A Special Relationship (17 page)

‘Can jaundice be dangerous?’

‘Only if the levels of bilirubin get too high.’

‘Then what happens?’

I could see Dr Reynolds shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

‘Then,’ he finally said, ‘it can prove toxic to the brain.
But
– and I must emphasize this – such levels are extremely rare. And so far, your son is not showing any signs of …’

But I wasn’t listening to him any more. Instead, another voice had taken up residency inside my head. A voice which kept repeating,
‘You’ve poisoned him … and now he’s going to be even more brain damaged. And there’s no one to blame but you
…’

‘Ms Goodchild?’

I looked up and could see Dr Reynolds eyeing me with concern.

‘Are you all right?’

‘What?’

‘I seemed to have lost you for a moment.’

‘I’m … all right,’ I said.

‘Did you hear what I said – about not holding yourself accountable for your son’s jaundice?’

‘Yes, I heard.’

‘And it will clear up in around ten days. During that time, we will have to keep him in the ICU. But, once again, there’s nothing particularly ominous about that – it’s just standard procedure for any newborn with jaundice. Is that understood?’

I nodded.

‘Would you like to go up and see him?’

‘All right,’ I said – but my voice sounded flat, devoid of emotion. Once again, I could see Reynolds studying me with concern.

The blue light of the ICU masked the yellowish tint that now characterized Jack’s skin. Nor could I discern the discolouration around my son’s pupils which Reynolds told me was another feature of jaundice. But it didn’t matter that I couldn’t see the actual physical evidence of his illness. I knew how sick he was. And I knew that, despite Reynolds’s protestations, it
was
my fault.

Afterwards, I called Tony at work and broke the news to him. When I mentioned that Jack had become jaundiced because of my breast milk, my husband said, ‘Are you sure that you weren’t a Catholic in another life? Because you certainly love to wallow in guilt.’

‘I am not wallowing in guilt. I am simply
admitting
the truth of the matter: his illness is my doing.’

‘Sally, you’re talking rubbish.’

‘Don’t accuse me of …’

‘It’s jaundice, not AIDS. And if the doctor says that it will clear up in a few days …’

‘You’re not listening to me,’ I shouted.

‘That’s because you’re being preposterous.’

By the time Tony arrived at the hospital that night, I had managed to pull myself out of my self-flagellation jag – and immediately apologized to him for shouting on the phone.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said tersely.

We went up to the ICU together. Again, the blue fluorescent tubes cast the ward in a spectral light and also bleached out the yellowed pigment of our son’s skin. When Tony asked the attending nurse just how bad the jaundice was, she reassured us that his was a very standard case and that (as Reynolds had told me) it would be cleared up in a matter of days.

‘So there’s nothing to worry about?’ Tony asked, giving his question a certain
for-my-benefit
pointedness.

‘He should make a full recovery, with no lasting side effects,’ the nurse said.

‘See?’ Tony said, patting my arm. ‘All is well.’

I nodded in agreement – even though I didn’t believe it. I knew the truth. Just as that nurse knew the truth. After all, she didn’t say he
will
make a full recovery; she used the conditional verb
should.
Because she wasn’t at all certain that Jack would get better and she knew that my milk had poisoned him.

But I wouldn’t dare articulate any of this right now. No way was I going to open my big mouth and blurt out the reality of the situation. Especially given that everyone was now watching me for signs of stress and strain.

For the next thirty-six hours, I maintained this calm-and-collected front, showing a sane, rational face to the doctors and nurses of the Mattingly, visiting Jack several times a day at the ICU, and always nodding in agreement when they kept feeding me optimistic falsehoods about his progress.

Then, as expected, I was given the all-clear to go home. It was something of a wrench to leave Jack behind in the ICU – but I was glad for his sake that he was still sequestered from me, in a place where I could do him no harm. And every time a strange rational voice inside my brain admonished me for beating myself up over Jack’s illness, another more forceful, prosecutorial voice reminded me just how culpable I was.

Getting out of the hospital was, therefore, something of a relief. Especially as Tony not only had dinner waiting for me when I came home, but (as promised) he’d also drafted in Margaret’s cleaner, Cha, to give the place a thorough going-over … which meant that it now looked like a moderately tidy building site. And yes, he did have a bottle of Laurent Perrier in the fridge. But when he handed me a glass, all I could think was: this is not exactly a triumphant homecoming, now is it?

Still, I clinked my glass against his and downed the French fizz in one long gulp. Tony immediately refilled it.

‘You’re thirsty,’ he said.

‘I think it’s called: needing a drink.’

‘And so say all of us.’

I drained my glass again.

‘I’m glad I bought two bottles,’ Tony said, topping me up once more. ‘You okay?’

I didn’t feel that question needed answering. Just as I decided to sidestep my usual over-explanation of how I was feeling – because it was so damn obvious what was wrong here: I had come home from hospital after having a baby, but without the baby … even though I knew that Jack was better off without me.

‘Nice bit of domestic news today’ Tony said. ‘The builders were in—’

‘You could have fooled me.’

‘Anyway, the foreman – what’s his name? … Northern Irish guy … Collins, right? … he was asking for you. And when I mentioned you’d had the baby, but he was in intensive care … well, Jesus, you should have seen the Catholic guilt kick in. Said he’d get a full crew in the next few days, and try to have all the work done within a fortnight.’

‘It’s good to know that a potentially brain damaged baby can finally get a builder to …’

‘Stop it,’ Tony said quietly, pouring me yet another glass.

‘Have I already drunk the last one?’

‘Looks that way. Shall I get dinner on?’

