Windsor Lakes. Meeting Nick. One tiny moment that changed my life forever. That’s the thing about tiny moments. They seem tiny until you look back on them, registering how big they were. Me, Nick, a chance meeting at an aged-care home, a wedding, two pink lines, two red lights and a street lamp that died and needed its globe replacing.
Caitlin pauses and takes in a deep sigh when she registers my expression. ‘God, I didn’t want to upset you. Paige… say something. Please.’
I try to blink away the tears but it’s impossible. I’m like a leaky tap. There are simply no words to convey how much I don’t want to be here.
‘If you want, I’ll take it all back. I can go if you don’t want me around, or—’
‘Stay,’ I blurt. ‘I want you to stay.’
She flings her arms around me and I welcome the soft curves of her body against mine. I hold the fabric of her bright yellow happy dress tightly in my fist. I can’t let go. Don’t want to let go. I need something – someone – to hold onto.
‘I love you. And I’m so, so sorry,’ she whispers into my hair.
My body shudders against hers as she holds me tightly. She combs her fingers through my hair, and when I release the fabric of her dress from my grip, I look into her eyes. ‘I was wondering if you… if you wanted to hold him?’
Caitlin pulls away and holds me by the elbows. ‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘Of course. I would love to hold your son.’
Ten days after being admitted, Nick and I leave the maternity ward and all the flowers in it, without our baby. It’s Christmas Eve. The street lamp globe has been replaced, the black pillars now adorned in glittering silver and red tinsel.
As we pull into the driveway, the wooden candy canes and joyful bright lights draped along the front façade of our house tease me.
‘Could we shut the lights down, please?’ I say to Nick as he helps me out of the car.
‘Course. Yes. I’ll do it ASAP.’
Inside, he helps me up the stairs and towards our bedroom. Nick has closed the nursery door. Wooden polka dot letters spell out Max’s name at eye level. I stop outside the door, taking in the letters: M A X. All the slips of paper had spelled out Max. I’m clutching the blue paper butterfly that Judy had fixed to the door of my hospital room. I hold my thumb in place and press the butterfly against the door, sticking it firmly.
In my bedroom, I pull a set of clean pyjamas from my dresser drawer and sit them on the edge of the bed. I simply stare at them, knowing I need to shower, to wash my hair, to find some way to function, to grasp life again, to accept that I’m a mother – albeit a mother without her baby. I enter the bathroom, feeling Nick’s eyes on me as he leans against the doorframe, watching me as I lift my top to examine the scar on my belly where they made the incision for the C-section. I blink at Nick, meeting his eyes in the mirror.
‘Hey,’ he says softly. ‘I know it hurts.’ From behind, he envelops me in his arms, resting his head against my shoulder. My breath hitches in my chest, and while I don’t necessarily want it to, my body stays rigid despite his embrace. ‘You don’t have to believe me yet, but I promise you, we’re going to get through this.’
My eyes scrunch closed at the impossibility of it. ‘I don’t know…’ I whimper, feeling my knees buckle. ‘I don’t know how to be a mother without her baby. How do we be parents without Max here with us? We left him there.’
Nick’s arms tighten around me.
I continue, ‘He’s still there. All alone in the hospital and he should be here, now, with us.’ I turn around to face him and hug him as tightly as I can, moving my hands underneath his shirt so I can feel his warm, soft skin against my hands. I want to feel as close to him as I possibly can. His body shudders as I attempt to hold him in my arms. Here we are, holding each other in the dim light of the bathroom, and it’s the first time I’ve ever heard him cry.
My gaze falls on our toothbrushes: one pink, one green. His and hers. Husband and wife. A couple. We are supposed to be a family. I will never ever get to recognise Max’s cries. Why couldn’t I have recognised the signs?
Twelve
Nick
We chose a tiny white casket with flowers that Evelyn selected. Cream ones, small and strong-scented, like vanilla and honey. I didn’t ask the name of them.
‘Nick, darling, how are you holding up?’ Evelyn is standing beside me with a full plate of sandwiches.
I run a hand over the stubble on my face. I can’t remember the last time I shaved. ‘Uh, it’s going to take some time.’ What else is there to say? Somehow these words, along with ones like, ‘I’m fine,’ and, ‘Could be better,’ have become my go-to phrases whenever someone asks me how I’m doing. Frankly, I’m more concerned about Paige. She’s barely eating, barely sleeping and has not stopped crying.
My mum keeps her hand on my arm. She travelled to Melbourne from Launceston the day after Paige was discharged from the hospital. She wanted to stay in a hotel but Paige insisted on opening up the guest room. Mum and Paige have always got on well, and I think having her here has helped a bit.
‘Yes. You’re right. Course it will.’ Evelyn says this in a way that sounds like she’s trying to reassure herself. Which she probably is. ‘Have you eaten anything at all? You should eat… if you haven’t.’ She thrusts the plate in my direction, inviting me to take a sandwich. ‘Nobody’s touched them.’
‘I’m good. Not all that hungry. But thank you.’ All I’ve eaten this morning is a bite of cold toast and a sip of coffee. I can’t remember the last time I ate a full meal.
‘Um, David said to tell you that he and the others are ready when you two are. He was also wondering if you’d chosen a song to play?’
‘Uh, no, we never got around to choosing one so I think we’ll skip the music. Paige and Hope have gone for a walk. I’ll let them know when they come back.’
‘Okay, well, I’ll put the sandwiches in the fridge, and if you want some later, you can help yourselves.’
Her words fade. Like most of the conversations we’ve been having over the past few days, all the words come out stilted, forced, unnatural, as if they don’t belong to us at all. Being at home is becoming almost unbearable. There’s no escaping the reality of losing a child who did not get the chance to live. I’m hankering to get back to the hospital, away from it all.
‘Excuse me, I need to make a call. I’ll be back in five minutes.’
Evelyn feigns a smile that evaporates quickly. It’s an expression I recognise. It’s the expression of someone trying to be strong for someone else when they’re hurting just as much themselves. I quickly leave the room and go upstairs to the study, closing the door behind me.
I slouch into the chair and plant a fist on the desk.
Goddammit, why did I have to go to Singapore at all?
With a brush of my arm, the papers on the desk fly across the room – outstanding bills, a quote for a new washing machine, a note from Paige reminding me to change the smoke alarm batteries.
I fish my phone from my pocket and dial my colleague Ben at the hospital to let him know I’m ready to come back to work. The smoke alarm batteries can wait. The washing machine can wait. And those stupid bills can wait, too.