‘What? Oh . . . um, no.’
The nurse is headed for the door to give me some privacy, but then she pauses. ‘Oh. Is there someone I can call for you?’
I shake my head. But suddenly I’m not so sure. The lights. The sounds. The strange people.
‘Oh, love,’ she says kindly. ‘Labour can be hard work – you’ll want someone here to support you. A friendly face. Someone you trust.’
Someone I trust.
How complicated that statement has become. What if the person I trust most in the world is entirely untrustworthy? I want to ask. And then, another thought occurs to me: And what if she is the one person I can’t get through this thing without?
‘Fine,’ I say finally. ‘There is someone.’
Rose arrives at the hospital fifteen minutes after the nurse, Beverly, calls. In that short time, my pain level has gone from manageable to torturous.
‘Why didn’t you call me earlier?’ Rose snaps as she bustles in. ‘We had a plan, remember?’
‘Enough of that,’ Beverly says firmly, glancing up from her notes. ‘I don’t want anyone upsetting our mother-to-be.’
I glance at Rose. Rose has never taken well to people ticking her off. So I’m surprised when she gives Beverly a tight smile, removes her handbag and places it on the window ledge. ‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry. Are you all right?’
This is one for the books. I can’t remember Rose ever saying sorry to me . . . ever.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, before realising this is far from the truth. My body is tensed up, my arms are wrapped around myself and I’m rocking gently.
Rose looks at me knowingly. ‘Busy in here, right?’ she says softly. ‘It’s all right. I’ll take care of everything.’
To her credit, take care of things she does. In a matter of minutes, Rose has dimmed the lights, closed the door, opened the window and explained to every nurse that I don’t like people crowding me. Then she helps me down off the bed, explaining that I need to move around. Within a few minutes, I can breathe again.
That’s the funny thing. Whatever else Rose has done, I realise, she is the only person on earth who can do this for me.
Rose is outside talking to the doctor when Beverly comes back to check my progress. I am sitting on the chair, the only place I feel comfortable. I tell Beverly I don’t want to get on the bed, and she replies, ‘Of course, love. I can check you right where you are.’
I am starting to warm to Beverly. I’m even becoming fond of her saying ‘love’.
While she’s checking me, she says casually, ‘Your sister tells me you are being a surrogate for her? What an amazing gift.’
I manage a nod.
‘I would have loved to have a child. They didn’t use surrogates in my day, though. Even if they did, I only had a brother. I had friends, but it really seems like a sister thing, being a surrogate. I imagine, being twins, the bond is even more unique. If you get along, that is.’ She laughs.
Beverly doesn’t seem to be expecting an answer, and I am glad. If she had, I might have told her the truth. That people without sisters think it’s all sunshine and lollipops or all blood and guts. But actually it’s always both. Sunshine and guts. Lollipops and blood. Good and bad. The bad is as essential to the relationship as the good.
Maybe the bad is even more important, because that’s what ties you together.
*
The pain of labour is blinding. At first there is a rhythm to it, but after a while it’s just pain. Breathtaking, magnificent pain. People I don’t know are constantly touching me, assessing me, talking about me. When they talk to me, Rose answers on my behalf. I am grateful. It allows me to close my eyes and retreat into myself, remaining silent apart from the low animalistic grunts that emanate from me every minute or so as I struggle through a contraction. It makes sense to me, this noise, because in a way, I have become nothing more than an animal.
At some point I am offered pain relief, which I decline. For this, I am lauded by Rose and the nurses and told I am strong, when, in fact, I have refused it because I simply cannot bear the idea of anyone else touching me, even to administer pain relief. For now, I’ll take the physical pain over the mental. But I am not strong. I think I might die. If not from the pain, then from the sensory overload. It comes at me from every angle. I am certain I would die, if not for Rose. She anticipates my needs – a cold drink, ice chips, space – and takes care of them quietly and without fuss. She never touches me without asking, and questions those who insist on touching me, confirming that it is absolutely necessary. She talks to the nurses and then reports back to me periodically: ‘It won’t be long’, ‘Things are going well’, and, finally, ‘The baby will be born within the hour’.
Twenty minutes later, when my water breaks, the room fills with people and the lights are turned up. It’s too loud. Too bright. I can’t breathe.
‘You’re ten centimetres,’ Beverly says. ‘It’s time to push.’
I shake my head. I can’t. I need to get out of here. I try to stand but faces and hands rush in, trying to stop me. It makes it worse.
Then I hear Rose. ‘Just give her some space.’
They step back slightly, but it’s not enough. I’m too hot. It’s too much.
‘Fern, you can do this,’ Rose says. ‘You have to do this. For the baby.’
I shake my head again. Rose looks
