Twenty-Six

Lisa goes into labour at midnight. I hold her hand and she screams at the dark, and I say:

“It’s all right,” because that’s what you’re supposed to say. Because I'm useless when it comes to this. I time the contractions even though I don’t know why you’re supposed to do that. I find almost-clean cloths and almost-clean water and wait and wait and wish I could do something to take her pain away. She’s praying under her breath.

Never have I felt quite so helpless.

Hours pass, but these hours have been squashed up so that they fly by in drips and tears. The contractions get steadily more frequent and more painful and then Lisa’s grip is crushing my hand as she struggles and strains.

“It’s coming,” she moans.

“What should I do?” I ask. I'm suddenly desperately scared, but she doesn’t answer, just shakes her head and another spasm crosses her body and she screams again. Then the head is visible and Lisa’s breath is one long scream. The head is out and she slumps back against the wall and she’s crying, gasping sharp, cold air. The head is out, but not the body.

“You’re nearly there,” I say, “Come on. Once more.”

“I’m tired." Her voice sounds faint. This place is far too cold, our breath evaporating even inside.

“You’re nearly there.” Then she tenses up once more and screams, and I reach down and support the slippery, bloody head as the rest of the body eases out. And then I’m holding the baby and it’s the smallest, most wrinkled and ugly human being I have ever seen. It is beautiful.

It slips free, and with it comes a bloody mess of tissue. The afterbirth.

“Lisa?” She looks asleep, and with a sudden stab of gutting fear I recall the stories I have heard of women who die during childbirth. “Lisa? I’ve got the baby. It’s fine, I’ve got . . .” I pause briefly to look at the slimy, crying thing in my arms. “. . . her.”

Lisa seems to wake up again, and takes the baby, holds it while I find spare clothes to wrap it in. I'm shaking. I can't really believe that it has happened, and that the baby is fine and alive. A tight knot that I've been carrying around for weeks seems to dissolve in my stomach.

By the time I’ve found blankets for the baby Lisa has fallen asleep with it cradled against her, and even sweating and haunted and tired as she is she’s beautiful. She wakes as I gently take the baby and wrap it up. Her eyes follow my every move.

“We need to cut the cord,” she says faintly.

I find a knife and twine in the kitchen and use a forgotten bottle of whisky to sterilise the blade. But I don't know what to do, and so it is Lisa who ties off the cord, cuts it quickly and cleanly. She holds the baby against her again before she goes back to sleep. And then it is just me.

It feels for a while as though the whole world is in this room, and is soft and real. Nothing can ever matter more than this. I take the empty gun and I go outside and I drop it off the edge of the sea wall into the ocean. Than I go back in and sit awake to watch them sleep, Lisa and the newborn child, everything in the world for which I might have hoped.