Blood And Water (11 page)

Feeling a chill, she shivered and got up to continue her visit, pausing as she passed each enclosure, recognising changes to the contrived habitats since last time. Interesting, she acknowledged, that she should find wandering almost alone in a forest of caged wild animals so comforting. She felt a peculiar empathy with these creatures, caught in a situation they too had no control over. They had no say. She had no say; she was what she was, just as they were. She stopped and stood in front of the tigers and watched while the male paced back and forth along the perimeter: relentless, slow and rhythmic. Bored with his lot, stuck behind a thick wall of glass and impeded by boundaries that were beyond his capabilities to overcome. While the other, his mate, watched from further up the enclosure, equally bored but lazy and not bothered enough to care. They were a magnificent presence behind the reinforced glass: So wild and strong, their movements, or lack of, filled with anticipation of what might come, if they had the chance. Outwardly calm, just waiting for their moment to pounce, their frustration palpable and captivity unnatural. That’s how she felt: unnatural. Her respect for these creatures hadn’t changed since the last time she stood before them, watching, feeling caged, echoing their frustration and disappointment, but fully aware of the possibilities and opportunities. If only she had the chance.

They had been so excited the first time they discovered she was pregnant. To this day she had found nothing remotely comparable to that feeling of something so delicate growing inside her. And for the first time ever she felt truly useful. Special: like she had finally found her purpose. And while some of her friends objected when their shape swelled and their breasts enlarged, she loved it, relished it even. She adored her fullness and would stand naked in front of the mirror to marvel at how, as each day went by, her body changed that little bit more. She was happy, inside and out.

But just like that, it was over. How cruel life could be. In her twenty-fifth week she had gone to bed feeling perfectly fit and fine, their baby fluttering away inside her like a little busy butterfly in her belly. They fell asleep that night in each other’s arms with Robert’s hand resting protectively on her tummy. But in the morning the baby was still. At first she didn’t worry. But as each minute passed and morning became afternoon she felt the panic rise rapidly inside her. She lay deathly still on their bed for near two hours waiting, feeling everything else move inside her except her baby.

She lay on the hospital gurney with Robert holding her hand while the doctor squeezed the thick gloopy liquid straight on to her belly. He smiled compassionately, catching her eye every now and then, his eyes brimming with silent sympathy before he’d even started the scan. He knew, as did she, but he couldn’t say. He listened first. She didn’t take her eyes off his face, desperately watching for a sign, a positive sign, any visible change in his features that might give away even a hint of the truth and, although he did his best to give nothing away, she saw the slight movement in his mouth and knew instantly it was not going to be good news.

“Let’s take a look then,” he told them, going through the motions, to be sure.

All the while she lay there and hoped, prayed for a miracle, silently begging for an explanation as to why those incredible little flutters in her belly weren’t there any more: a reason other than the obvious. Slowly and methodically he moved the scanner over her rounded abdomen while she and Robert stared at the screen expectantly. It was torture. She couldn’t stand it. She just wished he’d say it and be done. He’s just being thorough, she told herself, he’s just doing his job. She felt her fingers tighten over Robert’s and his lips on her forehead. He knew it too.

When eventually those horrible words passed through her doctor’s lips she wasn’t able to cry.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, putting down the equipment and wiping the gel gently from her tummy. And taking her hand he told her what she had been dreading: “I can’t see a heartbeat.”

It was like every muscle in her body tensed. Like every pore dried up. Small cat-like sounds, alien and obscure, came from her mouth but they weren’t real, it wasn’t her.

Robert held her tight and wiped her tears before his own.

There were only three people in the room to help bring her small helpless, lifeless baby into the world. Limp and inert. They gave her pictures, so she could grieve over him, they said. He was tiny, so physically minute. Her contractions were sharp but he was born quickly and without fanfare. And while there was little pain after, it hurt deep inside her. It hurt where medicines could never reach and where the healing takes forever, if ever.

Afterwards she slept and when she woke it was dusk. The curtains weren’t yet drawn, giving the room an almost purple hue. Beyond the door the hospital hummed with activity and in the distance, but not that far away, babies cried. But not her baby.

