Pescador's Wake (15 page)

When the ambulance arrives, Julia is still lying on the tiles of her kitchen floor, the hand towel decorated with red roses now sodden between her legs. She has heard the siren's oscillating crescendo building from the direction of the port: first in the distance, rushing along the riverfront Rambla as if in a dream, then turning right and becoming more insistent until she has had to cover her ears with her hands. The scattered toast crumbs on the floor are drenched in her fluid. So is the lower part of her dress. The baby's kicks and rolls hit hard without the liquid cushion. She tries to soothe her child and herself by rubbing her stomach in large, sweeping circles and whispering to the tiny life that is warm and nurtured within her. She imagines her child extracting oxygen directly from her blood, not yet ready to breathe, not yet ready to be born.

Julia opens the front door to the paramedics, leaving a line of amniotic fluid along the hallway. There are no hellos but the older man offers a polite smile as he carries the stretcher inside and sets it down on the floor.

‘So, you're only twenty-seven weeks' pregnant,' he confirms as he guides her onto the stretcher and places a
welcome hand on her wrist to take her pulse. His brown eyes are deep and kind. He reminds her of a middle-aged Carlos.

‘
Si
,' she says. There are hot tears on her cheeks. ‘It's not enough.' The sound of her own voice, small and frightened, comes as a shock.

‘No.' The response is honest. ‘We'll do what we can.'

The other paramedic asks Julia to roll onto her side. ‘It's better for the baby,' he says as he places a drip-line in her arm. ‘This is in case they need to give you IV drugs in hospital.' He takes her blood pressure, and makes notes on a plastic clipboard attached to the end of the stretcher.

Outside, Julia is aware of someone stopping beside her. She sees short black shoes and beige stockings and hears the voice of her elderly neighbour. ‘Oh, Julia. The baby?'

Julia's hand is across her face.

‘You will be all right. Both of you.' The woman holds Julia's hand in her own arthritic one and gives it a slight squeeze. ‘I will pray for you,' she says as the stretcher is lifted into the ambulance.

It's just what Julia needs to hear. Blind faith and optimism. The ambulance doors close. She feels a warm hand reassessing her pulse. ‘It's a bit quick,' the older paramedic says. ‘Just relax.'

‘I'm trying to.' Julia then repeats to herself a calming mantra. She learned meditation when she was trying to fall pregnant again after María was born. Relaxation, she was told,
would help. But, as she focuses her mind, she feels her abdomen harden, drum-tight. ‘
¡Ay, no!
' she cries.

‘A contraction?' the more senior attendant asks.

‘
Si
.'

‘Painful?'

‘Not very.'

‘Well, they mightn't become regular. Just relax. Chase them away in your head.'

Julia lies quietly, trying desperately to soothe herself with her silent mantra. ‘Ommm, ommm, ommm.' It becomes an internal clock, ticking off the minutes between each tightening. She wills the contractions away.

To distract herself, she thinks of her parents' home in the hills. She sees chooks squabbling and hears the rustle of leaves in the orchard. She imagines sinking her teeth into the soft downy flesh of a peach, tasting its sweetness. In the orange groves, she can smell the summery fruit. She scrapes the heavy globe of an orange with her fingernail, filling the air with the perfume of better times. Her father is talking, but she can't make out what he's saying. Her mother is there too, telling her she will be all right. María is playing on a swing in the dense shade of the grapevine that shrouds the courtyard.

But the daydream is interrupted by light so bright it penetrates her eyelids as the doors of the ambulance are flung open. She is lifted out of the vehicle and can hear the men's footsteps on the bitumen change to the sharp, efficient
clicks of shoes on a polished vinyl floor. She is in the hospital, she realises without even opening her eyes. She hears nursing staff direct them through the echoing corridors and into a quieter place, perhaps an examination room. Information is relayed on blood pressure and heart rate. Someone takes her hand. Julia opens her eyes and sees the older paramedic's face.

‘You just relax. My wife had the same thing happen. You'll be okay,' he says. ‘And remember, God won't deal you anything you can't handle.' He clasps her hand firmly.

