as Blake repeated his long ago words from the ferry, knowing that if she said anything, made any comment, she would be undone, lose control.

Christie remained silent as Blake walked slowly with her over to the shower, easily supporting her weight as she stumbled slightly, slowed down. He kept one strong arm around her when they reached the shower, pulled the shower curtain open, spun the shower dial, tested the temperature.

“Right,” Blake said, determined not to betray how excluded he was feeling at the way Christie had suddenly shut him out. “That’s the shower sorted. You’ll be right with that gown, won’t you? And standing in the shower? Like I said, remember to hold the handrail.” He smiled briefly at Christie, at the midwife, unaware that Christie watched him as he walked away, only shedding her gown and stepping into the shower at the midwife’s prompting.

— # —

Christie watched her daughter, the minute, expressive face, the long lashes, the chubby cheeks and squashed-looking nose. Occasionally, the baby’s eyes would flutter open, fixing Christie with a surprisingly steady gaze as the miniature, doll-like fingers reflexively clutched the edge of the hospital blanket.
 

Christie remembered hearing Blake’s voice as he asked for the epidural, the way he had stayed with her, a constant reassuring presence, even during the initial stinging pain of the epidural procedure when the doctor carefully placed the needle in her lower back. Until the epidural, the labour had been a haze of pain, a void. She had had no idea how much time had passed, only aware of bands of pain moving down her body.
 

Frowning, Christie tried to remember something at the edge of her mind.
The hospital policy the doctor had talked about…her birth plan…
Her mind refused to clear.
I’ll never be embarrassed again,
she thought, blushing slightly as she thought back over the birth.
I’m not even thinking of Paul,
she realised, wondering why, at the same time filled with a strange kind of relief.
I wonder where Brenda is,
she thought suddenly, her mind sharpening as she became more alert.

Christie’s face fell as she thought of her inability to breastfeed, trying to accept it as a reality. She trembled as her emotions suddenly plummeted, remembering her desperation, her loss of control in front of Blake after the birth. Panic hit her as she thought of the reading she had done after an earlier checkup when the doctor had indicated formula would almost certainly be necessary.

Unwilling to accept what the doctor had said, she had held out hope milk would suddenly appear, refused to actively plan, in stark contrast to her usual common sense. Christie looked again at her daughter, thrilled to finally see her, trying to put things in perspective.
Formula will just have to be enough,
she thought, clamping down on her deep disappointment, her feeling of failure.

— # —

Blake came in shortly after Christie was transferred to a small ward; the other beds were empty. Christie smiled at him, determined to treat him as a friend despite the devastating argument at his cottage and his initial reluctance to stay with her at the hospital. She took a deep breath, making a supreme effort to speak casually.

“Blake, thank you so much for staying,” Christie began. “I’m just so thrilled she’s healthy, that it’s all over. Definitely a scene from the farm.” He stopped where he was abruptly, literally stunned at the change in Christie’s manner, her polite words and relaxed reference to the farm.