I held you in my arms, waiting to feel something. Anything. And I waited. And I waited. And nothing came. No pleasure. No pain. No joy. No anguish. No love. No hate. Nothing. I looked down into your dark-blue eyes, blue as an evening ocean and your eyes swallowed me up, as if you were waiting for me to... recognize you. I can't explain it any other way. But I didn't know you. I looked at you and you were a stranger. And I felt so guilty, because I still felt the same way about you as I did when you were inside me. I'd still trade all my tomorrows with you for one slice of yesterday with Callum. And that's not the way I'm supposed to feel. So that's what I'm made of now. Regrets and pure, unadulterated guilt.
'Why don't you see if she'll feed?' asked Nurse Fashoda with a smile.
I didn't want to but she was watching me. And I didn't want her to guess what I was really feeling. New mothers aren't supposed to feel nothing.
'Do you have any bottles?' I asked doubtfully.
'That's not this hospital's policy. We don't provide bottles for babies unless there's a good medical reason and even then it has to be OK'd by a doctor,' Nurse Fashoda informed me, adding with slight disdain, 'Besides, bottles are for rich women so that they can hand their babies over to a nanny before they've had their first poo.'
The nurse regarded me pointedly as she spoke. Well, apart from the bit about being a woman and being rich, she'd got it absolutely right. At eighteen I felt nothing like a woman. Just the opposite. I was a frightened girl running barefoot on a knife edge.
'So how am I meant to feed her then?' I asked.
'Use what women fed their babies with long before bottles were invented,' said Nurse Fashoda, pointing to my breasts.
She wasn't joking either. I looked back down into your eyes, Callie, and you were still watching me. I wondered why you weren't crying. Babies cry all the time, don't they? So why didn't you? After a deep breath, I pulled down one side of my nightgown, too tired now to be embarrassed by Nurse Fashoda's presence and too heartsick to care anyway. I tried to raise you up in my arms so that you'd be at the right level to feed. But you wouldn't latch on. I tried to turn your head towards my breast. 'Sephy, you're not screwing in a light bulb,' admonished Nurse Fashoda. 'Don't swivel her head like that. She's not a plastic doll. Turn her gently.'
'If I'm doing such a bad job, why don't you do it instead?' I said with belligerence.
'Because it doesn't work that way,' the nurse answered.
And as I looked at Nurse Fashoda, I realized in that moment just how much I didn't know about you, Callie, or any baby. You weren't some nameless, faceless abstract thing any more. You weren't a romantic ideal or some stick to beat my dad with. You're a real person. Someone who had to rely on me for everything.
And God, I've never felt so scared.
I looked down at you again and it hit me. Hard. And kept coming. Into my heart and straight out the other side. Callie Rose. You were... you are my daughter. My own flesh and blood. Half me, half Callum and one hundred per cent yourself. Not a doll or a symbol or an idea, but a real, new person with a new life.
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And totally my responsibility.
Tears trickled down my cheeks. I tentatively smiled at you and even though my vision was a bit blurred, I'd swear you smiled back at me. Just a little smile, but that was all it took. I tried again, turning you gently in my arms until your face was towards my breast. You latched on to me this time and immediately began to feed. It's just as well you knew what you were doing because I didn't have a clue. I watched you then because I couldn't tear my gaze away. I watched you feed with your eyes closed and one fist balled up and resting against my skin. I could smell you, smell us. I felt you take more from me than just milk. And with each breath we both took, the last nine months faded away into long ago and far away. But you didn't feed for very long. A couple of minutes, that's all.
'Try switching her to your other breast,' said Nurse Fashoda.
So I did, moving you round awkwardly like you were made of bone china. But you didn't want to feed any more. You lay on my chest, your eyes still closed, and just like that you went to sleep. And I closed my eyes and leaned back against the pillows behind me and tried to follow your lead. I felt rather than saw Nurse Fashoda try to pick you up. My eyes opened immediately, my arms wrapped around you instinctively.
'What're you doing?'
'I'm just going to put your baby in the cot at the foot of your bed. You've had a long labour and it's time for you to rest. You'll be no good to your daughter if you're dog-tired,' said Nurse Fashoda.
'Can't she sleep on my chest?'
'Our beds are too narrow. If she fell off, she'd hit the floor,' said Nurse Fashoda. 'You'll have to wait till you're at home in your emperor-sized bed before you can do that.'
I studied Nurse Fashoda, wondering at the antagonism in her voice.
'I wasn't criticizing,' I said.
'Look around,' Nurse Fashoda said. 'This is meant to be a community hospital but we don't get half the equipment or staff that a Cross hospital gets. Not too many Cross patients want to set foot in Mercy Hospital.'
'I'm here, aren't I?'
'Yes, but you're the only Cross in the maternity ward. And when you leave, you'll move back into your fancy house in your fancy neighbourhood and after a long, hot shower we'll all be forgotten.'
And just like that, I'd been assessed and judged. Nurse Fashoda didn't know the first thing about me but she'd taken one look at my face and now she reckoned she knew my whole life history what had gone before and what was yet to come. I didn't tell her that the bed in my flat was narrower than the one I was now lying on. I didn't explain that my bedroom, bathroom and kitchen combined were about the size of this labour room I was in. No matter how much talking I did, Nurse Fashoda would never hear me. She'd only ever hear what she wanted to hear, what she already 'knew' to be true. I knew her type.
Besides, I was too weary to argue with her. I watched her settle you down in your cot and the moment you were covered with the white, cotton blanket, I closed my eyes. But the instant Nurse Fashoda left the room, my eyes opened. I scrambled up onto my knees to look at you. I touched your cheek. I stroked your short, dark-brown hair. I couldn't take my eyes off you. Even when tears blurred my vision, I didn't take my eyes off you.
