I can’t sleep.
Although my room is quiet enough, I can sense the hustle and bustle in the rest of the building on the other side of the door. That’s not the problem, though. Even with the darkest, quietest, most comfortable room in the world, I would struggle to sleep right now. I keep replaying my earlier conversation with Mum in my head. A big part of me is swayed by her argument. This way, I still get to go to the Arts Academy and my friendship with Frankie is preserved. Plus, it’s my chance to put things right, to give them the child they’ve always wanted – the child I’ve prevented them from having. And yet every time I think about surrendering to the plan, a mass of panic as big as a bowling ball takes residence in my belly. And with it, a picture of the baby – his skinny little body covered in blood and goo, his hair, thick and black as ink and totally unlike my mousey-brown wisps, sticky and matted against 147his tiny skull – embeds itself in my head, always accompanied by a single, confusing word.
Mine.
I roll onto my back, my horrible nappy rustling, the pain between my legs making me wince.
My jaw clenched, I reach for the remote and turn on the TV so I can find out the time.
2:11 a.m.
Before I can stop myself, I press the call button Hayley pointed out earlier.
It’s a few minutes before a nurse I don’t recognize appears. She’s young, possibly only six or seven years older than me. With her long limbs and dark hair and olive skin, she reminds me of Frankie.
Frankie. She has no idea I’m here. The thought of her tucked up in her bed, fast asleep and oblivious, makes my heart twist.
‘Hiya, Joanna,’ the nurse says. ‘I’m Lacey. Now, what can I do for you?’
‘Is it too late for me to visit the Special Care Baby Unit?’ I ask.
Her face softens. ‘Of course not. You sit tight and I’ll go grab a wheelchair.’
The SCBU is on the floor above.
As Lacey pushes me through the brightly lit corridors, she showers me with questions.
What’s his name?
How much did he weigh?
How early was he?
Standard baby stuff. 148
Only I don’t know the answers to any of them.
‘Don’t you worry,’ she says when I apologize. ‘Your brain does funny things when you’ve just given birth.’
When we arrive at the unit, a different nurse takes over from Lacey, pushing me over to a plastic cot in the corner of the dimly lit room.
‘He’s doing really well,’ she says. ‘In fact, if he keeps going like this, he should be able to join you on the ward as early as tomorrow afternoon.’
I wait until the nurse has moved away before using the wheelchair arm rests to push myself up into standing position. I shuffle a little closer and peer into the cot.
For some reason, I’d expected him to be naked apart from a massive nappy, and hooked up to lots of machines, like I’ve seen on the TV. Instead, he’s wearing a lemon-yellow babygro and there are no machines in sight. As I remembered, his hair is black and thick, nothing like my pink bald head when I was born. He’s fast asleep.
‘Hello,’ I whisper.
He has the tiniest nose. Like a button. And pouting pink lips that look like they’re about to blow a kiss. And the longest, darkest eyelashes I think I’ve ever seen.
He’s beautiful. Breathtakingly so.
Did I really make him? The thought makes my brain ache with wonder and confusion.
‘Would you like to hold him?’ the nurse asks, coming up behind me and making me jump.
‘Is – is that allowed?’ I stammer. ‘I mean, will he be OK?’
‘Of course. You sit down and I’ll pass him over.’
I settle into a comfortable chair and watch as the nurse scoops up the baby with ease. 149
‘Here we go,’ she says, lowering him into my arms.
He barely weighs a thing.
‘Is the way I’m holding him OK?’ I ask.
‘Perfect,’ she says.
‘He’s so warm.’
She laughs. ‘I know. Regular little hot water bottles, they are.’
I smile.
A real smile.
Perhaps my first since I arrived at the hospital.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she says. ‘If you need me for anything, just give me a wave.’
I look back down and just stare at my baby for ages, studying every centimetre of him, not daring to move a muscle in case I disturb him but at the same time willing him to wake up so I can look into his eyes and say ‘hello’ – a proper one this time.
The nurse comes over to check how I’m doing.
‘Good, thanks,’ I murmur, unable to tear my eyes away.
