Into My Arms (22 page)

24

She was nearly finished. Skye looked around the room and mentally ticked off the items: cot, mattress, mattress protector, sheets, blankets, change table, baby bath, monitor, mobile, night-light. So much equipment for one tiny person. Hadn’t women once given birth in the fields, then strapped their babies to their chests and carried on working? No need for a monitor back then, she supposed.

No need for a pram, either. The one they had purchased lurked in the hall, taunting her, catching her shins every time she went past. Skye still wasn’t certain she could perform the origami required to get it into the car, but she was too embarrassed to ask Hamish to demonstrate yet again. And then there were the cupboards. The compartment under the change table heaved with piles of nappies, a cornucopia of creams and wipes; the wardrobe by the window was bursting with singlets and jumpsuits and tiny hooded towels. It scared her, all this stuff. It had crept up on her, like the baby itself; it was surrounding her, overwhelming her.

Skye bent down and picked up yet another item that had inveigled its way into the house, some sort of keyboard toy Hamish’s mother had given them to hang in the cot. Her vision swam and she stood up slowly, waiting for it to clear before she read the installation instructions. It was happening quite often lately, the vision thing—but then she was getting near the end now, so it was probably to be expected. Only four weeks to go. Everything was under pressure.

It was normal to feel this way, she reassured herself, stretching across the crib to hang up the Kick ’n’ Play. The fatigue, the anxiety—it was all in the manual. So was the weight gain, which had shocked her at first. She had always been slim and had expected to remain that way, except of course for a baby bump. Instead, everything had inflated—her ankles merging into her calves, her fingers swelling up like balloons. She’d mentioned it to Nell, who’d told her not to worry but couldn’t help adding, ‘Be grateful you’re not carrying twins.’

At least it had given her an excuse for not working. She was so large now that she couldn’t have sat up at her bench even if she’d wanted to; nor could she manipulate the tile cutters with her bloated hands. But the truth was that she didn’t want to work, hadn’t for months. She wondered if that was also contributing to her disquiet: that she had nothing to do all day except sit and wait and think.

And all night too. The baby was pressing on her bladder, but that wasn’t solely what kept her awake. The night was when her mind raced. During the day she managed to convince herself that she had made the right choices, that she was moving on, but lying there, sleepless, the doubts circled, took hold. The problem, Skye thought, was that she
knew
she couldn’t be with Ben,
knew
it was all over, but the knowledge hadn’t trickled its way down from her brain to her heart: it was clogged up somewhere around her cerebellum; it was obstructed by her larynx or snagged on a clavicle. She found herself remembering the anatomy she’d studied when she was training to become a gym instructor, and wildly imagined plunging her hands inside herself, searching for the blockage and ripping it out—anything to bring her heart and her mind into line.

Meanwhile, Hamish slumbered on beside her, inhaling and exhaling, as regular as a metronome. Sometimes, in her worst moments, she didn’t think of the baby as his at all. Whenever Hamish reached for her she thought instead of Ben, consciously or otherwise fucking a ghost. Maybe that was why she had fallen pregnant so quickly: she was sleeping with two men.

Skye straightened up, her hands immediately going behind her to support her aching back. Kick ’n’ Play. Did babies actually play with these things, or just blunder helplessly into them with their erratic new limbs? If she was a baby she was sure she would be terrified if something in her bed abruptly started flashing and furiously bleeping ‘Old MacDonald’. But Hamish’s mother had given it to them, and she’d be sure to look for it when she visited. Besides, thought Skye, she was too tired to take it down again, particularly after the effort of tying it around the bars. She was very tired, actually, tired and achy and slow. She hoped she wasn’t coming down with something. All she wanted to do was sleep.

25

When he got home from work, Skye was asleep on the couch.
It’s all right for her
, Hamish thought, then immediately felt ashamed. Yes, he was exhausted, but clearly so was she. There was a lot more of her now. It must be draining, lugging all that around every day. Hamish sat down beside her and removed her shoes. A faint ripple appeared underneath her t-shirt, the baby moving about. He watched it, mesmerised. Elbow? Shoulder? Was it turning over, or trying to escape? Gently he placed a hand on Skye’s belly, felt their child flutter and kick. ‘Who are you?’ he whispered. ‘Do you know me? Can you hear me?’ The baby went still and Skye muttered something in her sleep. Hamish stood up and went to start dinner.

