— Yes. The relinquishment papers are in my office. As soon as the neonatologist clears her, the baby will be transferred to the residential facility. I’ll speak to Natalie myself and explain that babies with severe chromosomal conditions often have complications incompatible with life. I think in four days you’ll be able to take Natalie home.
There was a long silence. Eleanor let out a breath of relief, as if a heavy weight had finally been lifted. Edward still had not fully processed that he had become a father, but he felt sick — like a man who had traded something sacred for comfort. The silence was broken by Dr. Miller.
— Would either of you like to see the baby?
Before Edward could answer, Eleanor flinched as though shoved and said firmly:
— We do not have a baby. Sadly, she didn’t survive. That’s how this needs to remain.
When Natalie woke, no one was in the room. She remembered being taken into surgery. She remembered, or thought she remembered, hearing a baby cry. But she couldn’t make sense of what had happened. The bassinet that had stood beside her bed earlier was gone. She tried to sit up, but the room spun and she dropped back onto the pillow. A nurse appeared in the doorway, having been watching the monitor. She carried prepared syringes in her hand.
— Where’s my baby? — Natalie asked thickly.
— Tomorrow. We’ll talk tomorrow. Right now you need to rest, — the nurse said in the soothing tone people use with children.
She gave Natalie an injection, and Natalie drifted off again. The next morning, when she opened her eyes, Edward was sitting beside her. One look at him told her something terrible had happened. He took her hand gently and pressed it to his lips.
— Natalie, sweetheart… our little girl… she’s gone. We don’t have our daughter, — he said, tears in his eyes.
For once, Edward wasn’t acting. Those weren’t tears of grief for the baby. They were tears of shame. He was so disgusted with himself he could hardly stand it. Natalie tried to get up, but at that moment Dr. Miller entered with Eleanor behind her.
— Easy, easy, — the doctor said. — No getting up yet. Maybe by this evening you can sit up.
— Natalie, honey, — Eleanor hurried to the bedside, — we’re here. We’ll get through this together.
Once the first shock passed, Dr. Miller began explaining. After the C-section, she said, they had discovered multiple severe abnormalities. The baby had not been viable.
— But I heard her cry, — Natalie said.
— No, that wouldn’t be possible. Resuscitation efforts were unsuccessful. You were under anesthesia. Sometimes people hear things that aren’t there, — Dr. Miller replied.
— When can I see my daughter? — Natalie asked.
— Natalie, don’t do that to yourself. Believe me, it would be a terrible image to carry. It would stay with you for life. It could make you afraid to ever be pregnant again. I know this is painful — for all of us — but you can’t sink into grief. You have to accept it and think about the future.
Edward watched this absurd performance in horror. More than once he nearly interrupted and told the truth, but each time his mother’s hard look stopped him.
During the three days Natalie remained in the hospital, either her husband or her mother-in-law stayed with her. Officially, they were helping her through the loss. In reality, they were afraid the truth might somehow come out.
When Natalie got home, she couldn’t settle. The nursery she had lovingly prepared had been turned back into a home office while she was gone. Nothing remained to suggest a baby had ever been expected there. That first evening she sat on the couch staring at the wall, barely responding to anything her husband or mother-in-law said.
Her mind replayed the happy months of pregnancy, when despite the warnings she had made plans and believed she and Edward could handle whatever came, that they could give their daughter the best possible life. “We never even gave her a name,” she said at last. But she didn’t cry. She just drifted back into silence.
The next day Edward went to work, and Eleanor stayed with Natalie. She tried to draw her into conversation, but Natalie answered in short, distracted phrases, as if her mind were somewhere far away. She mechanically ate the breakfast Eleanor made for her, then suddenly asked:
— Where was my daughter buried?
