‘I see.’
We sat quietly until our waiter had taken our plates away.
‘Also, we argued, my son and I. Things were said and I’d like to make amends. In person. Does that sound insane?’
‘Not at all. It sounds very noble. But if I had to apologise to my daughters for all the foolish things I’ve said to them, we would never talk about anything else. I think, as a parent, one has the right to make some mistakes, and to be forgiven for them. Don’t you agree?’
Certainly, I felt guilty about Jane. Irrationally so, of course, but then guilt is rarely rational. We were assured, over and over again, that there was nothing we could have done, that the sepsis that killed our daughter was not a result of behaviour or lifestyle, was not present in the womb. Although she was a little premature, there was every reason to believe that she was healthy and well at birth. Because anger was preferable to guilt, I had searched for blame; the prenatal care, the postnatal care, the staff. The word ‘sepsis’ suggested infection — was that someone’s fault? But it soon became clear that the staff were blameless — better than blameless, immaculate really — in their handling of the situation. It was one of those things that happens, they told us; very rarely, but it happens. Which was fine, but what were we meant to do with all that anger, all that guilt? Connie directed hers inwards. Was it the fault of some past behaviour, smoking or drinking, was it complacency on her part? She must have done something. Surely there couldn’t be a punishment as harsh as this without some crime? No, we had done nothing wrong and there was nothing we could have done. It was one of those things that happens. That was all.
There had been no sense of danger at the birth. That had all gone well, the experience traumatic but thrilling, too, both familiar and entirely new. Connie’s waters had broken in the night. At first neither of us could believe this — it was only the thirty-fourth week — but the sodden mattress was undeniable and we put our plan into action, driving to the hospital where we paced and waited, boredom alternating with elation and anxiety. The contractions began mid-morning and then things happened very quickly. Connie was as strong and ferocious as I knew she’d be, and by 11.58 a.m., Jane was with us, mewling and shouting, punching at the air with tiny fists, pedalling away, a shade over 4lbs but fierce; oh, she was a beauty, all the worry, anxiety and pain swept away by her perfection and the joy of it all. She was healthy and we could hold her as we’d hoped. There were photographs and private vows; I would do all I could to care for her and protect her from harm. Connie took her to her breast and though she didn’t feed at first, all seemed well. There’d be no need for an incubator, just a careful eye. We returned to the ward.
Through the afternoon I sat by the bed and watched them sleep, Connie pale, exhausted and quite beautiful. Goodness knows why it should have come as a surprise, but I’d been shocked and stunned by the violence of the delivery room, the blood and sweat, the complete absence of delicacy. Had I found myself in that situation I’d have opted not just for gas and air, but full general anaesthetic and six months’ convalescence. But nothing had ever come so naturally to Connie as giving birth, and I felt very proud. ‘You were incredible,’ I’d told her when she opened her eyes.
‘Did I swear?’ she said.
‘A lot. I mean, a lot.’
‘Good,’ she smiled.
‘But it all seemed so natural, too. You were like some … Viking washerwoman or something.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Are you pleased with her? She’s very small.’
‘She’s perfect. I’m delighted.’
‘Me too.’
They wanted to keep both Jane and Connie in overnight — nothing to worry about, so we didn’t worry. With some reluctance on Connie’s part, it was suggested that I should go home and prepare for mother and baby’s return and so I took that journey, surely one of the strangest journeys a man ever makes, back to the home that was exactly how we’d left it. There was something rather ritualistic about those few hours, preparation for something monumental, as if this would be the last time I’d ever be alone in my life. Moving in a daze, I washed up and tidied things away, stocked the fridge, organised the equipment just so. I fielded texts, made reassuring phone calls, mother and baby doing well. I made the bed with fresh sheets and when everything was in place, I spoke to Connie and went to sleep …
… and was woken by a call a little after four a.m., that awful hour. No need to panic — terrible words — but Baby Jane was a little listless. She was having some difficulty breathing and had been moved to a different ward. They had administered antibiotics and were confident this would help, but would I come to the hospital straight away? Best not to drive. I stumbled into clothes and out of the house, seizing on the conversation’s positive elements — no need to panic — but unable to forget the phrase ‘some difficulty breathing’, because what could be more fundamental than the need to breathe? ‘Breathe’ and ‘live’, weren’t they the same words? I ran down to Kilburn High Road, found a cab, hurled myself into it and out again, into the hospital, feet slapping on the floor as I ran to Connie’s ward, saw the curtains drawn around her bed, heard her cries and I knew. I pulled the curtain to one side, saw her curled in a ball, her back to me — oh, Connie — and I knew.
Next morning they took us to a private room and let us spend some time with Jane, though I’d rather not go into that. Somehow I was able to take some photographs, some hand- and footprints too. We were advised, though this might feel strange, that we might be pleased to have them in the future, and we were. We said our goodbyes then we were sent home, never more empty-handed.
And so, just as we had informed people of the successful birth, we set about withdrawing the good news. Word spread, of course, bad news moving faster than good, and before long friends and colleagues gathered around. All were kind, their condolences sincere and well intentioned and yet I found myself becoming surly and sharp when they employed absurd euphemisms for our daughter’s death. No, she had not ‘passed away’. ‘Passed over’, ‘passed on’, ‘departed’ were equally repellent to me, and neither had we ‘lost her’; we were all too aware of where she was. That she had ‘left us’ implied willingness on her part, ‘taken away’ implied some purpose or destination, and so I snapped at well-meaning friends and they apologised because what else could they do? Debate the point? Of course I regret my intolerance now, because the instinct to soften the language is a decent and humane one. The term the doctor had used was ‘collapse’. The collapse had come very quickly, he said, and I could comprehend that word. But if someone had told us that she had ‘gone to a better place’ then I might well have struck them. ‘Torn away’ — that might have fitted better. Torn or ripped away.
Anyway, my surliness was unpleasant and unreasonable and there was, I suspect, a sense that I was ‘not taking it well’. Grief is sometimes compared to numbness, though to begin with that was very far from our experience. Numbness would have been welcome. Instead we felt flayed, tormented, furious that the world was apparently carrying on. Connie in particular was prone to terrible rage, though for the most part she kept this private or directed it at me where it could do no harm.
‘People keep telling me I’m young,’ she said, in the calm after one such explosion. ‘They say that there’s plenty of time and we can have another baby. But I didn’t want another baby. I wanted this one.’