Unexpected: A True Short Story. Rosie Lewis
alone – they both were.
At the thought of the office and the inevitable questions awaiting her, her stomach flipped over again, this time so violently that her ribs actually hurt. Beads of sweat appeared on her forehead and, feeling light-headed, she leaned forward and rested her hands on the cold enamel. She trusted Mark not to tell anyone her secret, but non-committal answers from her would surely leave colleagues puzzled, suspicious even.
Half an hour later, Ellen jogged towards the tram station, the smell of diesel from a passing taxi making her feel sick. Dust swirled up from the street and she turned her face into her coat, gripped by the conviction that, on top of everything else, she was about to come down with a bad dose of flu. She took a deep breath, the icy February air doing nothing to dispel the overwhelming gloom inside her.
If she’d had any real notion of what was about to happen, though, she might have thrown herself under the blasted 7.36 a.m. tram, instead of careering full pelt after it.
‘We’ve started little one on a four-dose course against hepatitis,’ the stout midwife, Ciara, whispered as she parked a wheeled metal trolley between the nearby incubator and my chair. It was February 2006, and although I had been registered as a foster carer for almost three years, I had never fostered a newborn before. Captivated by the tiny clothes folded on my lap (pink vests, no bigger than the palm of my hand), it was a moment before I looked up. ‘So far she’s tested negative,’ Ciara continued, glancing around the Special Care Baby Unit to make sure no one was near enough to overhear, ‘but without the usual prenatal tests, we’ve no idea of Mum’s status. My guess is that her lifestyle’s been anything but organised.’
Peering around Ciara, all I could see of my new placement was the swirl of downy hair at the crown of her head, but I longed to pick her up and shield her from the harsh overhead lighting, the disinfected air. Lindsey, my supervising social worker at Bright Heights Fostering Agency, had called earlier that morning with a referral from social services – an infant born prematurely two days earlier. The baby girl, temporarily named Hope after the paramedic who delivered her, had stunned everyone with her unexpected arrival, including, so it seemed, her own mother.
‘And Mum really had no idea she was pregnant?’
Ciara shook her head and pulled on a pair of blue latex gloves. ‘No. Well, she was on her way to work when the cramps started, so that shows you how unexpected it was. She collapsed on the tram. It’s only when paramedics examined her in the ambulance that they realised what was going on. She didn’t look pregnant, so they say. We’re guessing she was about thirty-four weeks along.’ The midwife lowered the side of the incubator, the sing-song tone of her soft Irish lilt even more pronounced as she leaned towards the baby. ‘No one on the tram could believe it, could they, dear heart? You surprised everyone, oh yes you did now.’
‘Goodness, what a shock,’ I said, setting aside the vests and sleep suits and then patting my hands on my lap. By then I was itching for a cuddle.
‘Exactly. How d’you get your head round something like that?’ She leaned over until her head was level with the base of the transparent crib. ‘Ciara just can’t imagine how,’ she said, moving her head exaggeratedly from side to side. ‘Oh no she can’t.’
I blew out my cheeks and we shared a baffled look. ‘And there’s still no word from her?’
Ciara moistened some cotton wool in a pot of water and then spun on clumpy heels so that her face was close to mine. ‘The police managed to find her. They called Sister about an hour ago,’ she said, her voice low again. ‘She’s been assessed by a psychiatrist and it seems the shock of the birth has triggered some sort of post-natal post-traumatic stress disorder – I’ve seen it myself after difficult births. Some women are so traumatised by labour that they find it difficult to form an attachment to the baby. What I can’t understand is how she managed to stagger out of here so quickly afterwards.’ Ciara shuddered as she straightened. ‘Makes your eyes water just thinking about it. Anyway, about the hep B – you’ll need to make sure you and your children are protected.’
‘Oh dear, that’ll please them,’ I said with a mock grimace. Inoculation against hepatitis B was one of the requirements of registering as a foster carer, so I was covered, but since my own children were uninvolved in the intimate care of others, our GP had advised that they wouldn’t need the vaccination. With a newborn in the house, though, I realised that I might need to reconsider his advice. It was going to be near impossible to keep eleven-year-old Emily and her eight-year-old brother Jamie away from Hope – they adored babies.
Ciara returned her attention to Hope, reaching into the incubator and releasing the tabs of her tiny nappy. Casually rough as only the expertly capable can be, the midwife grasped the infant’s ankles between splayed fingers and hoisted them into the air, snatching the soiled nappy away with the other hand. I marvelled at her practised movements as she dabbed Hope’s tiny bottom with the pad and then manoeuvred a fresh nappy between an assortment of fine tubes and wires, and I became aware that one of the mothers across the ward had fixed her gaze on me.
The young woman was seated on a rocking chair beside a wide incubator, her twin babies tucked beneath the long baggy jumper she wore. Their identical domed heads were nestled face to face beneath her chin, so still that from across the room she appeared to be cuddling a pair of life-like porcelain dolls. I met her inquisitive gaze with a smile and she asked: ‘How’s Hope doing today?’ I suspected that she was wondering who I was and why the baby beside me had waited so long for her first visitor to arrive.
‘She’s doing well, I think,’ I answered, before tilting my head to indicate her own babies. ‘They look comfy there.’
She smiled proudly and resumed her rocking, the slight puzzlement remaining in her eyes as she went slowly to and fro. Hope’s sudden appearance had made the local papers, but somehow the hospital had managed to prevent the news of her abandonment being leaked to the press. I wasn’t sure how much the midwives had told the other mothers about the case and, as with any foster placement, the details were confidential. Most people were naturally curious and I was still perfecting a polite but firm response whenever anyone asked about children in my care.
‘Right, are you ready for her?’ Ciara asked, having disposed of the old nappy, removed her gloves and washed her hands.
‘Absolutely,’ I said with a nervous smile, my stomach performing an excited somersault. It had been a while since I’d held a newborn, especially one as tiny as Hope.
Ciara effortlessly gathered several transparent tubes into a bundle and, clutching them in one hand, scooped Hope up with the other. She set the baby carefully in my waiting arms and covered her with several blankets, tucking them right up to her chin. Hope stirred, her tiny features twisting in protest at the change. Bundling her up in the blankets, I eased her onto my shoulder, careful not to dislodge the fine tube taped to one of her nostrils. Amazed at her kitten-like weight, I rubbed small circular movements over her back with the pads of two fingers, my heart melting as her warmth seeped into my chest.
Straight away she relaxed, her body falling slack against mine. After a few moments I transferred her to the crook of my arm and adjusted the blankets around her, taking in her small features for the first time. Her lashes were almost invisible so that her eyes, closed in a tight line, appeared as fine slits, as if they had been painted on. The skin around them was mottled with faint, uneven patches of blue, her eyebrows barely there. ‘She’s beautiful,’ I whispered to Ciara without glancing up. I liked to think of myself as open-minded enough not to make snap judgements, but at that moment it was difficult to comprehend the wilful abandonment of a helpless baby.
My thoughts began drifting towards her birth mother when the regular, pulsating beeps of the nearby monitor became an insistent wail. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ I looked at Ciara with wide eyes.
‘It’s OK,’ she smiled, resetting the alarm with the flick of a switch. ‘The monitor’s picking up on her altered breathing, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.’
I clapped a hand to my chest and let out a breath, struck by the depth of Hope’s vulnerability.