I’ve known that all along.” She howled, very loudly, over a wave of contraction and pain, “It’s going to die and so am I and
he
knows it is, and he knows I am,
he
knows . . .”
Martha said to Damian, as Daisy was wheeled away:
“She’s in pain. She doesn’t mean what she says—”
“Yes, she does.”
“They say women in labour shout out all sorts of things . . .”
“They do. I know, it’s my job. But she does think she’s going to die. I see it now. I didn’t see it before. She’s the sort of person I can’t—I can’t imagine what she really thinks or feels—
at all.
”
“Would it be all right if I stay?”
“It isn’t your problem.”
“She came to me.”
He wanted to cry,
I
didn’t. Exactly because she did I couldn’t. And can’t. He flipped his mind back to obstetrics.
“I need to check how she’s doing,” he said.
Daisy’s labour was long and horrible. She made it worse by letting loose nine months of pent-in terror and rage, screaming, weeping, and tensing all her muscles. She could not be too much anaesthetised, for fear of harming the baby, whose heartbeat was irregular, whose presentation turned out to be very awkward, with a twisted shoulder. Dr. Nanjuwany in turn panicked, and, ignoring what she knew and had not been told were all the ethical reasons for not involving Damian, she turned to him. He ended up delivering a live baby, slowly, deliberately, skilfully, not because he was its father, but because he was the man at that moment in that hospital who could deal with such a problem. He stitched the dangerous rip in the neck of Daisy’s womb, stroked the pale hair away from the sodden forehead, took her pulse, and wondered where her wandering soul was drifting as she relaxed into a drugged and unencumbered peace. He had nearly killed her. That was the truth of it.
HE WENT TO LOOK at his daughter.
She had been washed, and swaddled, and was breathing lightly, regularly. She had soft dark hair. She was a little bruised. She opened hazy mussel-dark eyes, and seemed to consider him. He looked back at her, not in pride at his achievement—although in the melodramatic way of real lives, he had saved her, and indeed Daisy. He was overcome with dreadful love and grief. She was a person. She had not been there, and now she was there, and she was the person he loved. It was simple and he was a changed man. His eyes were hot with tears. The hospital rustled and whispered behind him.
WHEN HE WENT to visit the next day, he found he was in the grip of an exalted fear. He was going to see the child again—that was the essential thing. In his mind he had named her Kate. He was going to see Daisy, who did not want to know or see Kate. He thought he would start with the difficult thing— he was not a procrastinator—the difficult thing was Daisy. Then he would revisit his daughter.
DAISY WAS in a curtained-off space of her own, with a bowl of fruit on her locker. She was sitting up in bed in a hospital nightshirt, and her hair was washed and floating. She was holding—he saw her—the baby, in her arms, at her breast. The baby was feeding. He could see the little ripples of movement in the fine skin over the back of her skull. She was feeding from the pierced nipple. Daisy’s little face was completely wet with tears. Her little hands, with their tattooed mittens, tightened round Kate, and grasped. She stared at Damian as though he meant to rip the child out of her arms. Her lip, with its silly studs, trembled.
Damian sat down heavily on the visitor’s chair. Daisy said, in a small but perfectly grown-up voice:
“I didn’t understand. I didn’t know. She’s perfect. No, it isn’t that, everybody says that. She’s
somebody,
she’s a person, and she’s mine and she—seems to need me. I mean, it does seem to be
me
she needs. I mean, I can’t help it, she can’t help it, I’m—hers, I mean, I’m her mother.” The word obviously gave her trouble. She repeated,
he
knows it is, and he knows I am,
he
knows . . .”
Martha said to Damian, as Daisy was wheeled away:
“She’s in pain. She doesn’t mean what she says—”
“Yes, she does.”
“They say women in labour shout out all sorts of things . . .”
“They do. I know, it’s my job. But she does think she’s going to die. I see it now. I didn’t see it before. She’s the sort of person I can’t—I can’t imagine what she really thinks or feels—
at all.
”
“Would it be all right if I stay?”
“It isn’t your problem.”
“She came to me.”
He wanted to cry,
I
didn’t. Exactly because she did I couldn’t. And can’t. He flipped his mind back to obstetrics.
“I need to check how she’s doing,” he said.
Daisy’s labour was long and horrible. She made it worse by letting loose nine months of pent-in terror and rage, screaming, weeping, and tensing all her muscles. She could not be too much anaesthetised, for fear of harming the baby, whose heartbeat was irregular, whose presentation turned out to be very awkward, with a twisted shoulder. Dr. Nanjuwany in turn panicked, and, ignoring what she knew and had not been told were all the ethical reasons for not involving Damian, she turned to him. He ended up delivering a live baby, slowly, deliberately, skilfully, not because he was its father, but because he was the man at that moment in that hospital who could deal with such a problem. He stitched the dangerous rip in the neck of Daisy’s womb, stroked the pale hair away from the sodden forehead, took her pulse, and wondered where her wandering soul was drifting as she relaxed into a drugged and unencumbered peace. He had nearly killed her. That was the truth of it.
HE WENT TO LOOK at his daughter.
She had been washed, and swaddled, and was breathing lightly, regularly. She had soft dark hair. She was a little bruised. She opened hazy mussel-dark eyes, and seemed to consider him. He looked back at her, not in pride at his achievement—although in the melodramatic way of real lives, he had saved her, and indeed Daisy. He was overcome with dreadful love and grief. She was a person. She had not been there, and now she was there, and she was the person he loved. It was simple and he was a changed man. His eyes were hot with tears. The hospital rustled and whispered behind him.
WHEN HE WENT to visit the next day, he found he was in the grip of an exalted fear. He was going to see the child again—that was the essential thing. In his mind he had named her Kate. He was going to see Daisy, who did not want to know or see Kate. He thought he would start with the difficult thing— he was not a procrastinator—the difficult thing was Daisy. Then he would revisit his daughter.
DAISY WAS in a curtained-off space of her own, with a bowl of fruit on her locker. She was sitting up in bed in a hospital nightshirt, and her hair was washed and floating. She was holding—he saw her—the baby, in her arms, at her breast. The baby was feeding. He could see the little ripples of movement in the fine skin over the back of her skull. She was feeding from the pierced nipple. Daisy’s little face was completely wet with tears. Her little hands, with their tattooed mittens, tightened round Kate, and grasped. She stared at Damian as though he meant to rip the child out of her arms. Her lip, with its silly studs, trembled.
Damian sat down heavily on the visitor’s chair. Daisy said, in a small but perfectly grown-up voice:
“I didn’t understand. I didn’t know. She’s perfect. No, it isn’t that, everybody says that. She’s
somebody,
she’s a person, and she’s mine and she—seems to need me. I mean, it does seem to be
me
she needs. I mean, I can’t help it, she can’t help it, I’m—hers, I mean, I’m her mother.” The word obviously gave her trouble. She repeated,
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