Page 53 of Return to the Waratah Inn

“Boy or girl?” she asked.

The midwife glanced at her warmly. “A baby boy.”

Her head swam. A boy. She had a boy. She’d never be alone again. But why didn’t the midwife place him on her chest?

“Is he okay?” Mima asked, reaching for him. “Let me see him.”

“I’m looking him over. The doctor will need to assess him, and I’ll be right back.” The nurse hurried from the room with her baby boy held in her arms.

Mima’s heart stood still. She wanted her baby here with her. Her heart squeezed and panic wound its way up her throat — they’d taken Fran’s baby, would they do the same to her? No, they couldn’t take him from her. The law didn’t allow it. She was getting worked up over nothing. Her mind spun and her head felt light.

Another midwife worked on cleaning her up, checked Mima’s vitals.

“Is he okay?” she asked again.

The midwife looked at her with kind, brown eyes. “Lie back, love. You need rest. Your labour didn’t go exactly as we’d hoped and there are a few complications, but it’s going to be fine. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

“What about my baby?”

“He’s a strapping young lad. Now, I need you to relax and take some deep breaths.”

The woman checked her blood pressure. Mima inhaled and tried to calm herself. There was a drip. Mima didn’t remember them inserting the cannula, but there it was. She lifted her hand to look at it. Her fingers were chapped, the nails dirty and broken. As she studied the cannula, she turned her hand over to look at her palm, flexed her fingers, pinpricks of light danced before her eyes and then suddenly everything faded to black. She gasped in panic and drifted out of consciousness.

When Mima woke, she was alone in her hospital bed with the curtains drawn around her. The ward was in semi-darkness. She heard someone cough and a baby cry nearby, its mewling made her breasts ache. How long had she been out? And where was her baby?

She looked around frantically as panic welled within her. Then she sat up, held back by the drip in her arm.

“Hello?” she cried out. Her voice echoed through the cavernous room. “Hello? Nurse?”

Several moments later, a nurse pulled the curtain aside and walked over to the bed. She held the back of her hand to Mima’s forehead, then checked her pulse with two fingers.

“How are you feeling, Jemima?” she asked with a concerned look on her face. “You had us worried there for a few hours.”

“What happened? I blacked out… I don’t know what went wrong.”

“Some post-labour haemorrhaging, but the doctor managed to get it under control. He’ll be along in a few minutes to talk to you about it. But in the meantime, lie back and relax. We need you rested so your body can recover. You’ve had quite the day.”

“I’m okay. I want to see my baby boy. Where is he? I have to feed him. It’s been hours. He must be so hungry.”

The nurse pursed her lips. “The doctor will be right in. Stay calm, and I’ll get you a cuppa. Do you like it with milk and sugar?”

Stay calm? What was going on? What wasn’t the nurse saying? Mima nodded her head. There was no use asking the nurse any questions—it was clear she wouldn’t answer. The doctor would tell her what was going on. But a ball of dread began to form in her core like a stone at the bottom of the riverbed. This couldn’t happen. After everything she’d already been through, surely nothing else could go wrong. Not now.

She needed the baby to be okay. Needed him in her life. There was no one else—no one had stuck by her through the hard times. No one other than Edie. She hadn’t told Edie about the baby, not yet. She’d wanted to see her in person, talk to her about everything, but when would that happen? She’d begun to think that a letter would be best — it would let her find the words, give her time to mull over what she’d say, and she could send it sooner. She knew Edie wouldn’t judge her, but would hold her and let her cry. But no matter how many times she’d begun to write the letter, she’d never been able to finish it. It hurt too much.

When the nurse brought her tea and biscuits, she lay there dutifully, sipping and crunching on the sweet treat. But inside, she was a bundle of nervous tension, waiting for information about her baby. Every fibre of her being screamed out for him. She needed him here with her, in her arms, feeding from her, touching her. She wanted to hold him nestled against her, watch him sleep and keep him safe. It was an instinct that swelled up from deep within her, and she was ready to do whatever it took to get to him if the doctor wouldn’t hand him over immediately.

She’d been in the hospital long enough to know that if she made a scene now, they’d simply drug her and tie her down. She had to play by their rules if she wanted to see her baby, so she remained calm, as the nurse had instructed, and acted as though everything was fine.

When the doctor came in, he checked her blood pressure and looked into her pupils with his bright light. Then he listened to her heart with his stethoscope and checked over her chart. Finally, he met her gaze with compassion.

“You’re looking much better. You haemorrhaged, but we managed to control the bleeding and brought you back from the brink. You’re a very lucky girl. Do you know that? A lot of girls don’t have the kind of luck you do. Maybe you should buy a cheeky lotto ticket or head down to the track to have a punt on the horses.” He beamed at his own joke.

Mima played along, smiling over her cup of tea. “Thanks, Doc. But where’s my baby? Can I see him now?”

His smile faded. Brow furrowed, the doctor stepped closer and took her hand in his. His palms and fingers were soft and smooth. Not like hers, not hardened by scrubbing floors or carrying heavy bags. He’d never done a day’s hard labour in his life — that’s what Mima thought as she swallowed down the panic rising up her throat.

“I’m sorry, Jemima. The baby wasn’t breathing when he was born. He didn’t make it.”