Leaning back into the pillows, I rest my hands against the smooth skin under my pyjama top. Max is generally quiet during the day and more active at night. I love poking and prodding my tummy when I lie down at night, feeling him respond as if we’re speaking our own secret language. I cast my mind back to this morning, trying to remember the last time I felt him move. After breakfast? Or was it lunch? Last night even? I’ve been so busy with the redecorating and deliveries, I’ve lost track. As I press down on the side of my belly, anticipating a gentle kick in response, I replay the day’s nesting events through my mind: washing baby clothes, vacuuming, folding baby clothes, setting up nursery furniture. Not once can I remember feeling Max move. I prod my bump again and wait.
Nothing.
Eight
Nick
Thankfully, the flight home isn’t delayed. Truth be told, it’s a relief the conference is over. I miss the routine of the operating theatre, my rounds and my private consults. And, of course, I can’t wait to get home to Paige.
After the meal service, I check next week’s roster and the unread emails sitting in my phone. Sarah, my receptionist, has flagged a few important ones for me and forwarded along another with the subject line: This is too sweet!
Nick,
Miranda Summers popped by today with a note she dictated on behalf of her little guy, Will. She told him she bumped into you at the hospital last week and he decided to write you a letter. See attached!
Hope you’re not working too hard. Ha! (As if you’re not.)
Sarah
P.S. Have you given any more thought to how much time you’ll take off once Junior arrives?
I open the attachment, and a note penned in elegant cursive appears on my phone screen.
Dear Dr Bellbrae,
My name is Will Summers and you did my operation after my appendix broke. My friends thought it was cool, but it hurt a lot and I got very scared. My mum said there was an infection in my body and we were lucky to go to the hospital when we did so you and your doctor friends could fix me. When I grow up, I want to be a doctor like you. But if I don’t become a doctor, then I will be a soccer player instead. I would rather be a doctor because you get to make people better when they don’t feel good and I think that would be a really good job to have. I would also invent time-travel so I could go back and save my dad with an operation after his car accident so he wouldn’t die and have to go to heaven.
Thank you,
Will
By the time I finish reading Will’s note, my knee is jerking up and down in an anxious twitch.
‘Fear of flying?’ asks the guy beside me. ‘Or was that some bad news?’ He points to the phone in my seat pocket.
‘Nothing the drinks trolley won’t be able to fix,’ I reply.
He snort-laughs. ‘I know what you mean. A few years back I was on an aircraft that had an emergency landing in India. Utter nightmare. Pilot did a great job though.’
‘Wow,’ I tell him.
‘They say if you breathe through one nostril and then the other, it helps.’ He closes his eyes and demonstrates.
I’m almost tempted to try the technique myself, but I leave him to it. When I close my eyes again, a memory comes back like a flash – so clear and real, it steals my breath. It was two days after Zac’s eighth birthday. We were in our small, three-bedroom house in one of Williamstown’s quietest streets. We loved it there because there was a path that led to the bike track just two doors down from us. The trick was you had to know how to get to it via a well-hidden gate that the council left unlocked.
Like most Sunday afternoons, Mum was supposed to be working a shift at her retail job in a homewares shop. They paid better rates on Sundays. And since my Dad left when Zac was too young to remember him and never paid a cent of child support, she was the first to put up her hand for the weekend roster.
Zac had vomited again, the second time that morning, right before Mum made her second attempt to get into the car.
‘There’s no way I can work today,’ she said, retreating to the kitchen to call her boss. She made that call, and then another, to the doctor’s clinic, which was closed, but they gave her the number for a locum, which could be a six-hour wait, maybe more. ‘If he vomits again, I’m taking him to the ED. This is ridiculous, he’s been sick for days. He should be getting better, not worse.’ She poured a glass of water. ‘Here, sweetheart, take this to him.’
Dutifully, I took the glass of water to the bedroom Zac and I shared. His half was plastered with space paraphernalia, whereas mine had everything to do with car racing.
‘Have some,’ I said to Zac, holding the glass for him to take.
He simply shook his head and groaned. ‘My tummy hurts.’
‘Do you want to play Nintendo?’
‘Uh-uh.’
I sat on my bed, legs crossed, and tipped a box of Lego Technic onto my bed, a Christmas present from Grandma Elsie, who was away in Queensland with Grandpa Rob.
Mum was in the bathroom, and by the sound of it she was rifling through the medicine cabinet. She returned to the bedroom with a thermometer and a wet face towel for a crying Zac. She pressed her hand to his cheek and stroked his face while she waited for the reading. ‘I’m just going to pop round to the chemist to get you some medicine, sport. You know what the doctor said, it’s just a tummy bug so in a day or two you’ll feel lots better and we’ll go down to the beach.’
He smiled then. Zac loved the beach. We all did. Mum had enrolled us in Nippers at our local life-saving club as soon as we each turned five. Zac was a better swimmer than I was. A natural. He wanted to learn to surf.
‘Knew that would make you smile.’ She ruffled his hair and stood up, moving quickly to the door.
‘Nick, grab some crackers from the pantry. See if he’ll eat some. I’ll be back soon, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘There’s a bucket next to his bed in case he needs it.’
I wrinkled my nose.
‘Nick.’
‘Yeah, okay. Zac, if you need to throw up, wait until Mum’s back.’
Minutes after Mum left, Zac started groaning. Really groaning. There was no mistaking he was in pain. A lot of pain. He rolled onto his side and clutched his stomach.
‘Nick, I don’t feel good.’
‘Use the bucket,’ I told him.
But he didn’t. He got up from the bed, his face pale with a greenish tinge. ‘Toilet.’
He hobbled to the bathroom, leaning against my frame for support. Thirty seconds or so later, he called out for Mum, which meant I had to go in and attend to him, and I didn’t like the sound of what I was hearing. I pushed the bathroom door open, and there was Zac, on his knees, a pool of murky, syrupy liquid on the cream tiles.
‘Mum?’ he called out, breathless, the kind of panic in his voice that made my heart gallop. He must have sensed me standing there behind him.
‘No, it’s me.’ I tore my eyes away from the mess and put my hands under his armpits, helping him to stand. ‘She’ll be back soon. Go back to bed and lie down. Mum won’t be long.’