A Special Relationship (15 page)

It took a moment or so for my eyes to focus on the three large floral arrangements that adorned various corners of the room. The nurse gathered up the gift cards and handed them to me. One bouquet from the editor of the
Chronicle.
One from Tony’s team on the Foreign pages. One from Margaret and Alexander.

‘They’re beautiful, aren’t they?’ Nurse Dowling said.

I stared at the arrangements, having absolutely no opinion about them whatsoever. They were flowers, that’s all.

‘Could I get you a cup of tea now?’ Nurse Dowling asked. ‘Perhaps a little breakfast?’

‘Any idea how my son is doing?’

‘I don’t honestly know, but I could find out straight away for you.’

‘That would be very kind. And if I could … uh …’

Nurse Dowling knew exactly what I was talking about. Approaching the bed, she removed the bedpan from the cabinet in the side table, helped me straddle it, and removed it after I filled it with yet another half-gallon of malodorous urine.

‘God, what a stink,’ I said as Nurse Dowling settled me back on the pillows.

‘The drugs do that,’ she said. ‘But once you’re off them, you’ll lose that bad smell. How do the stitches feel today?’

‘The pain’s still there.’

‘That’ll take at least a week to go away. Meantime, why don’t I bring you a basin of water, so you can freshen up and brush your teeth?’

Talk about five-star service. I thanked the nurse, and asked her again if she could find out how Jack was doing.

‘Oh, you’ve already chosen a name for him,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Jack Edward.’

‘Good strong name,’ she said. ‘And I’ll be right back with the tea and any news of Jack.’

Jack. Jack. Jack.

Suddenly I felt the worst wave of shame imaginable.

‘He is
dying – and I don’t care. You get that? I don’t care.’

How could I have said that? Had I so completely lost it that I
actually
expressed indifference about whether or not my son lived? Instead of making excuses for myself – telling myself it was all post-operative stress, and an out-of-body reaction to all the drugs they’d been pumping into me – I immediately began to engage in a serious course of self-flagellation. I was unfit to be a mother, a wife, a member of the human race. I had jettisoned all that was important to me – my newborn child and my husband – through one deranged outbreak of rage. I deserved everything bad that would now happen to me.

But, most of all, yesterday’s bizarre, out-of-kilter rage had vanished. All I could now think was: I need to be with Jack.

Nurse Dowling returned with a breakfast tray and some news.

‘I gather your little one’s doing just fine. They’re really pleased with the progress he’s making, and he can probably be moved out of ICU in a couple of days.’

‘Can I see him this morning?’

‘No problem.’

I picked at my breakfast – largely because whatever appetite I had was tempered by an equally urgent need to speak with Tony. I wanted to utter a vast
mea culpa
for my insane behaviour yesterday, to beg his forgiveness, and also tell him that he and Jack were the best things that had ever happened to me. And, of course, I’ll sign the registration document naming him Jack Edward. Because … because … be …

Oh fuck, not this …

The crying had started again. Another extended bout of loud, insufferable keening.
Come on, knock it off,
I told myself. But as I quickly discovered, this was an absurd idea because I fell apart once more. Only this time I was cognizant enough of this sudden breakdown to be genuinely spooked by it. Especially as I worried that the medical staff might start writing me off as mentally askew, and worthy of more intensive chemical treatment. So I stuffed the pillow back into my mouth, clutched it against me like a life preserver, and started counting backwards from one hundred inside my head, telling myself that I had to have myself under control by the time I reached zero. But during this countdown, I could feel my voice growing louder and louder – even though I wasn’t speaking at all. The strain against my eyes became intolerable. There was such compression behind them that I was certain they’d explode out of my head at any moment. But just when I thought I was about to let go entirely Nurse Dowling showed up accompanied by the orderly. I felt her hand against my shoulder, calling my name, asking me what was wrong. When I couldn’t answer, I heard her turn to the orderly and mention something about getting the unit sister. At which point I had just reached the number
thirty-nine,
and suddenly heard myself shout,
‘Thirty-nine!’

This threw everybody – most especially, Nurse Dowling, who looked at me wide-eyed, as if I had completely abandoned all reason. Which was very close to the truth.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked. I didn’t know the answer to that question – so all I said was, ‘Bad dream.’

‘But you were awake.’

‘No,’ I lied. ‘I fell asleep again.’

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ she asked.

‘Absolutely,’ I said, touching my very wet face and attempting to wipe away the remnants of all that crying. ‘Just a little nightmare.’

The unit sister arrived at my bedside just in time to hear that last comment. She was a formidable Afro-Caribbean woman in her early forties – and I could tell that she wasn’t buying a word of it.

‘Perhaps you need another sedative, Sally.’

‘I am completely fine,’ I said, my voice nervous. Because the last thing I wanted right now was a further trip into an opiated never-never. Which is why it was critical that I bring myself under control.

‘I’d like to believe that,’ the unit sister said, ‘but your chart shows that you’ve already had two such incidents. Which, I must tell you, is not at all unusual after a physically traumatic delivery. But it is a cause for concern. And if it persists …’

‘It won’t persist,’ I said, sounding very definitive.

‘Sally, I am not at all trying to threaten you. Rather, I just want to point out that you have a legitimate medical problem which we will treat if …’

‘Like I said – it was just a little nightmare. I promise it won’t happen again. I really,
really
do promise.’

A quick glance between the unit sister and Nurse Dowling.

The unit sister shrugged. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘we’ll forego medication right now. But if you have another incident …’

‘I
won’t
be having another incident.’

