Again, Rachel, page 28
‘Nothing.’
‘Yeah, it really looks like nothing.’ Irritably, he scanned the room and plucked at my sleeve. ‘Come on.’
He took me down the hallway and opened a door into a smaller, more formal sitting room, featuring prim armchairs and a stiff, starched-looking couch. Shiny fire irons stood by a pristine marble fireplace and on an over-polished table was an artful arrangement of family photos in silver frames.
To my shock – horror, almost – Yara’s photo was among them. Luke noticed at the same time and he stiffened in response.
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know –’
My floodgates opened. Suddenly there was no fight left in me, not a shred, and everything – the last three weeks, the last several years – caught up with me and I was thrown right back into the past.
47
‘Luke! Luke, come here!’
He put his hand on my stomach then looked at me, wide-eyed.
‘Can you feel it?’ I whispered.
‘Yes. It’s like a … a fluttering?’
‘That’s exactly what it feels like!’ I said. ‘Like there’s a little butterfly in here.’
I had had a dream pregnancy. In my first trimester, I had minimal morning sickness, tons of energy, and most of my time was spent floating around in a state of blissed-out joy.
I gave up my beloved caffeine, bought every vitamin and supplement recommended by the many pregnancy blogs I’d taken to reading and made yet another stab at meditation.
Meanwhile Luke bought What to Expect When You’re Expecting and consulted it daily.
‘This week it’s the size of a cranberry.’
‘Tomorrow it’ll be as big as a blueberry. Our little berry!’
Stopping by Mia’s fruit stand at the Farmer’s Market became a thing. Luke would hold up, say, a strawberry, telling anyone who cared to hear that this week our baby was that size. Then, ‘Sorry, Mia. Manhandling your goods, my bad.’
Mia, whom I knew from my meetings, froze every time Luke spoke to her. Sweet and pretty, she reminded me of a cuddly toy – big brown eyes set in a round face framed by short, messy dark hair.
Then Luke would swerve me away from the cheese stall, glaring at any soft cheese that might have been entertaining notions about being purchased by us. ‘Sorry, man,’ he called out to Lionel, the cheesemonger. ‘Rachel’s pregnant! We’ll be back in seven months.’
Raw meat was regarded with the horror normally reserved for nuclear waste and Luke kept coming home with random stuff – fresh ginger for my non-existent nausea; a packet of folic acid, even though I’d already been taking it for two years; a three-kilo bag of mixed dried fruit. ‘Iron and calcium,’ he said, dumping it on the counter.
In my second trimester, my skin suddenly became radiant and my hair grew in great, shiny spurts. But I burst into tears at the drop of a hat. If someone gave me their seat on the train, I cried. If someone didn’t give me their seat and left me standing for the hour-long journey to work, I also cried.
Everything seemed either unbearably beautiful or indescribably appalling.
‘What if I’m a terrible mother?’ I sobbed and sobbed while Luke stroked my hair. ‘I’m such a weak, weak person.’
As we approached the five-month mark, Luke said, ‘Babe, are we having a gender-reveal party? Only Gaz was asking. He says he can do something with fireworks.’
‘Oh my God, no! Gaz would probably blow us all up.’ Gaz destroyed everything that he touched. His nickname was Shiva. ‘Plus, they’re so tacky. Gaz has been living in Queens too long. You must remember, we’re Brooklyn people, baby!’
At our next scan, the radiologist asked, ‘Would you like to know the gender?’
‘Oh yeah!’ Luke exclaimed. Then, to me, ‘We do, right?’
‘You’re having a little girl.’
There and then, Luke cried. ‘Allergies,’ he said, wiping the tears away.
Once we got outside, I asked, ‘You’re not disappointed it’s not a boy?’
‘No way! Anyway, the next one will be a boy. Meanwhile we need to start thinking about names.’
‘Yara.’ All business, Luke strode into our bedroom.
‘What?’
‘Yara. Her name! I was over with Ebrahim and Saira.’ The Iraqi couple who ran the corner ‘convenient’ store. ‘I told them about the fluttering feeling. “Yara” is Arabic for “Little Butterfly”. It’s perfect, right?’
