Looking for Jane (28)
“See if she’ll suck,” the nurse says, tugging Evelyn’s gown down to expose a heavy breast.
Evelyn holds her baby close, watches as the little pink mouth noses around her nipple. After several more minutes and lots of tears, the baby latches on, and even as Leo’s face flashes into her mind, Evelyn instantly knows she has never felt pure love until this moment. She clasps her baby as close as she can, strokes her wisps of brown hair, the impossibly soft skin on the back of her neck.
“Oh my God,” she says with a shaky laugh. “She’s so real.”
The nurse nods. “I’ve got a little girl, too. It’s sort of like looking at another version of yourself, isn’t it?”
The nurse glances at Evelyn, who is so focused on her baby that she doesn’t look up to see the depth of sadness in the nurse’s eyes. If she did, she would see that the nurse’s conscience weighs so heavily that some nights she has trouble sleeping.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it, dear. Dr. Pritchard will be back in a few minutes.” She quietly walks from the room and closes the door behind her, leaving Evelyn alone with her baby.
“Hello, sweet baby,” Evelyn whispers into her daughter’s ear. Like it’s a secret, just between the two of them. She kisses the wet silky top of her head. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
* * *
They keep Evelyn and her daughter in the hospital for over a week; they want the baby to gain more weight before she’s discharged. There’s no one waiting for this bed in the forgotten corner of the maternity ward, and so they stay.
The kind maternity nurse brings her a proper housecoat from the ward closet to wear over her nightdress instead of the hospital gown, and on the second day, Evelyn shuffles down to the waiting room in her own worn-out slippers to scrounge up some outdated beauty magazines for a bit of entertainment. She has a novel, too, a smart copy of a mystery one of the other new mothers left behind. Her husband brought it in for her and she didn’t want it. Evelyn can’t help but wonder what this experience would be like if things had gone differently and she had Leo to bring her presents and flowers and well-wishes from their loved ones, massage her feet, lie to her and tell her she looks fresh and beautiful.
Not at all tired, my dear. Don’t you worry.
Evelyn promises herself that she’ll tell Maggie everything she can about the labour and birth process before her friend has to undergo the same experience. She’ll be separated into the postpartum dormitory once she returns to St. Agnes’s, but plans to whisper the details to her friend during Bible study or outdoor time. She’ll sneak into Maggie’s dormitory in the middle of the night if she has to. Anything to make sure Maggie has the information she needs to be prepared for not just the labour, but the overwhelming love she’ll feel when her child is placed in her arms. It’s that love that has made Evelyn happier than she has been in over a year. Maybe ever.
Her favourite thing to do is walk down to the nursery to visit her baby. Sometimes there are other mothers or fathers there, but often it’s just her alone, pressing her forehead and hands against the glass, eager to get as close as she can to her daughter. Evelyn’s hands itch when she isn’t holding her, and she’s even feeling phantom kicks in her belly. They’re only bringing her to breastfeed once a day now. The doctor says formula is far better for her baby’s health, but she misses the feeling of that little rosy mouth.
On her fifth day at the hospital, Evelyn wanders down to the incubators in the late afternoon with a Styrofoam cup of weak coffee in her hand. There are two men there today, a tall redhead in his twenties, not much older than Evelyn, and an older gentleman with some dignified grey flecking his black temples. Evelyn pads up behind them, keeping her eyes downcast. The sense of shame has worn off a little over the past few days, but she still worries the other parents will know where she’s from, or notice there’s never a man there with her, gazing at the babies like these proud fathers do.
“Which one’s yours?” the older man asks the redhead.
“That one”—he points to a bundle wrapped in blue—“with the name card George. Named him after my father. Our first.” He smiles, his hands in his trouser pockets.
“Atta boy.” The older man claps him on the back like a hockey coach with his star player. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks. And you?”
“Right there,” the man indicates with a nod. “Gracie. Our sixth and hopefully last, but you never know. Sometimes there’s just no stopping it, eh?” He nudges the young father, who chuckles.
Evelyn sidesteps down the hall to put some space between her and the men, but they don’t even seem to notice her.
“Lots of spring babies,” the man goes on, a farmer observing his reaped crop. “Never seen so many in here at once. I like looking at all the names. Interesting to think who they’re gonna grow up to be. What kind of families they come from. Mostly good stock. You do see a few coloureds in here from time to time, though. Good smattering of Jews, too.” The younger man’s smile falters. “I’ve seen another one off in the corner like that before, too. Never any name tag like the others.”
Evelyn realizes he’s pointing at her daughter. Sister Teresa had told them it would be easier to say goodbye if they didn’t name their babies. Besides, no one had asked her whether she even had a name picked out.