The Good Sister(68)

I dragged him to the shore and started trying to administer CPR. I had no idea what I was doing, but I’d seen it done on television. As I tried to breathe life back into Billy, Fern stood beside me silently. When it was clear Billy wasn’t coming back, I fell onto the shore beside him and dropping my head into my hands.

All I could think was . . . Fern couldn’t go to jail. She couldn’t. It was misguided, the wrong thing to do, but she’d clearly done it to protect me. She didn’t understand the consequences, not really. I needed to protect her.

‘Billy was desperate to stay underwater longer than you, right?’ I said, after several silent seconds. ‘To beat your time?’

Fern blinked in confusion.

‘He dived into the water, Fern. He got tangled in the reeds. We thought he was holding his breath. By the time we realised he was in trouble, it was too late. That’s what you need to say when anyone asks you questions about this. Billy got tangled in the reeds and he drowned. Okay?’

Fern listened intently and agreed. Luckily, this time, she followed instructions . . . to the letter.





FERN


When I rouse from sleep, I keep my eyes closed for a few seconds, steeling myself for an onslaught to the senses. It’s been an arduous twenty-four hours. Every time I open my eyes, there’s someone different in my room, checking on the baby, or me, or bringing me food or medicine. The last time I awoke from a nap, for example, it was to quite the kerfuffle. Rose was here. She was over by the baby’s crib, speaking to one of the nurses.

‘Has she been breastfed?’ Rose had said. The kind soothing voice Rose had used during my labour had gone. She sounded angry.

‘Yes. Last night and early this morning. What is the–’

‘The problem is I am the baby’s mother, and I did not want the surrogate breastfeeding!’

‘I do apologise,’ the nurse (not Beverly) had said. ‘It wasn’t written in the notes. Let me look into this for you.’

Rose and I had discussed breastfeeding on occasion during the pregnancy, of course. Each time, Rose said how awful it was, the pressure that ‘breastfeeding Nazis’ put on new mothers, and assured me that formula was perfectly adequate in this day and age. But she’d never explicitly said she didn’t want me to breastfeed. And so, during the night, when Rose had gone home and the nurse put the baby to my breast, I hadn’t seen any reason not to give it a go.

The breastfeeding had brought on some afterbirth pains, and the nurse had been kind enough to administer some medication, which was fantastically effective. Possibly too effective, bringing on a temporary euphoria and then putting me to sleep within minutes of taking it. I’ve never been a big taker of painkillers, but after a few of these pills, I have to admit, I’m wondering why.

Now, when I open my eyes, Rose is at my bedside again, this time reading a John Grisham novel. I don’t know how long I stare at her before she turns to look at me and frowns. She looks like she’s going to speak but she is interrupted by a young blonde nurse with a high ponytail who appears in the doorway.

‘Time for a feed,’ the nurse says brightly and Rose immediately puts down her book and starts rummaging in her tote.

‘Come on in,’ she says to the nurse. ‘Ah, here they are! I brought these bottles from home. We’re going to be formula feeding.’

Something about the way Rose says it sounds funny. Formula feeding. I laugh out loud. It is, perhaps, the medication. Rose and the nurse both frown at me for a moment before turning their attention to the baby.

‘How is the little one doing?’ the nurse asks. ‘Does she have a name yet?’

‘Not yet,’ I call, but they ignore me.

‘I was thinking about Alice,’ Rose says.

‘Very pretty,’ the nurse says. ‘And how’s Mum doing?’

‘Fine,’ Rose says. ‘She’s good.’

Neither of them even look at me. It’s as if, having now birthed the baby, I’ve been absorbed into the environment, disappeared . . . The idea makes me laugh again. This time they look at each other, but not at me.

‘I’ll go make up the formula, shall I?’ the nurse says, and Rose nods. When the nurse has left, Rose comes to my side.

‘Did you ask Wally for money?’

She blinks. ‘How do you know about that?’

I laugh. ‘Wally told me.’

‘You’ve seen Wally?’

‘Yes. Yesterday afternoon. At the library.’

In her crib, the baby begins to fuss. The sound of it causes my breasts to leak through my nightie. But I’ve barely had a chance to look at her before Rose picks her up and puts her to her shoulder.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,’ she says carefully. ‘But . . . it makes sense, doesn’t it? He is the baby’s father. And he has plenty of money. Why shouldn’t he support her?’

‘Why would he?’ I ask. ‘He doesn’t know she is his daughter. Besides, do you really need the money? Surely Owen makes enough money to support her?’

The baby’s fuss becomes a cry. I want to take her from Rose, but she walks away from me, to the window.

‘What is it?’ I ask when she remains silent. ‘Rose?’

‘I wasn’t going to tell you until after I took Alice home.’ Rose’s back is still to me as she looks out the window. ‘But . . . as it turns out, Owen wasn’t coping so well with the idea of raising another man’s child. After giving it a lot of thought, he’s decided he can’t do it. He’s staying in London indefinitely.’