‘Then what are we dealing with?’ she asks finally.
‘Heart failure.’
In the time I’ve been a part of this family, I’ve never seen the Huttons like this. Nobody is talking. Not even Caitlin. Evelyn is sitting on one of the waiting room chairs beside a passive David, who looks completely dishevelled. She takes a small amber spray bottle with a yellow label from one of the pockets of her handbag. She spritzes the Rescue Remedy onto her tongue and stares into her lap.
‘This is insane,’ says Caitlin eventually, standing up. ‘She was working on the nursery, climbing stairs – she seemed fine.’ Her frantic expression mirrors Evelyn’s, only she’s way more intense.
‘She didn’t seem fine, Caitlin. She seemed exhausted,’ says Evelyn.
‘We thought… I told her…’ She pauses. ‘Nick! I told her it was normal! I told her to put her feet up and rest, and now you’re saying—’
‘Shhh, darling, you’re making a scene,’ says Evelyn.
‘This is my fault,’ she says, bewildered.
‘No,’ I tell her. ‘It’s not your fault.’
It’s hardly fair to let any of the blame fall on Caitlin when I am the one who should have been around for my wife and unborn son. Instead, I was having drinks in a hotel in Singapore while my wife’s health was deteriorating so badly she could die. I eye the wall clock again. That stupid, boring, old black-and-white clock, typical of the ones you see in any hospital or school setting. Any place you want the minutes to tick by more quickly so you can go home and get on with your life.
‘She’s going to be okay though, isn’t she? I mean, there’s so much they can do for weak hearts.’ This from Evelyn.
This isn’t the time for me to comment. I don’t know enough about Paige’s condition, though I have my suspicions around what’s happened. I just don’t know why. What I do know is this is more than just a ‘weak heart’. Late trimester pregnancies aren’t meant to end like this.
‘Nick?’ says David, looking up at me. ‘Please give us your opinion. Is she… Are they going to be all right?’
It dawns on me how patients must feel when they ask me to try to answer questions about their children’s recovery and prognosis. I’m a man who can never seem to give anyone an absolute. My expression must tell them what I’m thinking, and what I’m thinking is, I don’t know. I’m on the outside here, and I hate it. I want to be in the room with Paige. And Max. Out here there isn’t a single thing I can do except wait.
Evelyn lets out a small moan and leans into David’s shoulder, her words something along the lines of, ‘We can’t lose our daughter,’ coming out in a muffled sob.
Caitlin scoots to her side and puts a hand on her back. ‘Mum… how about we grab a coffee? Or tea? I’ve got some chamomile in my bag.’ She digs through her handbag and produces a handful of lemon-coloured sachets.
‘Any idea if there’s a kitchenette nearby where I can boil some water?’ she asks me.
That’s when I notice the doctor in his scrubs. It’s James. I have known James for over ten years, and this is not how he walks when he delivers good news to people. He’s slightly hunched over and his pace is slower than usual. Of course, none of this is intentional – he’s probably thinking about what he’s going to say and how he’s going to say it.
As he approaches, I breathe the words, ‘This is us,’ and Evelyn and David sit bolt upright. James stops a safe distance from us, slides his cap off and holds it with one hand, as if he’s at a church service. He turns to Evelyn and David. ‘Mr and Mrs Hutton?’
‘Yes, I’m Paige’s mother, Evelyn, and this is my husband, David. Our daughter, Caitlin.’
‘I’m Dr Sanders, Paige’s obstetrician.’
‘Yes, we met at one of her appointments,’ says Evelyn.
‘Oh, yes, of course.’
‘What’s the latest?’ I can’t help myself from interjecting.
‘Is she okay? Is my grandson okay?’ asks David.
My body stiffens and I break out in a cold sweat. Maybe I’m not ready for this news after all.
James stands there, impossibly composed. ‘Well, I have some news,’ he starts. ‘As you know, Paige came in…’
His eyes dart to his hands and then back up to me. That’s when I know. One of them is gone. The strange thing is, I don’t know which is worse: my wife or my baby.
Eleven
Paige
Three days after my C-section, I’m still in ICU. It’s cruel the way my body is not able to behave the way it should after I delivered a baby. The midwives told me that suppressing my milk with drugs was going to be easier on me than the alternative, since I have no baby to feed.
I’m finally being moved to a private ward. Judy, one of the midwives, pushes me down the corridor. My breath catches as we pass a new mother in her pyjamas, trying to soothe her crying baby. Further ahead, a group of visitors is waiting at the unmanned reception desk with an enormous helium balloon sporting the words It’s a boy!. A small moan unintentionally escapes my lips, and I hope Judy hasn’t noticed.
‘Almost there,’ she says, which gives me reason to believe she has heard me. My body stiffens as I try to keep it together. In ten seconds, nine, eight, seven… I’ll be in my private room and all the reminders in the outside world can disappear.
‘Here we are, love,’ says Judy as we approach the last room – the one that is conveniently located farthest from the nursery. ‘It’s actually our best room.’
I don’t know Judy, but I can tell she’s lying. She goes over to the window and opens the curtains, allowing the natural light to filter through the room. I take a few deep breaths and go to stand up.
‘How about we get you settled back into bed?’ She helps me into bed, and once she completes all her checks, she takes something that is hanging off the back of the wheelchair. I try to get a better look at it as she fastens it to the outer side of the door with some Blu Tack.
‘A butterfly? But I… I don’t have a baby.’
‘I know, dear. That’s why we give you the butterfly. It’s so all us nurses on the ward know that whoever’s in this room is going to need some extra-special TLC.’
A few hours later, Nick and I are waiting for Victoria to come by to give us an update on my most recent echo. Nick has been spending as much time as possible here with me and he hasn’t shaved in days. Even though Mum brought him a change of clothes, he’s wearing the same T-shirt and trousers as yesterday. He’s been peeking at my chart, and quickly puts it back when he hears the two gentle knocks on the door.
‘How are you feeling, Paige?’ asks Victoria. She sits down at the end of the bed near my feet and crosses her legs, balancing her clipboard against her knee. Nick pulls up a chair beside me. She’s dressed in a pale-lemon-coloured shirt with a Peter Pan collar and tight-fitting jeans, and a stethoscope wreathes its way around her neck alongside a chunky necklace. She’s wearing thick-rimmed plastic glasses, with her long brown hair swept to the side.