‘
Muchísimas gracias
.' She shuts her eyes again, and hears the door open and close. She wonders what horror she is capable of enduring. What hand will God deal her? How cruel can He be? She isn't even sure that she believes in God, but decides to give prayer a chance one last time. Now or never. ‘Please let this baby survive,' she utters quietly to any god who may be listening. ‘
Please
let my baby live.'

‘Do you want me to call your husband?'

Julia opens her eyes, surprised that the nurse is still in the room and has heard her small prayer. ‘He's at sea. I can't reach him,' she answers, turning her head away.

‘How long is he away?'

‘A couple more weeks, at least,' she says through tears. It's impossible to stop the flood of salt water from her eyes now, just as she can't stop the constant trickle of amniotic fluid from the broken bag of waters within her womb.

‘He's a nice fellow, that ambulance man,' the nurse says, changing the subject as she places a monitor around Julia's stomach to trace the baby's heart rate and any further contractions.

Julia realises she didn't ask the paramedic if his own baby had survived.

‘The doctor will be here soon to take a look at you.' The nurse tips the contents of a medicine bottle into her hand. ‘Luckily he's on the ward this morning. He asked me to give you these.' She places two small white tablets on a tray. ‘They should help settle the contractions.' The nurse makes a note on the medical chart. ‘I'll be back with the steroid injection. It'll strengthen your baby's lungs.'

About five minutes pass before the nurse re-enters with a large syringe and a vial, which she pierces with the needle. She fills the syringe to the brim before unloading it slowly and painfully into Julia's thigh. Julia feels the nurse's hand rub at her leg, spreading the drug throughout the muscle and easing the discomfort. She wonders how long it will be before her blood carries the steroid to her baby's lungs, pumping them up in readiness for life outside the womb. The nurse covers her again with the sheet. ‘So, your husband is away. These men sure know how to pick their times, don't they?' The nurse pulls a face that is both bemused and disapproving. ‘I had both my children when my husband was out of the country. Is there someone else I can call for you?'

‘
Si.
Can you please call Cecilia Castillo de Molteni? I don't have her telephone number with me, sorry. The address is Buschental Avenue, number six, I think. It'll be in the phone directory. She's looking after my daughter and was expecting me to pick her up this morning. She'll have to keep her there for a few more days, I suppose.'

‘Si,
at least. Leave it to me. And what about your parents? Are they close by?'

‘They're in Tarariras. But there's no point worrying everyone just yet. The contractions might stop. Mightn't they?'

The nurse doesn't meet Julia's eyes. ‘You just relax and think of somewhere nice,' she says warmly. There's a brief knock at the door, and the doctor comes in. ‘Here he is.
¡Bueno!
' Her face softens with relief.

The obstetrician introduces himself briskly to Julia before studying the printout spewing from the monitors. His face doesn't give much away. He readies the ultrasound machine for an examination. ‘Let's see what's going on in there,' he says.

The doctor's presence, alone, provides comfort, but Julia knows he's no miracle worker. ‘What are the chances if my baby is born now?' she asks.

‘Well, all babies are different. But statistically, about seventy per cent born at this gestation survive.' He squeezes a tube of lubricant onto the ultrasound device and passes it over Julia's belly. He clicks away on the machine, measuring the baby's length.

‘Your baby is a good size for its age. We might be all right.' He slides the ultrasound over Julia's glazed skin. He glides it down low on her abdomen and presses firmly just above her pubic bone. Julia watches his face.

‘The baby is certainly on its way, but we'll see if we can hold it off for a day or so. The nurse has already given you the steroid injection, so it will just be a case of wait-and-see now. The longer the drug has to work the better, but there's also a risk of infection for the baby now that your waters have broken. It's a balancing act.'

‘Why has this happened?'

‘It's difficult to say. Premature labour isn't something we have a good understanding of. Be assured it's nothing you've done. You didn't have a scan before presenting here, though, did you?'

‘No. I was due for an appointment a couple of weeks ago but my daughter was ill and I had to put it off. I got sick, too. A gastric thing. Could that have brought this on?'

