Their Double Baby Gift. Louisa Heaton
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mothers held down a job and coped, didn’t they? Why should it be any more difficult for her?
Only back then, with her rose-tinted spectacles on, she hadn’t predicted that she’d be awake the night before going back to work, doing hourly feeds because Morgan wouldn’t settle. She hadn’t expected that the very second she’d decided to strap Morgan into the car for her commute to work Morgan would have an almighty nappy explosion and would need to be taken back inside the house to be bathed and have everything changed.
Nor had she forecast that she would get caught in an endless traffic jam, tapping her fingers impatiently on the wheel as she glanced at the London Grace Hospital—so temptingly close, but unattainable—as she sat bumper to bumper between a four-wheel drive and a large white delivery van, listening to people sounding their horns. She was wincing with each one, hoping that the noise wouldn’t wake her daughter, who was finally—thankfully—asleep.
Beside her on the passenger seat her mobile phone trilled with a message, and as the traffic wasn’t moving she decided to check her hands-free device.
It was Kelly.
Where are you? X
She couldn’t respond. Not behind the wheel. Even if she was stuck in traffic. She’d seen enough evidence of what happened to people when they drove and texted. The cars might move at any moment. She could be texting and have someone rear-end her and give her whiplash as well as a late mark for her first day.
Not only had she to find a space and park the car, she also had to get Morgan to the hospital crèche.
An event she’d been worrying about for weeks.
It had seemed such a simple thing when she’d first planned it—I’ll just put the baby in the crèche. But what if her baby didn’t like it? What if she screamed the place down? What if she clung to her mother and refused to let go?
She’d never left Morgan alone with a friend, let alone in a crèche for ten hours a day. Eric had seen to it that she’d lost touch with most of her friends. Had isolated her until no one was left. So that when she had walked away, when she had broken free, she’d felt so ashamed about what she’d allowed to happen she’d felt she couldn’t call anyone.
It had just been her and Morgan. And that had been enough. Till now.
Snakes of anticipation coiled in her stomach at the thought of leaving her daughter, and she was just contemplating sounding her own horn when the traffic finally began to move and she could make the turning into the hospital car park. Free, she zoomed up to the barrier, wound down her window to let in the mixed aroma of exhaust fumes and recent rain, swiped her card over the scanner and watched the barrier slowly rise.
For the first time ever she could take advantage of the parent and child spaces on the ground floor near the lift, and she pulled into an empty space. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you...’ she muttered to any car park god there might be, and got out of the car, opening up the boot to assemble the buggy.
She got Morgan into it in record time, and without tears, and headed on over to the lift.
As the lift slowly took her up to the floor she needed she contemplated what it would be like to work a shift without Jen.
Jen had been a recent friend. But an amazing one. An unexpected treasure Brooke had located when she’d first started working at the London Grace. At the time she had still been with Eric, but she’d been having serious doubts, starting to be sure that she would have to walk away from him, but struggling with her conscience about the best way to do it with her pride still intact.
Her mood had been low and pensive as she’d stood in the staff room one day, dunking a tea bag over and over. In had walked a woman with a bright streak of pink in her short blonde hair—a shade of pink that had matched the stethoscope draped around her neck.
She’d taken one look at Brooke, walked right up to her, put her arm around Brooke’s shoulder and said, ‘Whoever he is, dump him. No man should make you look like that!’
It had been the beginning of a beautiful friendship, and when Brooke had dumped Eric, and then found out a few weeks later that she was pregnant and Eric wanted nothing to do with her or the baby, Jen had been the one who had picked her up, dusted her down and taken her to a show where there’d been masses of gyrating male strippers and lots and lots of hot, writhing, perfectly muscled flesh.
Brooke smiled as she recalled that night. Jen had been an absolute diamond. Rough-cut, maybe, but still one of a kind. And when Jen had discovered that she too was pregnant, and that they had due dates within days of each other that had just solidified their friendship all the more.
Jen’s husband Matt had been in the army medical corps, and hardly ever at home, so she and Jen had grown their babies together, comparing bump sizes and ankle swellings and seeing who could hold their pee the longest before having to wobble off to the bathroom.
But I don’t have Jen to pick me up any more. No one to pick me up if the day turns out to be the biggest mistake of my entire life.
As the lift pinged open and Brooke began striding down the long corridor that would take her to the hospital crèche she tried not to go over that phone call once again. When Kelly had called to let her know that Jen had died during the birth—complications from eclampsia.
At the time she herself had just delivered Morgan. Had been home for just three days and struggling to get her daughter to latch on. Frustration had been building and the sound of the phone had been a welcome distraction. A few moments to gather herself and calm down. Contact from the outside world.
And then...
She swallowed back tears. She could not cry today. It was stressful enough without going over Jen’s death all the time. Life moved on. You couldn’t stop its inexorable march. Jen was dead. Brooke was alone. Again. She was back at work. Late. She needed to get a move on or she’d have a cranky boss to deal with too.
She buzzed at the door and a staff member let her in.
‘I’ve brought Morgan Bailey. It’s her first day...’ She tried to sound braver and more together than she really felt.
The crèche nurse wore a bright tabard decorated in a multitude of teddy bears, with a name badge that said ‘Daisy’. Like the flower, she seemed bright and sunny, as if her face had a permanent smile upon it.
Behind her, Brooke could see children playing in a small ball pit, others daubing painted handprints onto a long strip of what looked like wallpaper, others at a table drawing, another group listening to a story. Beyond was another door, labelled ‘Baby Room’, and as she looked the door opened and a tall man with a military demeanour stepped out.
But she had no time to concentrate on him—despite the fact that some tired, exhausted part of her sex-starved brain still worked and had registered how attractive he was. The bossier part of her brain—the exhausted, sleep-deprived, worried-about-being-late part—overrode all other messages.
She unbuckled Morgan from the buggy and lifted her out. ‘She’s been up most of the night, I’m afraid, so she might be a little grumpy. There are bottles in the bag...’ she unhooked the baby bag from the handles of the buggy and handed it over ‘...with expressed milk. I’ve labelled them with her name, so you can give her the right ones. There’s a teddy in the bag, that’s her favourite—Mr Cuddles. She likes to sleep with it. You usually have to wind her twice before she’ll go to sleep, and if you sing her “Baa-Baa Black Sheep” she’ll cry, so please don’t do that. And...and...’
She couldn’t help it. The tears that had been stinging the backs of her eyes now readily began to fall. The moment of having to hand her daughter over was too much. Her little girl had been the one to keep her together these past few months. She was all she had, and now...
Morgan, sensing her mother’s distress, began to cry, and now Brooke was feeling worse about leaving her baby. She stood there clutching her daughter, hiccupping her way through her own tears, as if giving her up to the crèche meant certain death.