She gently pushes me back and finds a device that looks like a remote control which elevates the head of my bed so I can sit up a bit.
“Careful.” She points to my stomach. “Stitches,” she explains.
What happened to my baby?
Before I can ask, Adam himself comes in. “How are you feeling?”
“What…?” My voice hardly works with my panicked breathing, I put a hand on my absent bump.
“You had a detached placenta.” His voice manages to be professional and friendly at the same time. “It caused a haemorrhage, but fortunately you were found in time. We rushed you in here for an emergency caesarean section. Had to fly in an anaesthetist from Guernsey.” He finds a chart hanging at the foot of my bed and reads through it very fast.
“Please…” I’m too scared to speak properly. “Where is my baby?” The last word is barely audible.
His eyes glance beyond me; I follow his gaze.
On the other side of my bed there’s a small cot with a glass cover, and inside it is a tiny, tiny face.
My baby?
Relief washes away my fear like the waves of a sea retreating from the shore. There’s tiny face and an even tinier hand peaking from under a pink blanket.
Pink.
I reach my arms out. “Please.”
Laura takes my hand and tries to make me lie back against the head rest.
“Not just now.” Adam comes round to wheel the cot closer. You are too weak to carry her just now. And your wound hasn’t healed.”
I don’t care about my wound.
“Lessa.” He too lays a firm hand on my shoulder to stop me getting up. “You can’t hold her, you’ll drop her.”
That, finally, stops me. I don’t want to hurt my baby.
“You’ll be stronger in a few days.”
“Is she okay? Why is she in the box?”
“She’s five weeks premature. We need to keep her warm.”
“What if anything goes wrong?”
“She’ll be fine.” Adam assures me, sounding calm and confident. “She’s healthy and perfect. The midwife will be along soon to help you feed her. For now, you need to get your strength back.”
Who cares about my strength? The only thing that matters is protecting her, myLittle Pomegranate. She has red, fuzzy hair and flawless tiny hands bunched into tiny, tiny fists. I can’t stop watching her. Even when they bring me breakfast on a tray I can’t eat. All my attention is on the little sleeping face.
I must do things. Arrangements. Now she’s here, I have to look after her. Stop people coming in here unless they’re super clean, hygienic.
“They told me you were up.” Brandon stands at the door wearing a grey hoodie and jeans that look like they just came out of the dryer. He’s also freshly shaven. When he comes over to sit on the edge of my bed, I can smell fresh clothes and faint orange zest.
“How are you?” He takes my hand, careful of the drip cannula. It’s on odd thing to ask when he’s the one with dark smudges under his eyes.
Then he turns to the little cot, and his face is transformed. “Hello, Little Pomegranate,” he says in a curiously soft voice. “You are getting more beautiful every minute.”
“They won’t let me hold her.” I appeal to him.
“I know.” He squeezes my hand then glances around. “Let’s see.”
