Page 70 of Kiwi Gold
I had to laugh. Babies were my life, apparently. “Nah. There’s no laboring woman in there wishing I’d come hold her hand. I’m here with a newborn photographer. Waiting while she does … whatever.”
“Anewbornphotographer?” the man said. “Never tell me that’s a thing.”
“You know,” his wife said. “They pose them in flowerpots and so forth.”
Now, the man looked horrified. “Flowerpots? Why ever would you put a baby in a flowerpot?”
“To look cute, I guess,” I said. “They do look pretty cute. Not exactly like babies, but definitely cute.”
Three things happened then. First, the man stared at me like I was a certified lunatic. Second, a nurse came out, all smiles, and told the older couple to follow her, and the fella jumped up like he’d been shot out of an elastic band. And third, Laila came out behind the nurse, her camera bag over her shoulder and that poised, remote expression on her face. That thousand-yard stare.
Something was wrong.
* * *
Laila
Lachlan was still there. Still sitting in the spot where he’d sat down almost an hour ago. I don’t know why that surprised me so much, but it did. He stood up as I came toward him, looked at me questioningly, and my professionalism cracked. That’s the only way I can say it. Like cracking an egg, when you can’t put your face back together.
It was terrifying.
He asked, “Something go wrong?” He was searching my cracked face, looking too close.
I said, “Let’s go.” All I wanted to do was get out of there. In fact, I’d turned to do it when I was approached by a nurse. Her name was Eileen, she was a ginger, and she was wearing the pink scrubs they used in Labor and Delivery. Cheerful colors for a happy job.
I thought,She’s not here for you.But since she’d just been in the room with me, I knew it probably wasn’t true. I did my best to put the cracked face back together and said, “Hi,” because that was the only thing I could think of.
She said, “They’re asking, Laila—how soon will they have them? The photos? You probably told them, but I’m not sure they heard.”
“No,” I said. “It can be hard to take things in. Tell them three weeks or so. I’ll email them the photos, but they’ll be good to print, too, if they want to.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll let them know. And thanks for coming. You’re an angel, as always.”
“No,” I said. “Happy to be here.” The words stumbling over my tongue, because it was true, and it also wasn’t.
It didn’t matter, because she was off again, and I was walking to the lift with Lachlan behind me. Down to the parking garage, and to his car. He had to lead the way this time. I’d forgotten where he’d parked it.
I climbed in and set the camera bag on the floor. I couldn’t bear to hold it for another moment.
Lachlan asked, “Head for the beach? Or do you need a minute?” Not asking me what was wrong. Patient, was what he was. Whether he was grouting a bath, working around two enthusiastic, absolutely inexpert six-year-olds, cooking Mickey Mouse pancakes, or …
Or teaching you to dance.
We were in a parking garage. Dark, cold concrete, dim lights, yellow rings painted onto the columns so you could remember your floor. Not the place you’d choose to get emotional, but I didn’t seem to have a choice. I looked in the side-view mirror at one of those yellow-ringed columns and thought,He’ll need to take care, reversing out of here. I’m guessing he knows how to take care, though.
I said,“It was a stillbirth.”
He went quiet beside me, but all he said was, “Oh.”
I sighed, passed a hand over my hair, and wished I could bear to look at him. “It’s a volunteer thing. I’m one of the only photographers in Dunedin who does it, so I try to go when they call me. It helps them, the parents. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you on the way, but it’s hard to talk about it beforehand. I have to lock down my emotion until it’s done.”
“And now it’s done,” he said, not making any move to turn on the car. He was watching, that was all. Just watching. I knew that, because I was looking at him now.
“Yes,” I said. “There’s a photo with the baby’s feet I do …” I had some tears behind my eyes, and I couldn’t help it. The reason you locked down your emotion wasn’t just to get the job done. It was also because the parents couldn’t handle anybody else’s feelings. You could tell by the frozen looks on their faces, the blankness. They didn’t need my words, or my tears. They couldn’t process either. They needed my camera.
My emotion came out, though, eventually. It had to. I couldn’t stand to keep it in. Normally, I cried in the shower after I’d put the girls to bed. I’d stand there, not bothering to keep my hair out of the spray, press my hands into the wall, and weep until the hot water was gone and I was too drained to think. I suspected that the shower was the Chamber of Tearful Secrets for heaps of mums, their go-to stress relief, and never mind how often I’d gone to it. But tonight, somehow, I couldn’t wait for that.
“That’s one they like to frame and hang, sometimes, the baby’s feet,” I told Lachlan, “once they can bear for it to catch them unawares like that. Her hand holding the feet, with those unmarked, soft little soles and toes, and his hand around both of them. That photo, the gentleness in it, the pain—it breaks your heart, but other people can look at it and get some idea of what the parents have lost, and that helps. That’s the one they share, but you do other photos as well. Most of their friends, their family—they won’t ever want to see those photos, because grief like that—it’s like a nettle. Nobody wants to brush against it. Nobody even wants to get close. But the mum, the dad—they need someplace to put that grief, a box they can open up that lets them sit with it for a while. So I did some shots of her holding the baby, too. She was a little girl. She looked perfect. Like a tiny, perfect wax doll. Sometimes they’re like that.”
