Forget Me Not (4 page)

It’s been an eventful shift. Kelsey’s heartbeat has been erratic and she’s had a suspected brain bleed. There have already been endless X-rays and paediatrician consults. She is a sad case. Not often, but sometimes, I fear we do more harm than good. These babies teeter on the edge of life, scientific miracles – or perhaps experiments – facing futures that may involve suffering and disability. In truth, as I look down at Kelsey, and the needles and tubes that poke at her see-through skin, I wonder if it is cruel to keep her alive.

I’m tired, that’s all. Worn out. I don’t usually feel this way. Usually, I’m proud of what we do here. My experience over the last decades counts for something, and I believe that after each shift the baby I’ve been caring for feels better. I carry out many of the procedures myself: I intubated Kelsey and later I inserted the cannula for the antibiotic when her temperature rose, so she didn’t have to wait hours, deteriorating, until a consultant became available. I sense the best time for these procedures, I try to wait until the babies are calm and relaxed; it’s different from when the doctors do it, then it’s an attack, an assault by a stranger that comes out of the blue.

Here on the ward my thoughts are clear and my head free of pain. Work is my respite. But now, I need a break. Carefully, I withdraw my arms from the holes in the incubator and peel off my gloves.

Outside in the bright corridor the door to Wendy’s office, my old office, is closed. No doubt she’s in there behind her desk, working her way through a stack of paperwork. I don’t regret stepping down as manager. I don’t envy my old friend the administrative load that leeches this work of joy and human contact.

I think about going in to talk to Wendy, but I know she will ask why I have withdrawn from her. She will look at me in that way of hers that brings all of my pain right up to the surface and I’m in no mood to break down. So I walk a few steps further and place my hand on the aluminium door handle of the staffroom. But I can’t open that one, either. There are too many of Vivien’s gifts inside: the ice-dispensing fridge-freezer, the wall-mounted television, the deep sofas, the weekly deliveries of tea, coffee and fruit that somehow continue even after she’s gone.

Instead, I make my way down the corridor to the last door on the right, to Special Care, or Graduation Ward, as I always think of it. In here there are no ventilators and no X-ray machines; the lights are on and the curtains are wide open. By the time the babies are moved here, they are bigger and more robust.

Only one cot out of the six is occupied today, by Yusuf, our long-stay resident. Compared to the rest of our babies, Yusuf is a giant. He still has gastro-intestinal problems, and a yellow nasal feeding tube runs down his nose and through into his stomach. I walk over to him, say hello, and check that the tube is sited properly.

His head is elongated, flattened on each side so that his cheeks and forehead bulge. He has been lying on a mattress for more than six months. I stroke his thick black hair as he looks up into my eyes. I can’t resist his serious face, so I reach in and lift him out of his cot. His misshapen head rests heavy against my chest as he cuddles into me. Yusuf knows me well.

He seldom has visitors to provide him with the stimulation and human interaction he needs. The nurses know this and we make much more of a fuss of babies like him, the ones whose mothers don’t come. The fluffy toy dog in his cot, with the long black ears, is a gift from Wendy.

I take him over to the window and I show him the view. ‘Look,’ I say, ‘see the cars. There’s a blue one. And a red one.’

He sucks on his fist as I rock from side to side and pat his back. I drift far away too and I jump when I hear the sound of Andrew Lissauer’s voice behind me.

‘Rose? Can we talk?’

The parents’ suite is adjacent to the Weissman Unit and consists of a double bedroom, a bathroom and a small kitchen area with a dining table. The space is decorated like a mid-range hotel, all neutrals and IKEA furnishings. Parents can stay here overnight, they can ‘room in’ when they’re too anxious to go home and leave their babies on the unit, when they fear the worst as their child teeters between life and death. Or, they can stay when they’re transitioning, getting ready to go home and spend their first night in sole charge of their still-fragile baby. In here, they can press the call button and a nurse will be with them in seconds.

‘How are you?’ Andrew says, as we sit across from each other at the table for two.

It’s the first thing people ask me. I dread this question.

‘I’m fine,’ I say.