‘It is.’ My eyes were shining. We had our name.
At seven months, Anna threw me a baby shower at the Williamsburg House. Turnout was exceptionally high – people I hadn’t seen in years – because everyone hoped Anna would throw in free skincare for the guests.
Thankfully she did, especially as the baby gifts were embarrassingly lavish. There were mountains of toys and clothes, as well as vouchers for Baby Yoga and certificates of trees planted in Yara’s name (done by some of the crunchier Brooklynites). Several of my glossy Manhattan friends had clubbed together to buy a Baby Jogger City Mini stroller – they insisted that no new mom would be caught dead with yesterday’s news, a MacLaren Globetrotter.
‘Erm, thank you,’ I said, ‘I had no idea.’
‘You should never have left the city, Boo.’
As we headed into the ninth month, I put on my Central Casting Pregnant Woman dungarees, tied my hair up in a red bandana, then Luke and I painted Yara’s room a pale yellow.
‘You’ve never been so beautiful,’ Luke said. ‘You’re a goddess.’
‘Ah, stop!’ Then, ‘Say it again!’
Yara would sleep in a Moses basket in our room for the first couple of months but we wanted to create a beautiful nursery for her.
We hung curtains patterned with giraffes and monkeys, we assembled a chest of drawers and filled the drawers with teeny-tiny clothes and diapers, then sheepishly Luke produced a white muslin princess canopy which he suspended from the ceiling above her crib.
‘I know it’s girly,’ he said. ‘We might be kicked out of Brooklyn for gender stereotyping, but look at it! I can’t not.’ He was so agonized that I laughed and kissed him.
By the time we’d finished, the nursery was absolutely beautiful.
‘I think she’ll approve,’ Luke said.
‘I’m so excited about meeting her,’ I said. Then, seized by fear, ‘What if I fail her?’
‘You won’t fail her, you big eejit! C’mon, let’s see if she’s in the mood for dancing.’
We’d discovered that if we put on music, particularly Luke’s beloved Led Zeppelin, she got really lively.
Our latest thing was to watch my stomach. ‘Was that an … elbow?’
‘Or maybe a knee?’
‘We could sell tickets to this.’
48
At the thirty-seven-week mark, I was winding down at work; two more weeks before I finished up. Five months’ maternity leave was the most I was entitled to – three months of which would be unpaid – but we’d saved money for it.
Hope House was a bit put out about the length of time I’d be away, but said they’d take me back.
When I woke on the Thursday morning of that week, something felt … off. I realized I hadn’t woken once since 2 a.m., and at this stage of my pregnancy Yara usually woke me with her antics several times a night. There had been no activity for hours.
‘Wake up, little girl.’ I stroked my stomach. ‘Come on, play with me.’
There was no response. I stared and stared, praying for a knee or an elbow to jut out at me, but nothing.
‘Luke!’
He emerged from the bathroom, half his face covered in shaving foam. ‘What’s up?’
‘She isn’t moving, she didn’t wake me during the night. Maybe I’m overreacting, but –’
He put his hand on my bump. In stillness, we looked at each other, both of us terrified, both of us searching for reassurance that the other couldn’t give.
‘Let’s go!’ Luke strode to the bathroom, grabbing a towel and roughly wiping away the shaving foam. ‘We’ll get a cab on the street.’
On the way to the hospital, Luke held my hand tight, while I began to bargain with God. It had been a long time since I believed in a higher power who listened carefully to my specific requests, then promptly actioned them, as if it were a genie which had escaped from a bottle. I knew – in my bones, my brain, my soul – that in any situation, the best outcome to hope for was acceptance. Trying to persuade God to pull off something particular never worked. This, though, was different: it mattered too much. Make her be okay, I pleaded. Just this once, I’ll never ask for anything ever again, but give me – us – this.
Isolated by our fear, we watched armies of other people on their way to work and envied them. I wanted to be anyone but me.
Now and then Luke and I muttered hopeful little phrases at each other, flip-flopping between disbelief and terror. Silently, I pleaded with Yara, ‘Give me a kick! Make your poor mommy feel stupid for panicking.’