‘Does he have a name yet?’ she asks.
At the moment, according to the plastic bracelet around his wrist, he’s just ‘Baby Bright’.
‘Albie,’ I say slowly. ‘I think I’m going to call him Albie.’
The nurse smiles. ‘It suits him already,’ she says.
I hold Albie until I can’t feel my right arm any more and the sun is peeping through the crack beneath the lowered blinds.
A few hours later, I’m moved from the private room onto a ward where I’m the youngest patient by at least ten years.
The other women’s bedside cabinets are cluttered with congratulations cards, pink or blue helium balloons proclaiming ‘It’s a boy!’ or ‘It’s a girl!’ bobbing gently above their heads. Steady 150streams of visitors troop in bearing oversized teddy bears and bundles of impossibly tiny clothes.
I’m the only one who doesn’t have their baby with them.
‘Soon,’ Hayley tells me just after breakfast. ‘In the meantime, would you like these?’ She holds up a stack of gossip magazines. It’s not the sort of thing I’m usually interested in, but right now mindless and glossy is exactly what I’m craving.
‘Yes, please,’ I say. ‘Oh, and would you mind drawing the curtain around my bed?’
She glances around the ward and then back to me, her face soft with sympathy. ‘Of course, lovey,’ she says.
Shortly afterwards, the woman in the bed next to me is discharged. I watch through the gap in the curtain as she and her husband carefully transfer their baby from its cot to an obviously brand-new car seat, their faces full of worry and wonder. I can tell, just by looking at them, that this baby was very much planned. I picture them huddled over a pregnancy test, whooping with joy when the two pink lines or whatever appeared in the little window. I envy their joy, their togetherness, their cosy little family of three.
The woman catches my eye through the curtain. Quickly, I look back down at my magazine, reading the same paragraph over and over again, my cheeks on fire, until I’m certain they’ve left the ward.
I’m relieved when Mum and Stacey turn up. They looked tired yet happy, the dark circles under their eyes offset by the flush in their cheeks. Stacey in particular is buzzing, chatting merrily about all the things we’re going to need for the baby, making a list on her phone.
‘He’ll be OK in a Moses basket in our room for now,’ she says. 151‘But we’re going to have to think about kitting out a proper nursery for when he’s a bit bigger.’
‘I wish I’d hung on to Jojo’s baby things,’ Mum says.
‘You weren’t to know,’ Stacey replies, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Plus, it’ll be nice to get new stuff, don’t you think?’
At no point do they ask for my opinion. It’s like I’m not even in the room, their upbeat chatter clearly not requiring my input. I want to tell them to slow down, that I’m not ready to agree to something this big, but I don’t know how. They seem so happy, so excited, and I don’t want to be the one to break the spell.
Shortly after lunch, Albie, his blood sugar levels now normal, is delivered to the ward. As his cot is wheeled into place next to my bed, I sit up straight, eager to see him again, to check if anything has changed in the few short hours we’ve spent apart.
‘Can I hold him?’ I ask.
Mum and Stacey look at each other. I’ve failed to mention my 2 a.m. visit up to the SCBU.
‘Perhaps it’s best if you don’t right now,’ Stacey says, positioning herself in front of the cot, blocking my view.
‘Sorry?’ I say, convinced I must have heard her incorrectly.
‘The thing is, your mum and I have been talking, and if this plan is going to work, we’re going to need to put some boundaries in place.’
I throw Mum a desperate glance.
‘It’s for the best,’ Mum says as Stacey turns away, scooping Albie into her arms. ‘Don’t worry,’ she adds. ‘You’ll have lots of chances for cuddles later on. It’s just that these early days are so crucial for bonding.’
So I sit in bed while Stacey holds my baby in her arms, her body subtly angled away from me. And when he wakes up, it’s 152her eyes he connects with, not mine. The pain almost takes my breath away.
‘It’s for the best,’ Mum repeats.
And even though all I want to do is rip Albie from Stacey’s arms, a big part of me knows Mum must be right. And so I sit and watch, trying my hardest to ignore the desperate ache in my chest.