Not My Daughter

‘Okay.’ Matt reaches for my hand. ‘Thank you, Anna – for everything.’

I wait until he has disappeared around the corner before I head for the doors out of the ward, and the café downstairs. I feel lonely in an unsettling way, like something is missing even though I know nothing is. Nothing should be.

I order a coffee and sit at a table in the café by the hospital entrance, watching all the different people come and go – some in wheelchairs, some walking briskly, some holding each other up in their worry or grief, others filled with purpose or delight. So many different reasons to come or to leave a hospital, and I watch it all play out by a pair of automatic sliding doors.

An hour slips by as I sip my cooling coffee, my gaze still on the steady foot traffic, my mind thankfully empty, although it keeps pinging back to that tiny form in the bassinet, those dimples.

Then I see a familiar figure come through the doors, walking with his long-legged, easy stride, and I half-rise from my chair.

‘Jack…’

‘Anna!’ He gives me a quick hug before stepping back. ‘I got back last night, and Matt texted me this afternoon.’ He speaks quickly, an apology of sorts for not being in contact, and I decide to let it go.

‘Milly and Matt are upstairs. Alice is fine.’

‘That’s great news. Shall we go up to see them?’

‘Yes, okay.’ We head towards the bank of lifts, and Jack pauses by the gift shop with its schmaltzy tat, all glittery balloons and cheap teddy bears.

‘I should get something for them…’ I wait as he selects a big pink balloon and a matching teddy with a rictus grin, clutching a fabric heart. Milly would usually hate both, but perhaps she’ll love them now because of the occasion. I picture her upstairs, cradling her daughter, perhaps even trying to feed her. They encourage mothers to breastfeed right away, I remember Milly telling me.

‘I don’t actually know where Milly is,’ I say, heading for the nurses’ desk on the maternity ward, but Jack stops me.

‘Matt said room six.’

We head in that direction, passing several doors that are partially ajar, so we catch glimpses of parents and babies, snapshots of happiness. A mother nursing. A father taking a photo. A toddler trying to climb onto a bed.

Then we reach room six and the door is firmly closed. We both hesitate, and then Jack raps on it softly. A moment passes and we glance at each other uncertainly.

Then Matt opens the door, his expression a bit dazed, his hair mussed as if he’s raked his fingers through it more than once.

‘Hey, mate.’ Jack claps a hand on his shoulder. ‘Congratulations—’

‘Thanks.’ He steps out of the room, closing the door behind him. ‘Sorry. I just want Milly to have a bit of space.’

‘Space?’ I echo. What’s going on? What’s wrong?

‘She’s… she’s having a bit of trouble adjusting. It all happened so fast, I suppose… and she’s groggy still from the anaesthetic.’ He sounds as if he is trying to convince himself of something.

‘What do you mean, Matt?’

His voice drops to a whisper, a confession. ‘She doesn’t want to hold Alice,’ he explains, sounding wretched. ‘She doesn’t even want to see her.’

Seventeen

Milly

I wake aching, the world a muted blur. One hand creeps to my bump, but it isn’t there. I am empty and sagging, with a deflated balloon of a belly. Panic takes over, a metallic taste in my mouth.

‘What… where…’ I am struggling to a sitting position, despite the fiery pain spreading through my middle. I can barely get my head off the pillow, in any case, no matter how hard I try.

‘Milly. Milly.’ Matt puts his hands on my shoulders, anchoring me to this bed. ‘It’s okay. You’re in hospital. You had an emergency caesarean. Our daughter is fine. She’s beautiful, Milly. Just beautiful.’

I stare at him, blinking slowly, trying to take in the words. Everything happened so fast. I try to put the memories together, but they’re like broken puzzle pieces that won’t fit no matter how hard I try to jam them together. My waters broke, and Anna was here, and my daughter’s heart rate was too high. The consultant looked scared. I remember her saying something about not enough time before fitting a mask over my face. And then… nothing.

‘Milly?’ Matt looks at me hopefully. ‘Do you want to see her?’

Her? I blink. My mind is still fuzzy, and my mouth is horribly dry. My empty belly is blazing with pain.