‘That’s your heartbeat,’ the technician said. ‘Just waiting for your daughter’s.’
She pressed buttons then flicked a switch on and off but there was no new sound.
‘Try a different machine.’ Luke’s voice was husky with fear.
But on the new machine there was still only one heartbeat.
Someone said, ‘We’ll do a scan.’
Things happened fast. In a different room, I got on the table, Luke beside me, crushing my hand. Gel was smeared on my bump and the sonographer began moving the probe around. My breath was held. I was waiting, waiting, waiting for her to say, ‘And there she is! All good!’
Say it, I prayed. Say it and make it all okay.
But a long soundless moment passed, and another, she was still moving the probe and her silence had lasted too long. The panic on her face was undeniable, then I heard her say, ‘I’m so sorry.’ Immediately every sound became muffled and the room went blurry.
I knew what she was telling me, but I wasn’t ready.
‘Is she not … okay?’ I heard myself ask.
She repeated, ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘But she was fine last night. Tell her, Luke. She was moving and, like, so lively –’
Luke was a picture of devastation.
‘Is this real?’ I asked him.
Looking stunned, he nodded.
‘It doesn’t feel real.’
‘But it is, babe.’
Ridiculously, I expected Luke to fix this. He was the one who fought my battles when I couldn’t. But this wasn’t getting us on an overbooked flight or moved from a noisy hotel room, this was something very different and he couldn’t work miracles.
‘What happened to her?’ I asked. ‘What did I do wrong?’
A duty obstetrician had appeared from somewhere. Gently she said, ‘You most likely did nothing wrong. We’ll check for infections but this sometimes happens for no reason at all.’
‘What do we do now?’ I was reeling from shock and confusion. ‘She’s still in there.’ It made me think of the Chilean miners who’d been trapped underground. How were we going to get her out?
Even more gently, she said, ‘You give birth to her.’
‘How can I do that? If she’s not alive? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘We induce you, you experience labour and, when she’s born, you and Luke get to spend time with her.’
‘But –’
‘You can dress her, take photographs, take a lock of her hair, we can do impressions of her feet. Make a memory box of her. You and Luke are still her parents, she’s still your little girl.’
She made it sound like a good thing. But how could any of this be positive?
As they prepared me to be induced, a pastor appeared, carrying a bible and wearing a performatively ‘loving’ smile. Touching my hand, he murmured, ‘Everything happens for a reason.’
For real?
‘God has his purpose.’
Beside me, Luke flared with rage, Luke who so rarely got angry. ‘Hey.’ He bit out the words. ‘Not now, man.’
The pastor looked like he might try to style this out.
‘Seriously, man.’ Luke half rose.
The pastor beat a hasty retreat.
All the worries I’d had about the pain of labour now seemed silly – I would have endured anything if she could have been born alive.
My strongest memory was of the abnormal quiet. Having a baby had always seemed like a rowdy event, maybe like watching the Grand National, an intense, high-octane dash with lots of different voices shouting encouragement. ‘G’wan, good girl! Faster! Harder! Catch your breath, now go again! Home stretch now, keep at it. Eye on the prize, Rachel, eye on the prize!’
But my labour took place in almost total silence.
At one stage, I heard myself choking back sobs. Then I realized it wasn’t me who was crying, it was Luke.
Even after the birth, no one said anything. But when Yara was put in my arms, a sudden calm descended. There she was, our little girl, miniature and perfect. Her skin was cool when it should have been warm, her eyes would never open but, oh, the wonder of her tiny, tiny toenails, her spiky black eyelashes, her mini-prawn fingers.
‘Hello, sweet girl,’ I said. ‘Hello!’
Luke traced his finger along the curve of her cheek. ‘Her skin is so soft.’
‘And look at her hair!’ There was a thick clump of it on the crown of her head, jet black. ‘She got that from you.’
Luke’s chin wobbled.