First it was a relief, then it very much wasn’t, that the hospital took us seriously. Within a short time I was hooked up to a monitor and, oh, the surge of joy when the pitter-patter skip of a heartbeat sounded in the room!
‘That’s your heartbeat,’ the technician said. ‘Just waiting for your daughter’s.’
She pressed buttons then flicked a switch on and off but there was no new sound.
‘Try a different machine.’ Luke’s voice was husky with fear.
But on the new machine there was still only one heartbeat.
Someone said, ‘We’ll do a scan.’
Things happened fast. In a different room, I got on the table, Luke beside me, crushing my hand. Gel was smeared on my bump and the sonographer began moving the probe around. My breath was held. I was waiting, waiting, waiting for her to say, ‘And there she is! All good!’
Say it, I prayed. Say it and make it all okay.
But a long soundless moment passed, and another, she was still moving the probe and her silence had lasted too long. The panic on her face was undeniable, then I heard her say, ‘I’m so sorry.’ Immediately every sound became muffled and the room went blurry.
I knew what she was telling me, but I wasn’t ready.
‘Is she not … okay?’ I heard myself ask.
She repeated, ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘But she was fine last night. Tell her, Luke. She was moving and, like, so lively –’
Luke was a picture of devastation.
‘Is this real?’ I asked him.
Looking stunned, he nodded.
‘It doesn’t feel real.’
‘But it is, babe.’
Ridiculously, I expected Luke to fix this. He was the one who fought my battles when I couldn’t. But this wasn’t getting us on an overbooked flight or moved from a noisy hotel room, this was something very different and he couldn’t work miracles.
‘What happened to her?’ I asked. ‘What did I do wrong?’
A duty obstetrician had appeared from somewhere. Gently she said, ‘You most likely did nothing wrong. We’ll check for infections but this sometimes happens for no reason at all.’
‘What do we do now?’ I was reeling from shock and confusion. ‘She’s still in there.’ It made me think of the Chilean miners who’d been trapped underground. How were we going to get her out?
Even more gently, she said, ‘You give birth to her.’
‘How can I do that? If she’s not alive? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘We induce you, you experience labour and, when she’s born, you and Luke get to spend time with her.’
‘But –’
‘You can dress her, take photographs, take a lock of her hair, we can do impressions of her feet. Make a memory box of her. You and Luke are still her parents, she’s still your little girl.’
She made it sound like a good thing. But how could any of this be positive?
As they prepared me to be induced, a pastor appeared, carrying a bible and wearing a performatively ‘loving’ smile. Touching my hand, he murmured, ‘Everything happens for a reason.’
For real?
‘God has his purpose.’
Beside me, Luke flared with rage, Luke who so rarely got angry. ‘Hey.’ He bit out the words. ‘Not now, man.’
The pastor looked like he might try to style this out.
‘Seriously, man.’ Luke half rose.
The pastor beat a hasty retreat.
All the worries I’d had about the pain of labour now seemed silly – I would have endured anything if she could have been born alive.
My strongest memory was of the abnormal quiet. Having a baby had always seemed like a rowdy event, maybe like watching the Grand National, an intense, high-octane dash with lots of different voices shouting encouragement. ‘G’wan, good girl! Faster! Harder! Catch your breath, now go again! Home stretch now, keep at it. Eye on the prize, Rachel, eye on the prize!’
But my labour took place in almost total silence.
At one stage, I heard myself choking back sobs. Then I realized it wasn’t me who was crying, it was Luke.
Even after the birth, no one said anything. But when Yara was put in my arms, a sudden calm descended. There she was, our little girl, miniature and perfect. Her skin was cool when it should have been warm, her eyes would never open but, oh, the wonder of her tiny, tiny toenails, her spiky black eyelashes, her mini-prawn fingers.
‘Hello, sweet girl,’ I said. ‘Hello!’
Luke traced his finger along the curve of her cheek. ‘Her skin is so soft.’
‘And look at her hair!’ There was a thick clump of it on the crown of her head, jet black. ‘She got that from you.’
