Page 110 of The Last Train Home
‘We’ll be with you soon,’ he says.
‘OK.’ I wipe my face, say goodbye and hang up. My eyes are tired, raw from all the rubbing. Abbie is in surgery, havinga baby. What is taking so long? I’ve been so patient, but I can’t do this any more. I stand up, walk towards the door of the little room they’ve put me in, full of plastic chairs and placid artwork.
A midwife enters the room as I’m on the verge of leaving. ‘Abbie O’Hara’s birth partner?’
‘Yes?’ I say quickly, because I suppose I am.
‘The baby’s been delivered,’ the nurse says. ‘A little girl.’
I make a strange noise from the back of my throat and fresh tears fall again, but I don’t know why.
But her face is sombre.
‘What about Abbie?’ I ask quickly.
Her face says everything.
‘Is she dead?’ I think I’m going to be sick.
‘She’s not dead,’ the midwife replies quickly. ‘She is, however, taking a bit longer to come round from the anaesthetic than we’d like.’
Relief, sweet relief. ‘OK,’ I say. ‘What does that mean? Taking longer to come round?’
‘She’s still asleep,’ the midwife says.
‘Like in a coma?’ I ask, the horror of the situation dawning on me.
‘No, not in a coma, but having a very long, very deep sleep. Anaesthetic can sometimes do this to people. Everyone wakes up in their own time.’
‘She will wake up, though?’
The midwife is non-committal on this. She smiles. ‘It’s just taking a bit longer than usual. I’ll keep you posted. She’s being very well looked after. When she wakes up, we’ll let you know.’
‘Can I see her?’ I ask. I feel this urge to check she’s not dead.
‘You can’t see Abbie yet, I’m afraid, but would you like to see the baby?’
I stand up straighter. ‘Can I?’
‘Of course. Wait here and I’ll get someone to take you through.’
I pace back and forth in the waiting room until the midwife who spent the majority of her time with us, checking how dilated Abbie was, arrives.
‘Hello again,’ she says brightly. ‘Want to come and see baby O’Hara?’
‘Yes,’ I say, squirming a little that the poor baby has automatically been given Sean’s last name, even though he’s not around.
‘You can give her a little bottle-feed if you like.’
‘Really? Shouldn’t Abbie do that?’
‘Abbie’s indisposed at the moment.’
‘Right. Of course.’ I’m shaking. Why am I shaking?
‘Baby’s a bit jaundiced, so she’s under a lamp.’ I’m led to a small side-room, where little plastic cribs are positioned at waist height, and three or four newborns are sleeping or stirring and making noises under lamps.
‘Here she is,’ the midwife says, double-checking the tag on the baby’s ankle.