Andrew looks sceptical as he adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses, pushing them higher up his nose. He’s the consultant neonatologist on our ward, a kind man. We’ve worked together for twenty years, during which time he married someone else and had three daughters, and his hair turned silver. In a few months’ time, he’s going to retire.

‘How is Alexandra doing?’ he says.

Another question I dread.

‘She’s all right, as far as we can tell, but I don’t think she fully understands what’s happened. On the surface, everything is normal. Underneath, I really don’t know.’

I’m annoyed that the table top is sticky and full of coffee stains. I stand up and move over to the sink, because I need some distance from Andrew and from his compassion. I wet a piece of kitchen roll, but I can’t find any detergent. I wipe the table, cleaning it as best I can, glad of something to do that doesn’t involve looking at him.

I must talk to Wendy, because the cleaning staff are neglecting this suite, they don’t bother to come in here unless someone complains. These rooms are important; they should be treated with respect. This suite is supposed to be our pride and joy, part of our cutting-edge facilities, a complement to our developmental care plan and our holistic approach.

These rooms are Vivien’s legacy.

I crumple the piece of kitchen roll and toss it into the small stainless-steel bin, which is of course overflowing. I sit down again and now I have no choice but to look at Andrew. He is a favourite amongst the parents, and amongst the staff, too. Over the years I’ve seen other consultants develop a certain detachment from their patients in order to deal with the emotional intensity of their jobs, but not Andrew.

‘I think Ben is completely lost without Vivien,’ I say. ‘They stayed in a hotel for a couple of days, while the police were busy at the house. But now he’s taken Lexi back to live there and I think it’s a huge mistake.’

As I look into Andrew’s gentle brown eyes, I well up. I dig my fingernails hard into the back of my left hand until the tears recede.

‘How is the police investigation going?’ he says.

‘They still aren’t sure about the cause of death.’

‘I talked to Mrs Murad,’ he says. ‘She’s been trying to reach you. She mentioned she had a difficult consultation with Vivien.’

‘I haven’t had a chance to talk to her yet.’

‘Fertility treatment can be so brutal,’ Andrew says. ‘And Vivien had such a rough time of it. All those rounds of IVF, then the loss of Lexi’s twin. Our treatments take their toll, don’t they?’

‘And then we send people home,’ I say, ‘as though nothing ever happened and we hope they’ll be able to get on with their lives.’

I infer, from what he’s said, that he and Mrs Murad believe Vivien took her own life. As Vivien’s doctors, they may have been more intuitive, may have known more about my daughter’s state of mind than I did myself.

‘Vivien adored you,’ I say. ‘She was eternally grateful that you saved Lexi’s life.’

I reach out and pat his sleeve. I notice how thin his wrists are, how the sharp bones protrude.

‘There’s something we discussed at the staff meeting,’ Andrew says, ‘and I hope you’ll be pleased.’

He gestures towards the door of the parents’ suite and my hand drops from his arm. I don’t think he noticed my touch, my fingers resting on the sleeve of his jacket. I pull my hand back into my lap.

‘We’d like to put up a plaque outside these rooms,’ he says. ‘We want to name this
The Vivien Kaye Parents’ Suite
.’

He clasps his hands in front of him on the now almost-clean birch-veneer table top. I tuck my hair back behind my ears and pat it down. I clear my throat. Andrew can see I’m too overwhelmed to speak and so he carries on talking.

‘I know Vivien wanted to remain an anonymous donor, but we would like to give her the acknowledgement she deserves. We want to honour her memory. And when you and Ben feel ready, we’d like to have an official naming ceremony. What do you think?’

‘Thank you.’

Andrew keeps on talking in his gentle voice.

‘Many of the staff were here when Alexandra was on the ward. We all remember the family very fondly.’

He’s waiting for some sort of response and I manage to pull myself together.

‘This is incredibly moving,’ I say.

But I am an imposter. An actress, failing to play the part of Vivien’s mother and struggling in the role of Lexi’s grandmother. How do I explain to Andrew that the plaque is only going to serve as a painful reminder of my failings, of Vivien’s, and of everything else that went wrong, of a catastrophe that began right here, in my haven, my place of work?

