clean in a low metal sink and go through two sets of security doors and then they were in a small sunny room filled with incubators.
Dean looked around. The scenario was otherworldly. Eight babies the size of puppies wired up to flashing machinery.
‘There she is,’ said the nurse, ‘your little girl.’
Dean inhaled. She was on his far right. She was wearing a knitted white hat that was too big for her, and a gigantic nappy. Her legs emerged from the cavernous nappy splayed out like a supermarket chicken with the string cut off. Her arms were spread out and she looked for all the world as though she were sunbathing.
‘She’s beautiful,’ said his mum. ‘Oh, Dean, she’s just beautiful.’
Dean glanced down into the box. She was sleeping. Her fingers furled and unfurled in her sleep. With her wide mouth and far-apart eyes she looked a bit like a Muppet, like her face would divide in half when she opened her mouth. She looked just like him. Just exactly like him.
‘She looks like you, doesn’t she?’ said his mum.
Dean nodded. ‘Can I touch her?’ he asked the nurse.
‘Yes, you can.’
‘I’ll be gentle,’ he said, wanting to say it before she said it, before she made him feel like a big brute.
He stroked the palm of the baby’s hand with a fingertip. Her skin was warm and so fine and translucent it felt almost like nothing. ‘She’s so small,’ he murmured.
‘Just under four pounds,’ said the nurse. ‘A good weight. For her weeks. What are you going to call her?’
Dean stared at the baby and moved his fingertip to her cheeks. They were covered in a minky down. Part-Muppet, part-werewolf.
‘Isadora,’ he said. ‘Isadora Katy.’
The nurse smiled. ‘That’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘Had you already decided,’ she continued, ‘before, well …?’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’s what Sky wanted.’
‘Ah,’ said the nurse, ‘that’s good. Good that you’d already decided. Can we put that on her notes, then? Can we write it down? I-S-A-D-O-R-A? And K-A-T-Y? Higgins? Lovely. Great. I’ll leave you to it then, OK?’
His mum pulled a chair over for him to sit on and they sat together for a few minutes, staring at the baby. Dean was glad that Sky’s mum wasn’t here. She’d have been talking. Dean’s mum was like him, quiet, contemplative.
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ she said eventually. ‘She’s got all of you in her. All of your Dean-ness. It’s all in there. Like ingredients in a cake.’
Dean nodded. He hadn’t expected it. Hadn’t expected his baby to look like him. The whole pregnancy had been about Sky. Everything was always about Sky. It was her body, her baby, her pregnancy, her life, her flat, her world. Dean had just assumed that his daughter would be Sky in miniature. And there she was, four pounds nothing of him. Sky would have been gutted. She’d even said it: ‘I hope this girl doesn’t look like you, Dean, she’ll be spending her whole life plucking her fucking eyebrows. And wailing at the moon.’
But his features sat well on her, tiny and undercooked as she was. She was pretty.
Another nurse joined them and smiled. ‘Beautiful little thing,’ she said. And then she turned to Dean and she said, ‘I’m so so sorry for your loss.’
Dean felt like he’d been slapped. His loss. He hadn’t realised until just then that he’d lost something. He tried to bring Sky to mind; not the Sky who’d just died on a delivery table, or the Sky who’d spent the last six months hating him, but the other Sky, the one he’d spent three years lusting after, fantasising about, the prettiest girl he’d ever been with. He wasn’t sure he’d ever loved her, but he’d liked her, more than he’d liked anyone else he’d been with.
No, he hadn’t lost the love of his life. He hadn’t lost his soul-mate. But he had lost the person who was going to bring up his baby. That person had gone, taking her milk and her lullabies and her enthusiasm for buying small
Dean looked around. The scenario was otherworldly. Eight babies the size of puppies wired up to flashing machinery.
‘There she is,’ said the nurse, ‘your little girl.’
Dean inhaled. She was on his far right. She was wearing a knitted white hat that was too big for her, and a gigantic nappy. Her legs emerged from the cavernous nappy splayed out like a supermarket chicken with the string cut off. Her arms were spread out and she looked for all the world as though she were sunbathing.
‘She’s beautiful,’ said his mum. ‘Oh, Dean, she’s just beautiful.’
Dean glanced down into the box. She was sleeping. Her fingers furled and unfurled in her sleep. With her wide mouth and far-apart eyes she looked a bit like a Muppet, like her face would divide in half when she opened her mouth. She looked just like him. Just exactly like him.
‘She looks like you, doesn’t she?’ said his mum.
Dean nodded. ‘Can I touch her?’ he asked the nurse.
‘Yes, you can.’
‘I’ll be gentle,’ he said, wanting to say it before she said it, before she made him feel like a big brute.
He stroked the palm of the baby’s hand with a fingertip. Her skin was warm and so fine and translucent it felt almost like nothing. ‘She’s so small,’ he murmured.
‘Just under four pounds,’ said the nurse. ‘A good weight. For her weeks. What are you going to call her?’
Dean stared at the baby and moved his fingertip to her cheeks. They were covered in a minky down. Part-Muppet, part-werewolf.
‘Isadora,’ he said. ‘Isadora Katy.’
The nurse smiled. ‘That’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘Had you already decided,’ she continued, ‘before, well …?’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’s what Sky wanted.’
‘Ah,’ said the nurse, ‘that’s good. Good that you’d already decided. Can we put that on her notes, then? Can we write it down? I-S-A-D-O-R-A? And K-A-T-Y? Higgins? Lovely. Great. I’ll leave you to it then, OK?’
His mum pulled a chair over for him to sit on and they sat together for a few minutes, staring at the baby. Dean was glad that Sky’s mum wasn’t here. She’d have been talking. Dean’s mum was like him, quiet, contemplative.
‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ she said eventually. ‘She’s got all of you in her. All of your Dean-ness. It’s all in there. Like ingredients in a cake.’
Dean nodded. He hadn’t expected it. Hadn’t expected his baby to look like him. The whole pregnancy had been about Sky. Everything was always about Sky. It was her body, her baby, her pregnancy, her life, her flat, her world. Dean had just assumed that his daughter would be Sky in miniature. And there she was, four pounds nothing of him. Sky would have been gutted. She’d even said it: ‘I hope this girl doesn’t look like you, Dean, she’ll be spending her whole life plucking her fucking eyebrows. And wailing at the moon.’
But his features sat well on her, tiny and undercooked as she was. She was pretty.
Another nurse joined them and smiled. ‘Beautiful little thing,’ she said. And then she turned to Dean and she said, ‘I’m so so sorry for your loss.’
Dean felt like he’d been slapped. His loss. He hadn’t realised until just then that he’d lost something. He tried to bring Sky to mind; not the Sky who’d just died on a delivery table, or the Sky who’d spent the last six months hating him, but the other Sky, the one he’d spent three years lusting after, fantasising about, the prettiest girl he’d ever been with. He wasn’t sure he’d ever loved her, but he’d liked her, more than he’d liked anyone else he’d been with.
No, he hadn’t lost the love of his life. He hadn’t lost his soul-mate. But he had lost the person who was going to bring up his baby. That person had gone, taking her milk and her lullabies and her enthusiasm for buying small
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