She lay, looking through the window at the greying clouds against the deep blue, almost black sky, watching their shapes merge and extend to form obscure, sometimes familiar patterns.

A gentle knock on the door disrupted her melancholy but sedate mood. She turned just as he stepped into the room, the small visible square of his detachable white collar contrasting brightly against the black of his suit.

“Is it okay to come in?” he asked, entering without waiting for an answer. “I’m Father Anthony.”

Uninvited, he was already sitting in the chair at the bedside and had grasped her hand in his.

“I am so sorry for your loss, my dear,” he told her with an ethereal glow.

She was momentarily dumbstruck – why was
he
sorry?

“Was it your first?” he continued, either ignoring or not noticing the bewildered look on her face.

It,
she repeated in her head, taking a minute to think about what exactly he was offering. Sympathy? Solace? Silently she rejected them both. Withdrawing her hand from his grasp she turned in the bed, to look out the window again at the patterns in the clouds that made more sense than anything else around her.

The following morning they were directed to the morgue outside the main building on the hospital grounds from where they collected the smallest white coffin they ever expected or wanted to see. Clutching it tight, she held it in her arms as they drove the short distance to the church. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Her excited imaginings of that new baby smell, the touch of softer than soft skin, the quiet little murmurs, the strong grip of tiny fingers and the fast-beating heart had been shattered. Her fingers felt every raised fibre of that tiny timber casket. It felt so light, so delicate and small. Robert drove slowly and silently while she mindlessly watched the journey melt away through the window.

He had asked the priest who had married them to say a few words with them before the baby was buried. The words were simple but unremarkable and utterly pointless to Ciara whose mind was miles away, immersed in the thought of their baby and how far, how close, they had come. So, so close.

They called him Patrick, a good, strong name. He deserved that. The hole was dug. She almost laughed when she saw it: it was huge. Unnecessarily huge. The size of an adult coffin. And he was so very, very small. Aside from the priest there was only herself and Robert there to witness his burial. Someone came and put a ladder into the gaping wound in the ground and Robert climbed down to put Patrick in it. He would lie in the same plot as Ciara’s uncle who she knew would look after him in his next life, wherever that was supposed to be. And she really hoped he would have one.

After Robert emerged from the ground and took up his position beside Ciara, he put an arm around her shoulders and clutched her tight. She shook in its protective circle.

That day and night they lay in front of the fire, not bothering to go to bed, and comforted each other. She cried for her dead baby. She cried for herself who felt so empty. And she cried for her husband who she prayed would love her still.

The next time, less than four months later, she carried for only eight weeks, and the time after that it was thirteen and the most recent was twelve. Four lost souls in total but “No more”.

It was pointless trying not to cry: it never worked, she knew as much, and just let them come. But they gave her no comfort. A quiet respectful few tears shed in the memory of her lost children: nothing wrong with that.

A family of three screeching children and their exasperated mother shattered the moment. They stopped right beside her with their buggy and bags and moans and bickers.

“
Pleeeeeease,
Mummy!” one of them pleaded.

“Look at the lovely tigers,” their mother angled, doing her best to distract them from whatever it was they were after.

“
Mummyyyyyy
,” they persisted, “
pleeeeeease,
, just one more?”

“There are no more,” Mummy tried to explain. “Oh look!” she exclaimed dramatically, pointing again at the tigers. “Here comes the daddy one!” But they weren’t listening.

Ciara didn’t move. The kids were about as interested in seeing the tigers as Ciara was in sharing her moment with them. But neither, it seemed, had a choice. She observed them curiously through their reflection in the enclosure glass.

“For God’s sake, look at the tigers!” their mother quietly yelled with a quick self-conscious glance at Ciara.

“I don’t want to,” said the girl. “I want to go home.”

“Tigers are gay,” said the boy.

“Sam!” reprimanded their mortified mother with another quick glance towards Ciara who couldn’t help but smile.

