Another sound from Maryam pulls your attention back. It’s not just a sob: it’s a deep, earthy moan, coming from deep inside. Panting, she holds her belly.
‘No,’ she whispers. ‘No!’
‘What’s wrong?’ you ask. You look into her eyes. They are wet and bloodshot from tears, and right now they are also wide with fright.
‘The baby—’ she begins, and then another moan sweeps through her. She staggers backwards against the kitchen wall. Her knees crumple under her.
‘Help me catch her!’ you shout to Jamilah, and with one of you under each arm, you manage to ease Maryam down the hallway to her and Majid’s bedroom.
Maryam drops to her hands and knees on the mattress on the floor, panting loudly. She starts rocking back and forth, keening again: ‘Majid…Majid…’
‘I think the baby’s coming,’ you say to Jamilah in horror. ‘What are we going to do? There’s no one here to help!’
You’re turning back and forth on the spot, panic-stricken. Of all the impossible things you’ve had to do on this trip, this is the one you feel least prepared for.
‘I’m calling Budi,’ says Jamilah. ‘You…um, I don’t know… get some towels or something! And some water.’
Your heart hammers as you run to the kitchen sink and fill a bowl with water. One of your earliest memories is of your hooyo giving birth to Jamilah. You weren’t there, of course – but the labour lasted two days and you believed she’d died. In the end, Hooyo lost so much blood that she very nearly did.
Maryam is still on her hands and knees in the bedroom. Her eyes are clenched and her teeth are gritted. You steel yourself and go in. You kneel and dip a towel into the bowl of water, then gently press it to her red face.
The pain seems to subside for a moment, and she looks into your eyes. ‘Please,’ she whispers, ‘help me!’
‘Of course I will,’ you promise. ‘I’m staying right here with you, and it’s going to be fine.’
You can only pray that you’re right.
Jamilah shouts from the next room: ‘Budi says he can find a midwife but we’ll have to pay her!’
‘Fine!’ you shout back. ‘But tell him to hurry!’
Maryam is swept away by another wave of pain, and your stomach feels like it’s full of jumping frogs. How do women bear this? you think. Mothers must be the strongest people Allah ever created.
The minutes tick into one hour, then two, and still the midwife doesn’t arrive. Maryam’s moans get deeper, like she’s pushing a wheelbarrow of rocks up a mountain.
You go out into the hallway for a quick break, as Jamilah helps Maryam to remove some of her clothes. Blood is pounding in your ears. What if Maryam dies? What if the baby dies?
Then a screech comes from the bedroom, like tyres on a wet road. You are at Maryam’s side in a flash.
Jamilah shouts, ‘You’ll have to catch it, quick!’
You can see a little bit of the baby’s head, with slick black hair, coming out. Maryam gives a roar that sounds like the earth itself tearing in two, and the baby’s whole head appears, facing downwards. Maryam gives a final, heaving yell, you cup your trembling hands, and the baby slips into your arms.
You carefully flip it over. ‘You did it!’ you shout. ‘He’s just perfect.’ Maryam gives a happy sob.
But something’s wrong. The baby is floppy. His skin is purple as a bruise. His little eyes are closed, and he makes no sound.
In that moment, time stands still. There is too much silence. You will him to move, breathe, make a cry. But he just lies still in your arms.
I have to tell Maryam that her baby’s dead, you think in horror.
You glance at Jamilah. She is looking at the baby too, stricken. Maryam, still on her hands and knees, can’t see her child.
‘What’s wrong?’ she cries. You can’t bear to tell her.
Then your mother’s voice sounds from somewhere deep inside you. Get a towel, the voice says, and rub him, gently but vigorously. You wrap a towel around the gooey, limp body. Rub, rub, rub.
Come on, you think, come on…Allah, please have mercy on Maryam and her baby.
With a splutter, the baby squeaks and coughs. Instinctively, you roll him over so he’s facing the floor again, and you see fluid draining from his little mouth. He chokes, coughs again, then starts to cry in earnest. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
You let out a sigh of relief bigger than a tidal wave. Warm tears run down your cheeks. You pass the baby boy to Maryam. There is still a cord running from the child’s belly to somewhere inside her body, and you hope that’s normal, at least for now.
Maryam sits back against the wall, cradling her child, a love-drunk look of triumph and tenderness on her face. Jamilah scoots over to your side and gives you a huge hug.
‘We did it!’ you cheer. ‘I can’t believe it!’
‘Wow!’ is all Jamilah can say. There are tears on her face too.
A few minutes later, Budi finally arrives with the midwife – a wrinkled woman with quick movements and a wispy white bun. She checks over the baby and Maryam, and you go out to the kitchen to have something to eat. When you come back, the midwife shakes your hand firmly in both of hers. She says something in Indonesian.
‘Fantastic,’ Budi translates into English. ‘She says you and Jamilah did a wonderful job.’
You know that the real hero here is Maryam, but, nevertheless, you feel a rush of pride. Maryam passes the baby to Jamilah and wraps you in a strong, warm hug.
‘Thank you,’ she whispers.
OVER THE NEXT few weeks, then months, the elation fades as Majid fails to come home.
You and Jamilah help as much as you can with baby Mahmoud’s baths and nappy changes, but
