‘Look, Fern, I know you’ve met someone else. But Rose is right, I do still care about you. And as someone who cares about you, I feel a responsibility to tell you that I think something is very wrong with your sister.’ He looks at me intensely. ‘Very, very wrong.’
I shake my head. I don’t want to believe it, but deep down I have a horrible feeling that he is right.
I think something is very wrong with your sister.
An hour after Wally leaves the library, I’m still ruminating on that. Is he right? And if he is, why am I the last to know about it? Is it one of those things I don’t notice? Like people communicating with their facial expressions? Is it possible that, because of the way I see things, I’ve been missing an entire side of Rose? I think, suddenly, of Mum. She’d always worried so much about Rose. Was that because something was wrong with her?
I slide my phone out of my pocket and stare at it for a moment, thinking. After hearing about Rose contacting Wally – asking him for money – I’m questioning everything. Finally, I redial the number for Sun Meadows. The same receptionist answers and I ask to speak to Onnab.
‘Hello again, Fern,’ Onnab says. ‘Is there something else I can help you with?’
‘Yes. I’d like to know who the last person was to see Mum alive.’
A pause. ‘Well, let’s see . . . it would have been whichever nurse was on night duty. I can check the schedule. She would have checked on everyone during night rounds.’
‘Would that have been before or after Rose visited Mum?’
‘Hmm,’ she says. ‘Actually, I’m not sure.’
‘Rose hadn’t seen Mum for a long time. It was her first visit in ten years,’ I say suddenly. I’m not sure why. Perhaps I want assurance that this, combined with Mum’s unexpected death, doesn’t mean anything.
Onnab is quiet for a long time but I can hear her breathing, so I know she’s still there. ‘Fern, as far as I know, the death isn’t being treated as suspicious. Is there any reason you think it should be?’
I repeat the question in my head.
‘Fern?’ she says again.
I want to respond, as she has asked a question. It’s just that I don’t know the answer.
The afternoon passes in a blur, after what was already a busy morning. I serve people, restack books, do all the things I’m supposed to do, but my mind is anywhere but the library.
The Braxton Hicks kick in around 2 pm. I time them on a notepad as I go about my business at the library. Some people get all panicky about Braxton Hicks, but I’ve read the books; I know they are only real when contractions are increasing in frequency and intensity. I get some relief from my thoughts and my pains by getting lost in my work – helping an elderly man find a selection of reading material about the Titanic to prepare for a talk he is giving at his rotary club (‘No romances,’ he’d said pointing a finger at me accusingly. ‘Nothing with Leo DiCaprio or people getting steamy as the ship begins to sink.’) I provide toiletries to a young homeless woman (and even give her my own sandwich for lunch, as after my interactions with Wally and Rose I’m not feeling especially hungry). Then I go to tidy the children’s section, which is looking a bit worse for wear after the toddler drawing class that morning.
By 3.30 pm, my Braxton Hicks are getting more consistent in timing – around ten minutes apart for almost an hour. And while the pain is not debilitating, I’m starting to find it difficult to concentrate on my work . . .
‘Are you all right, Fern?’ Carmel says when she finds me in the archive area, breathing quietly through a cramp.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’m fine.’
She watches me closely. ‘Why don’t you go home early today? You look a little tired.’
I am taken aback at the suggestion. I’ve only taken two sick days in my entire working career and have only left early once for an emergency dental appointment. But with Carmel offering, and after the day I’ve had, I find myself nodding. ‘All right,’ I say. ‘Thanks, Carmel.’
‘Would you like me to order a taxi to take you home?’ Carmel says.
‘Yes. But I’m not going home.’
By the time I arrive at the hospital, my contractions are four minutes apart.
Inside, everything is orderly and signposted, and I find the maternity ward promptly and report my arrival at the desk. The nurses are impressed with the documentation I provide, detailing the steady increase in the frequency of my contractions over the past few hours. Upon seeing me double over to breathe through a contraction, they unanimously agree that I should be taken straight through to the delivery room.
A nurse with grey hair and a navy-blue cardigan is the one to take me through. I follow her into a bustling hive of activity – people in scrubs and masks, requesting assistance or giving it; the phone ringing; people chatting. From an adjacent room, I hear a low moan reminiscent of a cow. At the same time a nurse walks by, carrying an Icy Pole that smells like grapes and bubblegum. I pause as a particularly strong contraction takes hold. My nurse pauses with me, administers a firm rub to my lower back, and tells me, ‘You’re doing great, love.’
When it has passed, I follow her into a bright room – Delivery room 4. A gown lies on the vinyl bed. In one corner, a tray of instruments sits beside a medical-looking crib, complete with overhead warmer.
‘Your baby will be in there soon,’ the nurse says, flicking a switch. The crib lights up, emitting a low hum that travels through me like a mild electrical current. From somewhere outside the room, I hear someone whimper. It makes me jump.
‘Pop that