Had Robert been there he probably would have tried to cheer her up by pointing out that babies grow up to be terrible toddlers and eventually surly teenagers, just like this lot. And he was right, but there and then Ciara would have given anything to swop places. To be that happy and have a family, her own family, one that she had created: something that came from her. She yearned for a baby and couldn’t understand why such a gift escaped her. Without it she felt empty and helpless. It was an impossible feeling to describe. Yes, she had her siblings, her parents and of course Robert, but despite them she felt inexplicably alone.

Eventually the whining invaders moved on and Ciara listened to their drone as it disappeared along the neatly manicured route, headed towards the penguins until, thankfully, peaceful silence was restored and she was left alone again with her thoughts.

Daylight was fast fading, the hush of the zoo disturbed only by the screech of the baboons and drone of the camels, with an occasional roar of the lioness.

Reluctantly she made tracks towards the exit.

A warden appeared, collecting the various bits of discarded rubbish as he went.

“Sorry, love, time to go.” Seeing her melancholy expression he asked, “Long day?”

“Something like that,” she replied, holding back a sigh, choosing instead to reciprocate his friendly gesture.

“Well, chin up, love! It could be worse!”

It could be worse
, she repeated, rolling the words over in her head. But Ciara had reached rock bottom. Just as the light was beginning to fade so too was her hope.

After the first miscarriage Kathryn had warned her that this might happen – that she’d dip emotionally. She actually used the word
dip
and, at the time, although Ciara had nodded appreciatively at her sister-in-law’s advice she never imagined it would go this far. Never, not for a single second did she consider that her trying to have a baby would fail so epically. This wasn’t a
dip
. A dip was far too gentle, a dip was something that only went halfway, that was easy to recover from, to get out of, to reverse. No, this wasn’t a dip, this was more like a nosedive.

Chapter 11

Kathryn was bored senseless with her life. Aside from her naughty little frolics at Sunday lunch, this would be the most exciting thing to happen in her dull, monotonous life since – well, for as long as she could remember. Flicking her compact open, she expertly rolled up her pink Chanel lipstick and with one hand applied it, watching its glossing coverage in the small mirror. Pouting, she examined the result, catching sight of her eyes as she lifted her chin: ice-blue and cold with only a yellowing hint of the bruise remaining, they looked back at her, determined and unsmiling. She knew what she was about to do was rather unorthodox, cruel even, but something had to be done to cut through the cycle: he wouldn’t hear her otherwise, and she wanted him to listen. Snapping the compact shut, she smoothed down her skirt, fixed her hair and tucked in her shirt. She was ready.

Sitting into the high-backed leather chair behind the vast bulk of her desk, which put as much distance as possible between her and her patients, she partially pulled out the drawer beside her, placing her beautifully manicured hand on top of the padded and full ochre envelope, and inhaled deeply.

They’ll be here soon, she told herself, surprised by the butterflies that fluttered in her perfectly toned and flat stomach. A lot of time, effort and money was spent on that tummy, keeping it looking perfect in her size-eight tailored suits. She worked hard at making sure that she looked the part: attractive wife of a thriving entrepreneur and a successful medical consultant in her own right. Not that Seb seemed to notice these days and when he did it was only the bad things: the little imperfections that she simply couldn’t hide. Yes, she worked hard at looking this good and to what end? Because
she
believed she really was worth it and worth so much more than
this.
It was, she conceded, unfortunate that Cormac was to be the vehicle through which she had decided to communicate the end of her marriage and for a split second she actually felt sorry for him, but he had unwittingly handed her the opportunity on a plate with his worried little wide eyes. And who was she to turn away from a gift like that? Life, she had decreed a long time since, was far too short for regrets and passengers. And while it was easy to feel a smidgen of remorse for what she was about to do to Cormac, it was just too hard to feel sorry for Seb. She let her head fall into her chest: feel sorry for him? It wasn’t that long ago that she felt nothing but love for him. While it could hardly have been described as love at first sight, more a mutual and professional respect, it was without doubt intense and genuine. He was driven and ambitious, while she was intelligent and pushy. Both high achievers, high maintenance, demanding and unrelenting, they were a perfect fit, their passion burgeoning from each other’s triumphs.