The pain was what woke me that night. Razor-sharp serrations cutting through. I pulled myself into a seated position and clenched my swollen belly as a series of guttural moans escaped me. It felt as if I had swallowed a bag of scorched knives and was trying to digest them. I was being torn apart from the inside.
Jack was asleep next to me. I staggered out of bed, trembling and light-headed, and stumbled to the bathroom. Beads of sweat clung to my forehead and upper lip. I could taste the salt as I fell against the door, landing on my hands and knees on the cold tile floor; one hand shot to my stomach instinctively. I crawled to the toilet and pressed my back against the cool porcelain. Spreading my legs, I saw red. My white underwear was covered in blood. It was pouring out of me. Thick and bright. I’d never seen blood like it before, and I knew it was too much.
“Jack,” I shrieked. “Jack.”
He ran into the bathroom.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
His eyes were fixed between my legs. The blood was now collecting below me on the bathroom tiling, a glistening circle of syrupy red.
He just stood there, frozen, staring.
“Call a fucking ambulance!” I screamed.
I stood outside my father’s locked office door, braiding the stiff, auburn hair on the mask that hung in the centre of the frame. The mask had always frightened me when I passed by it in the nighttime on my way to the bathroom. Its face was red and contorted, like an angry, ancient spirit.
I listened as the keyboard clicked beneath my father’s fingers, and hesitated. I knew I wasn’t supposed to bother him when he was writing, but it was well past noon and Annabelle and I were hungry. My mother had disappeared again.
I knocked gently, three times.
No response.
I knocked again, this time louder.
The clicking stopped. My father answered with irritation, “Yes?”
“Father, will you make us lunch?” I called, pressing my ear to the door.
I heard papers shuffle and the wheels of my father’s chair rolling along the hardwood floor. The door swung open and I stumbled. My father caught me as I fell into him. His face was stern. “Grace, you know the rule: when my office door is locked, do not bother me.”
“Sorry.” I pulled away.
“You are big enough to make lunch for yourself and Anna. Go see what’s in the kitchen.” He shut the door.
I crawled on my hands and knees down the hallway, pretending I was a cat. Annabelle was waiting around the corner, sitting on the floor, surrounded by piles of books. “What’d he say?”
“He got mad. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”
The paramedics lifted me from the bathroom floor onto the gurney, carried me out of the house, and slid me into the back of the ambulance. I tried to stay awake as Jack squeezed my hand, whispering my name. His voice seemed far away. Everything hurt.
The next thing I remember is the lights, yellow-white and blindly harsh. More voices; new voices. Surgical masks and pink scrubs. The wheels of the gurney on the concrete floor. Something was wrong—I knew something was wrong—but no one was telling me anything. The nurses, both male, attempted to comfort me through the wretched screaming. I heard the doctor say to Jack: “If we have to make a choice, we’ll save her.”
I felt a shift inside me, downward—scraping, tearing, flesh, fluid. Something wasn’t right. I couldn’t feel my baby moving anymore.
The operating room. More nurses flittering around. The shine of stirrups. The chipped nail polish on my toes.
The doctor approached. “Okay, Grace, the head is almost out, but we’ve lost the heartbeat.”
“What?” I struggled to stand but the nurses held me in place. “What do you mean you lost the heartbeat?”
“The baby needs to be delivered now.” The doctor pulled blue latex gloves onto his large, hairy hands.
A female nurse appeared at my side, taking my hand. A mask covered her face, a surgical cap on her head. Her only available feature was dark blue eyes.
Jack was a silent blur in the corner.
The doctor shoved his hands inside of me. The pain was crushing. I recoiled. “No,” I screamed. “Get off of me.”
“I need you to cooperate, Grace. Stay still and push.” The doctor motioned to the male nurses, who grabbed me and held me in place. Struggling and thrashing, I tried to break free from their clutches.
“Jack,” I cried. “Get them off. Help.”
Jack just stood there.
I grabbed for the silver tray, knocking it. Metal clanking. The tools hit the floor.
“Push, Grace. Push.”
Sweat poured from my forehead, running into my eyes, mixing with tears. My vision blurred—all I could see was a bright light and outlines of people. My body trembling and contracting. I squeezed the female nurse’s hand, wailing.
“One more big push.”
I howled. “Jaaaaaackkkkkkkkkkk.”
The pressure released and I collapsed with exhaustion. The room was quiet; everyone stayed in place. I turned my head and my gaze met the female nurse’s, her blue eyes moist. I heard the door close, and Jack was gone.
The doctor approached, removing his mask. “I’m so sorry, Grace.”
Weakly, I propped myself upright, catching sight of my still baby across the room, swaddled in a blue blanket. I disintegrated. My mouth opened wide, but no noise came out.
The female nurse leaned forward and wiped my forehead with a cloth. “There’s nothing we could have done.”
The doctor placed my dead son on my bare chest. I eased back the swaddling and wedged my finger inside his tiny clenched fist. He was perfect. White-blond hair, pink skin, little smushed nose, closed eyes. I kissed his head and lingered, inhaling deeply. He didn’t smell the way newborns do. He didn’t smell like anything.
My inhalations became sharp and sporadic. Something was beeping as my neck muscles gave out and my head lolled. Three shadowy, masculine shapes stood at the edge of my bed, reaching in, melding into a singular figure, its face slowly coming into focus. “Who let them in?” I whispered.
“Who?” the nurse asked, looking around the room.
“Them. Get them out of here.” I pointed, shaking. “Leave me alone.” I clutched my son in my arms as they tried to take him from me. They pulled until they’d snatched him, and his tiny hand, still wrapped around my finger, let go.