The Good Sister(66)
‘Would that have been before or after Rose visited Mum?’
‘Hmm,’ she says. ‘Actually, I’m not sure.’
‘Rose hadn’t seen Mum for a long time. It was her first visit in ten years,’ I say suddenly. I’m not sure why. Perhaps I want assurance that this, combined with Mum’s unexpected death, doesn’t mean anything.
Onnab is quiet for a long time but I can hear her breathing, so I know she’s still there. ‘Fern, as far as I know, the death isn’t being treated as suspicious. Is there any reason you think it should be?’
I repeat the question in my head.
‘Fern?’ she says again.
I want to respond, as she has asked a question. It’s just that I don’t know the answer.
The afternoon passes in a blur, after what was already a busy morning. I serve people, restack books, do all the things I’m supposed to do, but my mind is anywhere but the library.
The Braxton Hicks kick in around 2 pm. I time them on a notepad as I go about my business at the library. Some people get all panicky about Braxton Hicks, but I’ve read the books; I know they are only real when contractions are increasing in frequency and intensity. I get some relief from my thoughts and my pains by getting lost in my work – helping an elderly man find a selection of reading material about the Titanic to prepare for a talk he is giving at his rotary club (‘No romances,’ he’d said pointing a finger at me accusingly. ‘Nothing with Leo DiCaprio or people getting steamy as the ship begins to sink.’) I provide toiletries to a young homeless woman (and even give her my own sandwich for lunch, as after my interactions with Wally and Rose I’m not feeling especially hungry). Then I go to tidy the children’s section, which is looking a bit worse for wear after the toddler drawing class that morning.
By 3.30 pm, my Braxton Hicks are getting more consistent in timing – around ten minutes apart for almost an hour. And while the pain is not debilitating, I’m starting to find it difficult to concentrate on my work . . .
‘Are you all right, Fern?’ Carmel says when she finds me in the archive area, breathing quietly through a cramp.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’m fine.’
She watches me closely. ‘Why don’t you go home early today? You look a little tired.’
I am taken aback at the suggestion. I’ve only taken two sick days in my entire working career and have only left early once for an emergency dental appointment. But with Carmel offering, and after the day I’ve had, I find myself nodding. ‘All right,’ I say. ‘Thanks, Carmel.’
‘Would you like me to order a taxi to take you home?’ Carmel says.
‘Yes. But I’m not going home.’
By the time I arrive at the hospital, my contractions are four minutes apart.
Inside, everything is orderly and signposted, and I find the maternity ward promptly and report my arrival at the desk. The nurses are impressed with the documentation I provide, detailing the steady increase in the frequency of my contractions over the past few hours. Upon seeing me double over to breathe through a contraction, they unanimously agree that I should be taken straight through to the delivery room.
A nurse with grey hair and a navy-blue cardigan is the one to take me through. I follow her into a bustling hive of activity – people in scrubs and masks, requesting assistance or giving it; the phone ringing; people chatting. From an adjacent room, I hear a low moan reminiscent of a cow. At the same time a nurse walks by, carrying an Icy Pole that smells like grapes and bubblegum. I pause as a particularly strong contraction takes hold. My nurse pauses with me, administers a firm rub to my lower back, and tells me, ‘You’re doing great, love.’
When it has passed, I follow her into a bright room – Delivery room 4. A gown lies on the vinyl bed. In one corner, a tray of instruments sits beside a medical-looking crib, complete with overhead warmer.
‘Your baby will be in there soon,’ the nurse says, flicking a switch. The crib lights up, emitting a low hum that travels through me like a mild electrical current. From somewhere outside the room, I hear someone whimper. It makes me jump.
‘Pop that on, love,’ the nurse says gesturing to the gown. ‘Everything off underneath, including bra and undies, then take a seat on the bed, and the doctor will soon be in to examine you. Is someone on their way to be with you?’
‘What? Oh . . . um, no.’
The nurse is headed for the door to give me some privacy, but then she pauses. ‘Oh. Is there someone I can call for you?’
I shake my head. But suddenly I’m not so sure. The lights. The sounds. The strange people.
‘Oh, love,’ she says kindly. ‘Labour can be hard work – you’ll want someone here to support you. A friendly face. Someone you trust.’
Someone I trust.
How complicated that statement has become. What if the person I trust most in the world is entirely untrustworthy? I want to ask. And then, another thought occurs to me: And what if she is the one person I can’t get through this thing without?
‘Fine,’ I say finally. ‘There is someone.’
Rose arrives at the hospital fifteen minutes after the nurse, Beverly, calls. In that short time, my pain level has gone from manageable to torturous.
‘Why didn’t you call me earlier?’ Rose snaps as she bustles in. ‘We had a plan, remember?’