‘Let me guess. Curry vindaloo?’

‘Close. Chicken Tikka Masala.’

‘Even though you know I can’t stand Indian.’

‘If you can’t stand Indian, you’ve come to the wrong country.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I have done just that.’

Tony got one of those uncomfortable looks on his face again.

‘I’ll get things underway in the kitchen.’

‘And I’ll go unblock a milk duct.’

Oh, God, we were off to a great start. To make things even merrier, both my breasts were now feeling like reinforced concrete again. So I retreated to the bathroom, and stared at the half-finished cabinets and untiled floors as I powered up the torture pump and screamed only three times until the right nipple finally spouted milk. However, the left breast seemed more pliable now. After five minutes of electrically induced suction, it burst forth. Then I staggered up off the toilet seat, dumped the pump in the sink, walked into the nursery, sat down in the wicker chair, and found myself staring blankly at the empty crib. That’s when I felt myself reverting back into sinking mode, the same feeling that hit me right after the birth, and had now decided to pay me a second call. It was as if this brightly coloured room had become a cube, in which I was trapped as it headed on a downward trajectory. And the cube was simultaneously diminishing in size – to the point where all I could do was brace both legs and both feet against all four walls, in an attempt to stop it from crushing me.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

Tony’s voice stopped my free-fall – and also yanked me back to the here and now. The cube had become a room again. I was no longer plummeting, but I was certainly in an awkward and damnably embarrassing position, crouched against a wall, with my hands gripping the floorboards.

‘Sally, are you all right?’

I didn’t know how to answer that question – because I still wasn’t certain where I was. So I said nothing, and let Tony help me back to my feet, and into the chair. He looked at me with that unspoken mixture of anxiety and contempt which seemed to characterize his reaction to my now-frequent moments of distress.

Only this time, the distress was short lived. As soon as he had me seated back in the chair, it vanished – and I felt functioning again.

‘Dinner ready?’ I asked.

‘Sally, what were you doing on the floor?’

‘I don’t know, really. Little fainting spell, I think.’

‘But you looked like you were trying to claw your way out of the room.’

‘That’s what I get for drinking three glasses of champagne on an empty womb.’

I found this witticism hugely funny – and suddenly couldn’t stop laughing. Once again, Tony just stared at me and said nothing.

‘Oh, come on, Tony’ I said. ‘You’ve got to give me an A+ for bad taste.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t drink anything more tonight.’

‘With bloody Indian food? You must be joking.’

Only we weren’t eating Chicken Tikka Masala (that was Tony’s idea of a joke); rather, a wonderfully high carbohydrate Spaghetti alla Carbonara, with lots of freshly grated Parmesan cheese, and a big green salad, and a loaf of buttery garlic bread, and a decent bottle of Chianti Classico, all courtesy of Marks and Spencer.

It was pure comfort food. Days of hospital muck had left me suddenly ravenous. I ate like a hostage on his first full night of freedom. Only I didn’t feel free of anything. Rather, the food was simply acting as a momentary diversion against …

What?
I thought I’d rid myself of all the furies that had seized hold of me. But now … what the hell was that bad piece of surrealism in Jack’s room? Maybe Tony was right: throwing back copious amounts of champagne after a long stretch of sobriety probably wreaked havoc with my equilibrium. And the sight of Jack’s empty crib simply sent me over the edge.

‘You seem to be nursing that glass of wine,’ Tony said.

‘After that performance on the floor, I thought I’d better turn Mormon for the night. I’m sorry.’

He shrugged.

‘Not to worry,’ he said in a flat tone of voice that wasn’t reassuring.

‘Thank you for this beautiful dinner,’ I said.

‘Ready-made food isn’t exactly beautiful.’

‘Still, it was very thoughtful of you.’

Another of his shrugs. We fell silent. Then, ‘I’m scared, Tony.’

‘That’s not surprising. You’ve been through a lot.’

‘It’s not just that. It’s whether Jack will turn out …’

He cut me off.

‘You heard what the nurse said yesterday. All vital signs are good. The MRI showed nothing. His brain waves are registering as normal. So, in fact, there’s little to worry about.’

‘But Dr Reynolds wasn’t definitive about that …’

‘Sally …’

‘And I’m absolutely certain that Reynolds is trying to cushion us from the possibility that Jack has brain damage. I mean, he’s a very straightforward, decent man, Reynolds – especially after that uppity prick, Hughes – but he’s also like every damn doctor. As far as he’s concerned, we’re his problem … but only up until that point when Jack is discharged from the Mattingly. So, naturally, he’ll keep as much from us as he can.’

‘Please stop sounding like one of those batty conspiracy theorists …’

‘This is not some fucking conspiracy theory, Tony. This is our son, who is now entering his second week in intensive care …’

‘And whom everyone says will be just fine. Do I have to keep repeating that over and over? Have you lost all reason?’

‘You’re saying I’m crazy?’

‘I’m saying, you’re being irrational …’

‘I have a
right
to be irrational. Because …’

But then, out of nowhere, I applied the emotional brakes. I was shouting. Suddenly, like somebody changing rooms, I found myself back in far more sensible surroundings, truly appalled (yet again) by such a temperamental overload, let alone the way it had just abruptly ended. This wasn’t like anger’s normal aftermath – where, once the exchange of words was over, I’d fume for a bit and then, when it was clear that Tony wasn’t going to apologize (something he seemed genetically incapable of doing), I’d take it upon myself to sue for peace. No, this was … well,
strange
was the only word to describe it. Especially as the anger just fell off me. One moment, I was in full throttle fury. The next …