Prologue
Prologue
Beatrice looked at her phone, then nudged George. “All systems go,” she said.
George flicked on the light. “What?”
“It’s happening.”
“What’s happening?”
“The baby,” said Beatrice.
“Now—in the middle of the night?” said George.
“Yes. That’s when babies come, in the middle of the night.”
George pulled a face. “But we don’t have to get up, do we? I mean, what are you going to do?”
“Be there,” said Beatrice.
“Where, Glasgow?”
“She’s having a home birth,” said Beatrice.
“No one has a home birth in Ardrishaig, it’s the middle of nowhere.”
“Well, she might.”
“She never talked about it.”
“Look, just get me there,” said Beatrice.
George looked at Beatrice. Is she calmable?
He took a chance.
“The last thing she needs is you in the way. Steven will call us.”
Beatrice grunted and pulled her wheelchair closer to the bed.
“What are you doing now?” snapped George.
“I can’t sleep,” said Beatrice.
“Here, let me,” said George.
“No, it’s all right, wouldn’t want to disturb your sleep. I can do it.”
“I said let me,” said George.
Beatrice pulled the chair closer, overbalanced, and fell off the side of the bed onto the floor with one leg inelegantly tangled in the sheets.
She tugged at her leg.
“Told you,” said George.
“No you didn’t,” snapped Beatrice.
Sheryl looked at her baby and didn’t feel anything. She knew she was supposed to feel something, but she felt nothing.
Steven kissed the top of her head and looked at his wife. “She’s beautiful.”
Nothing.
He kissed the baby’s head and then hers again.
“My beautiful wife.”
Nothing.
She wanted to cry. Instead, she sighed. Maybe I’ll feel . . . when I get home.
Sheryl passed the baby to Steven.
“You think of a name. I need some sleep.”
The nurse looked at Steven. Sheryl, clocking the look, let out another sigh and rolled over.
Steven, with his precious bundle in his arms, walked to the window. It was like he was in a film. He was so happy—a beautiful baby girl, just like Sheryl. He stared down at her delicate features: the tiny fingers, the button nose. He slid a finger into her hand and her pink fingers curled around it. She was so small.
He stared into the morning sun, drinking in the fragrance of a newborn. “Our first day together, honey.”
He turned to look at his delicious wife, her curved back to him. The nurse threw a she’s tired look.
“There’s plenty of time for names,” he whispered to his daughter, “isn’t there, sweetie?”
Sheryl snored.
Sheryl spent the next day in bed trying not to think about the package in the cot beside her. When the package cried, the nurse picked it up, and Sheryl feigned sleep.
“She’s hungry,” said the nurse.
Sheryl whipped her eyes open and looked at the tiny face. I want to feel something, but I can’t.
A middle-aged woman patted her on the arm. “That’s right, make the most of the time in here. You’ll need it once you get home.”
“Aye, that’s right,” said a young woman in the next bed, “it’ll be weeks before you get a night to yourself.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” said the nurse.
“You feeding the wee one yourself?” said the young mother.
Sheryl nodded.
“Make that months,” she said.