He woke her when it was ready. Usually Skye was starving by now, but tonight she just toyed with the food, pushing the same forkful of potato around the plate until he snapped at her, ‘You don’t have to eat it if it’s that disgusting.’

She looked up, surprised. ‘I’m sorry. It’s fine. I’m just tired.’ She put the fork down and leaned back in her chair, her swollen belly pushing against the edge of the table. ‘Thanks for cooking. You didn’t have to.’

‘Well, you weren’t going to from the couch.’ He smiled at her to soften his words.

‘I don’t feel very well,’ she said, and he noticed she was pale. ‘My stomach hurts and everything aches.’

‘Is it the baby, or do you think you’re getting sick? What does the manual say?’

Skye shrugged. ‘The manual says everything is normal by this stage: heartburn, fatigue, insomnia, anxiety, incontinence—you name it. The only thing that isn’t normal is feeling normal.’

‘How long’s it been? Should we call the doctor?’

‘Just since lunchtime, when I was setting up the nursery,’ she said. ‘And Hamish, it’s after eight o’clock. No doctor is going to want to turn out for a heavily pregnant woman who feels a bit out of sorts.’ She picked up her cutlery, brought some food to her mouth, but then set it down again. ‘I might just go to bed. I probably overdid it this afternoon.’

Hamish nodded. ‘Good idea. You’ll feel better in the morning.’

But she didn’t. She hadn’t slept well, writhing and whimpering through the night like an animal caught in a trap. When the alarm went at six, Hamish got up and made her a piece of toast and brought it to her in bed. She thanked him, but almost as soon as she’d eaten it she threw it up. He went to the kitchen and called her obstetrician.

‘Dr O’Callaghan says he can fit you in at eleven,’ he told her, returning to their bedroom. ‘He thinks it sounds like the flu or a gastric upset, but that he’d better have a look at you anyway.’

Skye nodded, pallid and subdued.

‘You will go, won’t you?’ asked Hamish. ‘I’d come, but I’ve got this run-through with Ria for that presentation we’re doing. I could ask my mum to take you, if you like?’

She waved him away. ‘I’ll be fine. Can you set the alarm for nine thirty? I’m going to try to go back to sleep for a bit now. I feel much better since I vomited.’ She rolled onto her side and closed her eyes.

Hamish leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Might as well while you still can,’ he said. ‘Not long to go now.’

He was only ten minutes into his rehearsal when the phone rang. Ria was sitting on his desk appraising his performance while he stood at the whiteboard, trying to operate the laser pointer. They hadn’t used those at the gym.

‘Leave it,’ he said, but she had already picked up.

‘Yes,’ she said into the receiver, ‘yes, he’s here,’ and handed the phone to him wordlessly.

It was Dr O’Callaghan. ‘I’m glad I got you, Hamish,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you to panic, but Skye’s very sick. She has preeclampsia, and needs a caesarean section. I’m on my way to the Royal Women’s now. She’s behind me, in an ambulance. I’m taking her straight into theatre. Can you meet us there?’

‘She’s going to hospital?’ Hamish asked, dumbfounded. ‘How sick is she? Is she going to die?’ Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Ria stop doodling on her notepad and look up at him.

‘She has preeclampsia,’ Dr O’Callaghan repeated. ‘High blood pressure and excess protein in the urine. It happens sometimes in late pregnancy—we don’t know why. The only treatment is to get the baby out as soon as possible, otherwise there’s the risk of stroke or seizure, possibly damage to the kidneys and liver.’

In the background Hamish heard the faint buzz of traffic, the mournful wail of a siren. Was that Skye’s ambulance? And how serious was it, if the siren was on?

‘Will she be OK? What about the baby?’

‘The baby should be fine. Skye says it was moving around overnight, which is a good sign. But if we wait too much longer they’ll both be in trouble—that’s why we’re doing the C-section. Just get to the hospital as quickly as you can, and then go to reception. Someone will bring you up.’ He cut off without saying goodbye and Hamish stared at the receiver, paralysed.