Alexandra has been home from the hospital for seven days. She’s in her Moses basket, which is balanced on the sofa in the living room. She lies on her back with her little arms flung up above her head and her hands in fists. Every now and again she makes little sucking noises with her mouth. My mother has swaddled her in a cotton blanket, the one covered in giraffes; she’s left us alone together while she goes to stock up on baby formula.

I lean in closer. Alexandra smells sour, of curdled milk. There are patches of flaky, dry skin between her eyes and on her cheeks, from some sort of rash she always seems to have. I ease off the white cotton cap covering her head. Her hair, the little there is of it, is a strawberry-blonde fuzz. Her colouring is nothing like mine, or Ben’s.

She was in the Weissman Unit for three months, and somehow I still feel as though she belongs to the nurses, instead of to me. I feel as though I need their permission to touch her, as though I need to check with them that I’m handling her the right way, that I’m not doing any harm.

I watch my sleeping daughter and I remind myself how much easier my life will be from now on. No more injections, no more hormones, no more painful and humiliating procedures. No more scrutiny of my diet, or questioning looks from doctors. No more pumping myself full of food and struggling with that too-full, too-rich, sick feeling. My duty done.

I try to feel something. Love, fondness, anything. I try to tell myself she is
mine
. I don’t understand the blankness inside me. I know this is not the way a mother is supposed to feel. But then I don’t feel like a mother, I feel like a detached observer.

On impulse, I reach into the Moses basket and I loosen the blanket and lift her out. I hold her close. She tenses, drawing up her legs and screwing her eyes tighter shut.

I lay her back down on the sofa, not too close to the edge. Her eyes flicker open, then close again. She is making unhappy, niggling noises.

I open the poppers of her Babygro and I undo her nappy; perhaps it’s too tight. I examine every inch of her, convinced I’m going to find something wrong, some sign of my failure.

Her face contorts and she begins to scream. I manage to dress her again but it isn’t easy, I have to force her stiff arms and legs back into the Babygro. Her crying grows shrill; she’s panicking, like an animal stuck in a trap. I put her back in the basket and tuck the blanket around her, but she won’t stop.

I don’t know how to swaddle her, I can’t do it the way Rose can.

Her crying makes me anxious. Useless. Angry.

I lift her up again and pace up and down the living room, bouncing her harder than I should. She yells her head off, despite all the bouncing, and her crying drowns out my thoughts. I don’t know what to do. Her screams are so loud I think I had better put her down again, because I feel, just for a second, as though I’d like to throw her against the plate-glass window.

Back in her basket, her face has turned puce. Now some of her screams are silent, as though she’s choking.

As I listen to the sound of her unhappiness, I search inside my own heart but I find only a cold, empty space. I feel nothing, only a wish for her to be quiet. I cannot comfort her. She must hate me, I think.

I have to get away from her or I don’t know what I might do.

I leave her alone in the living room, just for a few minutes, while I go down to the kitchen to make up a bottle. Perhaps she’s hungry, again. Rose says I should use the sling, that I should carry Alexandra with me, close to my chest, but I don’t like that contraption and I can’t master all of the straps. Alexandra will be all right on her own until I get back. Crying never killed anyone.

The relief hits me the minute I leave the room and close the door behind me, the minute I put some distance between me and the small, miserable baby on the sofa.

I have asked Isaac to have dinner with me. I contacted him out of the blue, having obtained his mobile number from Ben’s secretary, and he was gracious enough to accept my invitation without sounding surprised and without asking questions. There are some advantages, I suppose, to being a bereaved parent. Perhaps those who have not lost so much feel they owe you a debt. At least, that’s what I’m hoping.

We’ve arranged to meet at the small Italian place at the top of the hill, near the Underground in Hampstead. The night is a murky dark and headlights bounce off the wet tarmac. As I’m crossing the road, I catch a glimpse of Isaac’s close-shaven head in the glow of the streetlight, but his craggy face is mostly in shadow. He waits for me under a large umbrella and his mackintosh is slick with rain. We greet each other with an awkward hello. He opens the door to let me through first.

The restaurant is warm and smells of garlic and wine. Red-checked cloths cover the tables. We’re seated in the corner, and I’m relieved the place is not too full or too noisy.