screams from her and the occasional swear word as we had to slow down to avoid another ‘’roo. When we got there, the two of them were rushed into the labour ward. She hugged me and told me I could change the first nappy. I laughed. I sat in the corridor. I didn’t see her die. I never got to say goodbye. Not to her living soul and body. Sometimes these things happen. That’s what they said. Unfortunate. Sad. Tragic. They couldn’t stop her bleeding. She had begged to hold her baby and they’d finally relented. They must have realised. She was holding him when she stopped breathing. One of the nurses said she would have sworn she was blessing him. I have never seen anyone look the way her husband did when he finally appeared in the corridor. It was as if he had died but was still breathing. He’d shed his tears. Mine were just beginning. I reached for him, but he walked past me as if I wasn’t there. I wept alone, then I asked to see the baby. He was, of course, beautiful. So beautiful. Clean, wrapped and sleeping. Exhausted. He opened his eyes, and they were her eyes. People say they can’t smile for ages. I beg to differ. The nurse asked if I was family. I explained the situation. She started to show me how to care for him. I have never stopped. In my mind, there is no question that he is his mother’s child. From the first, he was inclined to be sunny, generous and open to the world. As if her prayers had been answered. But it was not enough to protect him from his father’s pain. When the father came back to the hospital, hours later, still wraith-like, he said, “He will make up for this.” Even now, I feel a cold shiver. Hours old and so much to deliver. The father turned to me and said, “Will you stay?” I held their child. My friend’s child. My child. I nodded. The father turned away all offers of help from her family. They visited and left, hurt by his hurt, bewildered by the young girl looking after their kin. 44
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