Read Online Writing in the Sand by Helen Brandom - Free Book Online
Authors: Helen Brandom
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Careful of every move I make, I dare to stretch out. I donât trust my own body. I feel floaty. And so hot I throw off the duvet.
Itâs back â the pain. Back with a vengeance, and I donât care what mess I make in the bed. All I want is to get rid of whateverâs causing this bloody agony. Itâs like I donât recognize this is me. Me and my body pushing hard, again and again, down into the bed. My lungs struggle for the deepest breath I ever took. Which I hang ontoâ¦until something slithers â out of me â onto the sheet.
A baby.
Iâm paralyzed with shock, and for a moment stop breathing altogether. At first I darenât touch anything: not the duvet, not my nightie, not my own flesh. My arms lie rigid. I stare at the ceiling, half blind, while a mad drummer beats inside my chest and a slippery warmth squirms between my legs.
My arms loosen, and I move my hands up and down over the baby. Itâs a boy. Somehow I grasp his wetness and pull him onto my stomach. He cries a tiny cry. My voice shakes in a whisper: âOh my God, what are you doing here?â
Chapter Ten
Stunned, I feel something else finding its way out. I donât have to wonder what this is: itâs the placenta. From Biology I know what it looks like. Liver. With me not even knowing a baby was inside me, this is whatâs kept him alive, and itâs still attached to his belly button by the umbilical cord.
In the half-light I reach into my bedside drawer and fumble for my nail scissors. Iâve seen births on TV and know what the cord is like. Ugly. Grey and twisted. Iâm glad I canât see it clearly. But I have to see it better than this, so I turn my bedside light on. The idea of cutting through the cord near his tummy is scary, so I start separating it close to the placenta instead.
Though Iâm sure it canât be hurting him, I keep saying Iâm sorry: âIâm sorry, Iâm so, so sorry .â It takes for ever, and when Iâve finished, I lay the cord across his middle and push the placenta aside. I hope I havenât done the wrong thing.
We havenât moved. Weâre lying on the bed, while I think what to do. God â what am I going to do? The baby turns his head, nuzzling. Heâs so small. Not even a normal doll size. His lips move, but his eyes are mostly shut. I turn off the light because I think if itâs dark heâs less likely to cry and wake Mum.
Itâs like my brain aches, trying to work something out. This baby, he canât stay here. Tears roll down my cheeks. Gradually, it comes to me. Thereâs only one place I can go.
I prise open the tiny fingers that grip the little finger of my left hand, move him to the safety of the middle of the bed, and tell myself Iâm strong enough to stand up.
Careful not to make even the slightest sound, I draw the curtain back. It hits me then â how just a few hours ago, when I closed this old blue curtain, I was still me, with just my GCSEs to worry about and the same old day-to-day stuff. Now Iâm another me. Numb, scared witless. With a newborn baby.
I wonât talk to him any more. Itâs best if I donât.
I wonât talk to him. But I know what to do.
In my wardrobe, on the floor at the back in a plastic bag, thereâs a cardigan I got at the hospice shop in town. I bought it for Mumâs next birthday. Looks like itâs never been worn. Perhaps someone died, or it didnât fit or they didnât suit red. I pull out the soft cardigan and spread it on the duvet. I fish under the bed for the shoebox I keep socks in, tip them out and put the box on the bed. I unfold the cardigan and lay the baby on it. I have to hold his arms and legs down so I can wind the soft red woolly stuff round and round him and the cord. Once Iâve wrapped him up he doesnât move. For one short moment, when moonlight touches the bed, I think he looks at me. I
Itâs back â the pain. Back with a vengeance, and I donât care what mess I make in the bed. All I want is to get rid of whateverâs causing this bloody agony. Itâs like I donât recognize this is me. Me and my body pushing hard, again and again, down into the bed. My lungs struggle for the deepest breath I ever took. Which I hang ontoâ¦until something slithers â out of me â onto the sheet.
A baby.
Iâm paralyzed with shock, and for a moment stop breathing altogether. At first I darenât touch anything: not the duvet, not my nightie, not my own flesh. My arms lie rigid. I stare at the ceiling, half blind, while a mad drummer beats inside my chest and a slippery warmth squirms between my legs.
My arms loosen, and I move my hands up and down over the baby. Itâs a boy. Somehow I grasp his wetness and pull him onto my stomach. He cries a tiny cry. My voice shakes in a whisper: âOh my God, what are you doing here?â
Chapter Ten
Stunned, I feel something else finding its way out. I donât have to wonder what this is: itâs the placenta. From Biology I know what it looks like. Liver. With me not even knowing a baby was inside me, this is whatâs kept him alive, and itâs still attached to his belly button by the umbilical cord.
In the half-light I reach into my bedside drawer and fumble for my nail scissors. Iâve seen births on TV and know what the cord is like. Ugly. Grey and twisted. Iâm glad I canât see it clearly. But I have to see it better than this, so I turn my bedside light on. The idea of cutting through the cord near his tummy is scary, so I start separating it close to the placenta instead.
Though Iâm sure it canât be hurting him, I keep saying Iâm sorry: âIâm sorry, Iâm so, so sorry .â It takes for ever, and when Iâve finished, I lay the cord across his middle and push the placenta aside. I hope I havenât done the wrong thing.
We havenât moved. Weâre lying on the bed, while I think what to do. God â what am I going to do? The baby turns his head, nuzzling. Heâs so small. Not even a normal doll size. His lips move, but his eyes are mostly shut. I turn off the light because I think if itâs dark heâs less likely to cry and wake Mum.
Itâs like my brain aches, trying to work something out. This baby, he canât stay here. Tears roll down my cheeks. Gradually, it comes to me. Thereâs only one place I can go.
I prise open the tiny fingers that grip the little finger of my left hand, move him to the safety of the middle of the bed, and tell myself Iâm strong enough to stand up.
Careful not to make even the slightest sound, I draw the curtain back. It hits me then â how just a few hours ago, when I closed this old blue curtain, I was still me, with just my GCSEs to worry about and the same old day-to-day stuff. Now Iâm another me. Numb, scared witless. With a newborn baby.
I wonât talk to him any more. Itâs best if I donât.
I wonât talk to him. But I know what to do.
In my wardrobe, on the floor at the back in a plastic bag, thereâs a cardigan I got at the hospice shop in town. I bought it for Mumâs next birthday. Looks like itâs never been worn. Perhaps someone died, or it didnât fit or they didnât suit red. I pull out the soft cardigan and spread it on the duvet. I fish under the bed for the shoebox I keep socks in, tip them out and put the box on the bed. I unfold the cardigan and lay the baby on it. I have to hold his arms and legs down so I can wind the soft red woolly stuff round and round him and the cord. Once Iâve wrapped him up he doesnât move. For one short moment, when moonlight touches the bed, I think he looks at me. I
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