‘What’s up?’ asked Ria. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘No,’ replied Hamish, fumbling mechanically in his pocket for his car keys. ‘Skye’s sick. The baby has to come out. I need to get to the Women’s.’

‘Don’t drive,’ Ria said, gesturing for the phone. ‘You’ll have an accident. I’ll call you a taxi.’ She dialled and gave the address of their building, but almost immediately replaced the receiver. ‘Twenty minutes’ wait, and if they’re busy the other companies will be too. Come on, I’ll take you.’ She stood up and pulled her handbag over her shoulder.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Hamish. ‘I know you’ve got a lot on . . .’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ she said, striding towards the door. ‘You’re having a baby, for God’s sake! And it’s not as if I need to stay here and practise the presentation. I’ve got a hunch it might be cancelled.’

The city streets rushed past them in a blur. King, William, Queen . . . Ria drove the way she worked, calmly and with concentration, but at breakneck speed, brooking no obstacle. At Victoria Parade she ran a red light, then looked over at him and smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry. I just want to get you there as quickly as I can. How are you feeling?’

‘It’s not how I imagined it,’ Hamish said. They were almost there. He could see the dome of the Exhibition Building looming ahead, the great angled wedge of the museum behind it. He had always envisaged this happening at night. Wasn’t that when women went into labour? Skye would be in the front seat beside him, grimacing her way through early contractions; he would reach over and take her hand reassuringly as they sped through the sleeping suburbs. When they got to the Royal Women’s he would park in the ambulance bay right outside, and remember to grab her bag from the back seat before he helped her from the car . . . The bag, he thought suddenly. Had Skye even packed a bag? He doubted it. She never did anything until the last minute, and her due date wasn’t for another four weeks. Hamish felt a sudden irrational throb of anger. If he didn’t organise it, nothing got done.

‘Her stuff,’ he said, turning to Ria. ‘Skye won’t have anything with her. You’re meant to bring baby clothes, and nappies, and pads . . . and the TENS machine. I hired a TENS machine.’

The ambulance bay was full, as was every other car park within a hundred metres of the hospital. Ria pulled illegally into a delivery zone and gave him a gentle shove. ‘It’s a maternity hospital, Hamish. They’ll have nappies and clothes and all the rest of it. Plus I wouldn’t worry about the TENS machine. Skye isn’t going to be needing it now.’ She laughed when she saw his face. ‘Or the breathing regimes, or the scented candles, or the hydrotherapy pool—whatever you had planned. Be grateful you’re getting out of all that, at least. Now go,’ she said, putting her car into reverse, ‘and call me tomorrow so I can harass everyone at work for some money for a gift. Maybe we can buy you some breast pads.’

Hamish undid his seatbelt, light-headed, his thoughts swirling. Skye had been determined to have a natural birth with as little intervention as possible. She was an athlete, she’d asserted, she could handle it, and the pain couldn’t be worse than anything she’d suffered in training—but now they were going to cut into her, right through her core, her strong gymnast’s muscles. She wouldn’t like that. She wouldn’t be happy with any of this. She’d need him there, she’d need him to comfort her. He set off at a run towards reception, dimly aware of Ria calling something after him.

‘Hamish,’ she yelled. ‘It will be fine. Good luck.’

He raised a hand in acknowledgement, but didn’t turn around.

Later, all he would remember were fractured scenes, no beginning, no end. Dr O’Callaghan glancing up and nodding as Hamish was ushered into the theatre; the anaesthetist still as a priest at Skye’s head; Skye’s stomach rising from the surgical drapes, swabbed and distended, garish as an overstuffed piñata. He remembered the nurse who had muttered to him about Skye’s condition, but little of what she had said—something about HELLP syndrome and needing a transfusion, words that meant nothing to him. He remembered the blood and the long wait for the baby to cry; he remembered that no one had asked him if he wanted to cut the cord
. Make sure you get some photos
, Skye had said whenever they’d discussed the birth.
I don’t care what I look like.
But she hadn’t expected to look like this—bleached of all colour, unconscious—and of course he hadn’t brought the camera with him anyway.