My voice had jumped an edgy octave or two. Another telling glance between the unit sister and Nurse Dowling. Defuse the situation, defuse it
now.

‘But I would desperately like to see my son, Jack,’ I said, my voice back in reasonable territory.

‘That should be possible after Mr Hughes comes by on his rounds this morning.’

‘I have to wait until then?’

‘It’s just another hour or so …’

‘Oh come on …’ I said, my voice going loud again. When I saw another telling glance between the unit sister and Nurse Dowling, I knew that I should cut my losses and wait the hour.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I said, a little too rapidly. ‘You’re right, of course. I’ll wait until Mr Hughes shows up.’

‘Good,’ the unit sister said, looking me straight in the eye. ‘And you mustn’t worry too much about what’s going on right now. You’ve been through a great deal.’

She smiled and touched my arm, then left. Nurse Dowling said, ‘Anything else I can get you?’

‘If you could just hand me the phone, please.’

She brought it over to the bed, then left. I dialled home. I received no answer … which bothered me just a little, as it was only eight-thirty in the morning, and Tony was a notoriously late sleeper. Then I called his mobile and got him immediately. I was relieved to hear him in traffic.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m so damn sorry about …’

‘It’s all right, Sally,’ Tony said.

‘No – it’s not. What I said yesterday …’

‘Meant nothing.’

‘I was horrible.’

‘You were in shock. It happens.’

‘It still doesn’t excuse what I said about Jack …’

A telling pause. ‘So you like the name now?’

‘Yes, I do. And I like you too. More than I can say.’

‘Now there’s no need to go all soppy on me. What’s the latest word on our boy?’

‘I won’t know anything until Hughes does his rounds. When will you be in?’

‘Around tea-time.’

‘Tony …’

‘I have pages to get out …’

‘And you also have a deputy. Surely the editor was most sympathetic …’

‘Did you get his flowers?’

‘Yes – and a bouquet from Margaret too. You called her?’

‘Well, she is your best friend.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And I also spoke with Sandy. Explained that it had been a complicated delivery, that you were a bit under the weather, and told her it was best if she didn’t ring you for a few days. Naturally, she’s phoned me three times since then to see how you’re doing.’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘That you were making steady progress.’

Sandy being Sandy, I was certain that she didn’t believe a word of his reassurances – and was now frantically worried about my condition. She knew damn well that, if she couldn’t talk to me, something rather serious was going on. But I was grateful to Tony for keeping her at bay. Much as I adored my sister, I didn’t want her to hear how fragile I was right now.

‘That was the right thing to tell her,’ I said.

‘Listen, I have to run now,’ Tony said. ‘I’ll try to be in by early evening, all right?’

‘Fine,’ I said, even though I didn’t mean it – as I really wanted him at my bedside right now for some necessary emotional support.

But who in their right mind would want to be with me at the moment? I had turned into a crazy woman, who’d lost all sense of proportion, and spat bile every time she opened her mouth. No wonder Tony wanted to dodge me.

For the next hour, I sat and stared upwards at the ceiling. One thought kept obsessing my head:
Jack, brain damaged?
I couldn’t even conceive of what motherhood was going to be like if that was the case. How would we cope? What fathomless, inexhaustible hell would await us?

Mr Hughes arrived promptly at ten. He was accompanied by the unit sister. As always, he wore a beautifully cut pinstripe suit, a spread-collar pink shirt, and a black polka-dot tie. He deported himself like a Cardinal visiting a poor parish. He nodded hello, but said nothing until he had perused the notes hanging on the bedstead clipboard.

‘So, Mrs …’

He glanced back at the clipboard.

‘…Goodchild. Not the most pleasant few days I’d imagine?’

‘How is my son?’

Hughes cleared his throat. He hated being interrupted. And he showed his displeasure by staring down at the chart while speaking with me.

‘I’ve just been looking in on him at ICU. All vital signs are good. And I spoke to the attending paediatrician, Dr Reynolds. He told me that an EEG performed this morning indicated no neurological disturbance. But, of course, to make certain that everything is functioning properly, an MRI will be conducted around lunchtime today. He should have results by evening time – and I know he’ll want to see you then.’

‘Do you think that brain damage did occur?’

‘Mrs Goodchild … though I can fully understand your worry – what mother wouldn’t be worried under the circumstances? – I am simply not in a position to speculate about such matters. Because that is Dr Reynolds’s territory.’

‘But do you think that the EEG results … ?’

‘Yes, they do give one cause for optimism. Now, would you mind if I looked at Mr Kerr’s handiwork?’

The unit sister drew the curtains around my bed, and helped me raise my nightgown and lower my underwear. Then she pulled away the bandages. I hadn’t seen my wounds since the delivery, and they shocked me: a crisscrossing sequence of railroad tracks, bold in their delineation and barbaric in execution.

Though I was trying my best to stifle all emotion, I couldn’t help but emit a small sharp cry. Mr Hughes favoured me with an avuncular smile, and said, ‘I know it looks pretty grim right now – a real war wound – but once the stitches are removed, I promise you that your husband won’t have anything to complain about.’

I wanted to say,
‘To hell with my husband. It’s me who’s going to have to live with the disfigurement.’
But I kept my mouth shut. I couldn’t afford to deepen my problems.

‘Now I gather you’ve been having a bit of, uh, shall we say, emotional disquiet.’

‘Yes – but it’s over with.’

‘Even though you had to be sedated yesterday?’

‘But that was yesterday. I’m just fine now.’