‘It's possible, but chances are we'll never know the cause, to be honest. Babies are just born too early sometimes. Unfortunately, things are rarely as black and white as we would like. See if you can get some rest. There's nothing you can do now.'

The doctor gives Julia a pat on the knee and leaves.

The nurse re-enters. ‘Just thought I'd turn these bright lights off for you,' she says before flicking three switches,
extinguishing all but one of the lights. ‘Sleep now.' She closes the door.

The room hums with the sound of the air conditioner, the electronic beeping of the monitors, and the whir from the printer. The printout's squiggly line, the baby's heart rate, is broken by sudden jagged peaks of uterine contractions. It reminds Julia of the graphs that record the seismic details of an impending earthquake. Sleep seems like a sick joke.

Julia watches the clock on the wall. Never before has each minute been so important. It's difficult to believe it's not yet nine o'clock. Not even an hour has passed since she woke and watched the
gorrión
bird catch its breakfast on the lawn. Yet already the lights have been switched off and she has been put to bed on this, the shortest—and longest—day of her life. Julia strikes her hand against the mattress, resentful that Carlos isn't here. But how could he have known this would happen? How could anyone have known?

She tries to think of the things that make her happiest: searching the beach for shells and polished glass with María, and playing tea parties with her on the picnic rug under the
Tipas
tree. Julia thinks, too, of Carlos arriving home in earlier years, and the languid afternoons they spent together making love. And she thinks of Eduardo, and the deep ache that invades her body every time she stands too close to him. When she's with Eduardo, it's as though they're teenagers again, naïve and optimistic. With him, everything feels as if it
will turn out well. Perhaps this premature labour is her penance for her love for him, she thinks. Punishment for their affair. But she pushes the idea away. No god would be so cruel as to punish an unborn child for its mother's sins. No god that she wants to know.

There's a knock at the door and an old woman in a crisp white apron delivers a cup of tea, but no breakfast. ‘I was told fluids only,' the woman whispers. ‘In case you have to go down to theatre. You'll have your baby soon.' She rubs her hands together gleefully, unaware of what is at stake, and shuts the door smartly behind her.

Julia sits up and sips the tea but it's cold and too strong. She goes to put it back on the side table, but is overcome by a low ache in her womb. The tea spills down the drawers, bleeding all the way to the floor. The squeeze in her abdomen intensifies. It's unmistakable, a true labour contraction. She lies on her side. Five minutes pass and she feels another. Then a third, more painful now. Her internal birthing clock has found its rhythm, and is locking it in.

The nurse arrives and reads the expression on Julia's face before investigating the monitor's latest output. The graph confirms what Julia already knows.

‘We'd better call Doctor. I suspect he'll want to get things underway as soon as possible now. It'll need to be a caesarean at this gestation.'

‘So I've just been told.'

‘You've already seen the doctor?'

‘No, the tea lady!' Julia says, through gritted teeth, her face screwed up in pain.

‘Oh, I'm so sorry. A normal birth would be too stressful for the baby. It's for the best.' The nurse writes something on Julia's chart and hurries away.

Julia, left alone again with the machines, is aware of the familiar sting of tears on her cheeks. The baby is going to be taken from her body within the next couple of hours. She finds herself saying another prayer. She doesn't have much else to call on. If only Carlos were here.

The examination room is suddenly abuzz with preparations and staff. Julia is dressed in a gown and is shaved and washed with iodine. The doctor enters the room, swinging the door wide, and inspects the graph. He twists his mouth sideways, and holds the head of the ultrasound against Julia's uterus, just as another contraction takes hold.

‘He's still all right, but we'll need to be quick.'

Julia catches a glimpse of the baby's face in profile on the monitor for the first time, and sees a tiny hand give a floating wave.

‘
Hola
,' Julia whispers to her child as she waves back.

‘Your baby is distressed with these heavier contractions,' the doctor says. ‘I have to make some calls. I'll be back in a couple of minutes.' He is already on his way out the door, and seems to have changed modes, viewing her now as a patient
to be cut and sewn. He can't afford to be distracted by sympathy or personal concern.