Luke’s chin wobbled.
I inhaled the scent of her head. She smelt just like a baby.
Tears were landing on her from both of us.
‘We’re so sorry you couldn’t stay,’ I told her.
‘But you mustn’t feel bad,’ Luke said. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
At some stage Anna had brought in the pregnancy bag which had been sitting in our hall for the last three weeks. Luke and I chose a supersoft sleepsuit, with a rabbit appliqué and paws for feet, to dress Yara in.
As instructed, we took lots of photos, so we’d remember everything about her. Then one of the nurses suggested she take pictures of the three of us together.
‘Let’s try and smile,’ I said to Luke, ‘You’re still her daddy, I’m still her mommy.’
In most of the pictures, Luke and I were like a pair of zombies but there was one where our faces had softened with love, where we looked almost happy; then another, where Luke had his eyes closed and his lips pressed to her downy forehead.
We’d been told to spend as much time with her as we needed but eventually Luke said, ‘Babe, we should go now.’
‘But –’
‘Babe.’ He stared at me with hollow eyes.
I got it. We couldn’t stay there forever: one of us had to be bad cop.
‘Can she come with us?’
He shook his head. The hospital needed to keep her to try to figure out what had gone wrong. She would be returned to us soon and we’d get to have a small funeral.
Then we went home without her.
49
The emptiness howled in me. I stood in the cosy, yellow nursery we’d prepared, touched her crib, the smooth texture of the cotton sheets, the delicately knitted baby blankets, so much softness and innocence. In the corner was a plumply upholstered armchair, reassuringly solid, for me to sit in to do the night feeds. Mobiles dangled above her cot and the room overflowed with toys.
Only days before, I’d bought her a little fuzzy elephant – a giddy impulse purchase because I was simply so excited. There had been a lot of that, me buying her stuff, just because. Luke too. The previous weekend, he’d come home with a miniature ballerina outfit – the full works – a tulle skirt, a pair of satin slippers. (‘Yeah, it’s pink. My bad. Blame Gaz, he’s a sap, even worse than me.’)
It was all over. So long had been spent in intense anticipation of this wonderful event – an entire new person being born. But nothing had come of it and never would.
My head knew but my heart didn’t. And neither did my body – my breasts began leaking milk. Blankly I looked at the two wet patches on my T-shirt. ‘What should I do?’ I asked Luke.
He lunged for the information we’d been sent home with. ‘Ice-packs,’ he read. ‘Ibuprofen for the discomfort. It should stop in a few days.’
But I didn’t want it to stop. It was one way of remaining her mother.
Our phones and laptops were flooded with messages but the words could find no landing place in me, because I couldn’t really believe that this was happening – that I was the person being told, ‘the shock and pain will eventually ease’.
Tragedies could hit anyone, I knew I wasn’t immune, but still, to find myself on the wrong side of the divide, to be the object of everyone’s pity instead of being the one doing the consoling, felt all wrong.
‘Fuck you, man!’ Luke was staring furiously at his phone. ‘“Everything happens for a reason”? Why do they keep saying that? It’s bullshit!’
His anger was shocking. It dawned on me that Luke and I were at the bottom of an abyss, trapped with each other. No one else could come in or out. Briefly, it was terrifying.
‘Luke. They’re trying to help.’
‘How can they help? We’ve lost everything.’
‘We still have each other.’
‘Yeah.’ Wearily, he gathered me to him. ‘Okay.’
I wasn’t due to finish work for another two weeks but I had to call to say I was taking leave immediately. It was inconvenient for them, but my boss said, ‘Take all the time you need.’
She didn’t mean it literally, of course. It was just a meaningless thing people said, like, ‘Drink lots of fluids.’ In a week or ten days someone from HR would call to pin me down to a return date. But I’d worry about that when I had to.
Reminders of Yara were everywhere. In the bathroom, I was shocked by the teeny baby bath sitting in our bigger tub. That wouldn’t be needed now. Neither would the neat pile of bath toys, waiting for her to play with. Nor the breast pump Olga Mae had loaned me, or the bottles, sterilizer or drying mat.
