Page 22 of Damon

She giggles and an unfamiliar sensation fills my chest, a happiness I’ve not felt for months. Not since my wife passed away. Deciding to ignore it, I switch on the car and reverse to allow the little red sports car to exit before taking the spot myself.

Once I’ve extricated Emma from her seat and grabbed the bag from the rear, I take her hand to lead her toward the hospital entrance. She walks slowly, leaning back slightly with each step. I try to match my pace to hers as we cross the pavement. Her fingers are slick in mine.

“Nervous?” One glimpse at her tells me she’s terrified. Her face is pale, all the rosy glow of fun and youth gone. She mumbles something I can’t make out. I squeeze her fingers in an attempt at silent reassurance.

Over the past month, I’ve held her hand a few times when we’ve been out in the city, for safety. Her balance has been less stable, and I noticed she was tiring easier as we walked. But the feeling of her delicate bones in mine is a relaxing one. I enjoy the personal contact.

The glass doors slide open as we approach, the bright lights of the hospital sting my eyes. The reception area is bustling with people queuing to speak to a staff member or scurrying off to the relevant department. We stop and look up at the sign above our head listing the various units within the building. It tells us that the maternity unit is located on the second floor. We already know this, so stopping to check is purely habit, but I suspect Emma is happy for a further delay.

I lead her to the elevator and press the button. The small black screen tells me it’s currently on floor four, and the numbers reduce insanely slowly. Finally, the chrome doors part, and we step into the small space. “Floor two,” Emma confirms. I press the corresponding button and the doors close, then we rise into the air.

The maternity department is much calmer than the lower floor of the hospital. No one is running around, and the only sound is the chatter of nurses sitting at their station. We approach the desk, and a woman who looks to be in her mid-fifties smiles kindly. I place my hand on Emma’s lower back as we come to a stop in front of her. It strikes me that I’ve been touching her a lot since we left the car, and the actions have felt normal. It feels like something I need to do while we undertake this journey.

“Good morning,” the nurse says. Her voice has a lilt, almost as if she is singing. “How can I help?”

“I’m Emma Becker. I was told to come in this morning as the doctor wants to start induction.” Her voice trembles slightly as she speaks. “Are we in the right place?”

“You are, dear,” she confirms, looking between us. Her focus moves to the computer beside her, and she types something onto the keyboard. “Here you are, your room is ready. I’ll show you both through.” She walks out from behind the desk, and we follow her along the corridor then come to stop outside a white door numbered 267. It sits ajar, and she pushes it open fully. We step through one after the other.

The room is large, which is surprising. There’s enough space for the hospital bed, a sofa, and a small unit which holds a television. Beside the bed is a crib, already prepared for a new arrival. In the corner is what looks like a jacuzzi, then immediately beside it is a door which leads through to what I assume is the bathroom.

“It’s not fancy,” the nurse says, “but it is perfect to bring your baby into the world. Do we know if it’s a little pink or a little blue package you’re having?” She beams at us. Emma stiffens under my fingers.

“It’s a little girl,” she says.

“How wonderful. And have you both decided on a name?”

Emma focuses on me. Her eyes run over my face, assessing my reaction. It’s something I’ve seen her do before when someone asks about the baby in her belly. She’s never sure what to say, and neither I am. People assume we are together—it’s only natural. The strange thing is, as far as her pregnancy goes, we are in it together, but it will only be me gaining a child. Emma will end this process a single woman with a much brighter future.

“No firm decision on the name yet,” I tell the nurse.

“Once you see her, you’ll know,” she says with a nod. “I’ll let you both get settled. The doctor will be in soon to talk you through the procedure for induction.”

“Okay,” Emma stammers.

“Thank you,” I add, and we both watch her leave.

Emma walks over to the window as I place the bag onto the sofa then move to her side. She looks out onto the garden below. The hospital is built in a square with a central communal space for patients to enjoy. A woman sits on a bench rocking a tiny baby in her arms. A man, I assume her partner, approaches; he sits down beside her then wraps his arm around her shoulders and kisses her temple. The scene is both beautiful and heartbreaking. What we’re witnessing, I should have experienced with Connie. The loss is glaring as I watch on. When my eyes move to Emma, a tear is rolling down her cheek. It makes me pause.

“Are you okay?” I ask, and she shrugs. “You’ll have that moment one day.” She looks at me with round, water-filled eyes. “One day, when you’re settled with the man you love, you’ll have a child of your own, and that.” I gesture at the family in the garden.

“How are you feeling about today?” she asks, surprising me by not acknowledging what was said.

“Excited, nervous. But mostly sad that Connie isn’t here too.”

“Me too,” she whispers.

I unpack the bag, then the doctor arrives and talks us through the process of starting Emma’s labor and administers the initial medication. Due to Emma not showing any signs of natural labor, we’ve been advised we should expect to be here a while, possibly days. Once she’s changed into a hospital gown, she settles herself on the bed.

“I’ve been thinking,” she says as I sit on the sofa reading a car magazine that had been left lying on the table. There was a tall pile, and most were for home and garden. I suspect the one I have was read by another soon-to-be dad before me. “I don’t want to hold her.”

I close the magazine and place it beside me on the cushion. “At all?”

She shakes her head. “As soon as she’s born, I want you and her to leave. I don’t want to see you together. I don’t want to be part of it.” Her words are sharp, and her mouth thins to a line. “I can’t be part of it.”

“What about milk?” I question.

“The nurse can provide you with formula. I already asked when I came before. Once my milk comes in, I’ll express for you as agreed.”

---