Still, it was back in those old days of her childhood fears that Hope had learnt to detach from the ‘now’ life, to travel to the ‘could-be’ life in her head. Hope wanted her mum and dad back, and she had no idea what to do to make that happen. She chose, with her juvenile best thinking, to find the good in everything. She ignored the dark fug of their home, the lack of food in the cupboards and fridge, the detritus of her dad’s drug use on the table and floor all around him, the smell of unwashed underwear beneath unwashed clothes, the lack of telly due to electricity cut-offs, the stumbling about of her parents. Instead, she invented a world for Glory and her to play in, usually in the peace of their bedroom where they made up fantastical stories and built towns from cushions and boxes, where dolls could live the bright and happy life the sisters couldn’t. They had a theatre of delights at their fingertips.
It was the night-time when Hope had felt most sad and frightened. She knew her parents loved her in their misguided way, but she always had a nagging fear in her belly. This way of living wasn’t right: there was no light, no safety, no joy. She would stay awake feeling anxious, so to try and combat the fretting she learnt to float away in her mind to a deep place where only she needed to look after her, where she felt wrapped up and cherished. By herself. She learnt to detach and self-soothe.
So, in the painful now of this hospital room of the dead, with Isaac crying and no baby to take home, she splintered off into her own world of coping, where she was inwardly stroking stroking stroking her broken heart. She wouldn’t be able to carry on otherwise.
Fatu placed the baby back in Hope’s arms. She was now dressed in the yellow Babygro Hope had brought with her, and she was wearing the tiny woollen hat Hope had knitted. It was her first attempt to knit anything, and it was a bit wonky, but it was made with love, in stripes of pink and yellow. Hope stared at Minnie for a few seconds.
‘No,’ said Hope, ‘she won’t need this,’ and she gently removed the hat, and handed the baby back. She didn’t want to hold her or look at her any more. What was the point? Hope wasn’t in the now place, and she wanted to be done with now. Now was indescribably dire.
The midwives took the baby and started talking about funeral plans in hushed tones, about how someone would be in touch, and how there were organizations they could turn to for some support.
The doctor came over to close by her side. ‘I’m so very sorry about this,’ he said as he handed her an envelope, ‘but it’s best to get it over and done with, let you get home, so … in this envelope there’s a form, a certificate which I’ve signed. You will need it when you go to register the … incident. All the details of where to go and everything are in there. It’s best to register it within five days. Now, there may be a post-mortem, but only with your permission, and only for medical purposes. We’d all be grateful if you consented, but there’s no obligation. There’s no mystery surrounding this; the certificate simply says “intrapartum”, which means during labour. The reasons are unknown, as is so often the case, I’m afraid. It’s tragic, inexplicable, but as I always say, there are more things in heaven and earth. I do hope we will see you back here again with a happier outcome. You’re healthy and young and there’s no reason to think that won’t be possible one day. So. All the best. Such a lovely couple. Chin up and all the best.’ With that, he was gone.
Quiet Isaac was open-mouthed with astonishment at the sheer machine-gun-fire speed of the doctor’s well-meaning information. At least the surprise of it had brought him back into the room with a jolt. He reached out to Hope and took her hand.
Hope allowed the gentleness of it, although she filtered out any sympathy with which it was offered. If she allowed that she would be toppled.
No pity. No, thanks.
A tiny dollop of comfort? OK.
Hope took the pain-relief tablets she was offered and laid her head back on the pillow. It felt damp to her neck; it was the sweat from all the effort earlier when her baby had still been alive. She chose to ignore it, close her eyes and rest. She could hear them all faffing around in the room. She prayed that when she opened her eyes again, there would be no baby anywhere to be seen.
She prayed that when she opened her eyes again, Quiet Isaac would be composed and strong once more …
She prayed that she would sleep a little and maybe when she opened her eyes, all of this might have been a nightmare and she would start giving birth all over again, this time to a live baby …
As she prayed for all this, she wondered whether her prayers were ever heard?. She had doubted like this before, when she was younger, but she had rejected those thoughts because she so needed God to be on her team back then; she couldn’t face the thought that he might not exist. She took massive comfort from the idea that God, the big real God, was in loco parentis, that He
