Chapter ten
The London Maternity Centre
Emma
Damon walks out of the room, his strong muscles tense below his knitted sweater.
The sob that has been lodged in my throat for hours finally escapes.
As I sit on the bed, propped up by pillows, my face drops into my hands, and I allow myself to cry.
These past weeks have been confusing, and today has me completely perplexed.
If Connie had been here, he would have been holding her hand and supporting her, and ultimately both of them would have been here for me.
But she’s not, so that natural nurturing of an expectant father has transferred to me, the woman pregnant with his child.
With every touch, smile, and reassurance, I fall a little deeper in love with him.
The idea of creating a family becomes more and more appealing, but my head knows that’s never an option.
He isn’t here with me through choice, merely obligation.
I needed to be the one to draw the line and decide when it all ends.
It finishes as soon as this baby leaves my body and becomes only his.
The nurse who welcomed us to the department re-enters the room. Sympathetic eyes fall on me as I cry into my palms. “I’m so sorry, dear,” she says. “I wasn’t aware of the situation. Please accept my apologies for making assumptions about who the baby’s parent was.”
I shake my head and attempt to speak, but no words come out. She walks over, then sits on the chair beside the bed, taking my hand between her two.
“Chief Constable McKinney has updated the staff on the situation. We’re making alternative arrangements for him and the little one. Can I ensure that you’re comfortable with the circumstances as they stand?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “It’s for the best.”
“Do you want Chief Constable McKinney here while you’re in labor?”
“Yes, Damon deserves to see his child born.”
“Whether he does or not, you are the one birthing this baby. It’s up to you who supports you through it.”
“I want him here,” I tell her, and look up to assess her reaction. Her expression remains passive.
“And this surrogacy is consensual?” she continues. “Are you being forced to surrender your rights as the mother of this child?”
I shake my head violently from side to side.
“This was how it was agreed with him and his wife, but…”
I pause, unable to form the next heartbreaking sentence.
She squeezes my fingers, waiting patiently.
“She was murdered while I was pregnant. This…”
I pull my hand from hers and wave both of them in the air. “This isn’t how it was supposed to be.”
“I understand,” she says kindly.
“How can you? It’s a complete fuck up,” I wail.
“This was meant to be easy. A painless arrangement that helped us all.”
The desolation that’s been circling in my mind for weeks returns with force.
I’m confronted with the reality that I may have made life easier for myself for a short while, but in the process, I’ve broken my own heart.
Once again, I’ve hurt myself by trying to do the right thing.
I may not be running for my life, but I’m walking away to protect my heart.
“You still have a choice,” the nurse says. “Perhaps it would be beneficial to speak with someone who can advise you on the situation, tell you exactly what your rights are concerning this child. Or a therapist who can help you process it all?”
“I am aware of my rights, and I don’t need a bloody therapist,” I snap. “I need to maintain my side of the contract. I knew what I was agreeing to.” She nods, but her lips press together in a thin line. It’s clear she doesn’t approve of my stance.
“If that’s your decision. When you’re ready, I can tell the gentleman he’s able to return.”
“Okay, I just need a moment,” I whisper.
“No problem. Press the buzzer when you’re ready. Take your time, Emma. This is a monumental day for everyone. But you are the most important person, don’t forget it.”
***
Twelve hours after the doctor gave me the first pill to trigger labor, I start having mild contractions.
Damon is sitting on the sofa once more; he reappeared at my room about an hour after leaving earlier.
The nurse confirmed he was okay to come in, and he’s been here ever since.
We haven’t spoken much, except the odd time he’s asked me if I can feel anything.
Which, until this moment, was a firm no.
“Damon,” I say, and he looks up. “Something is happening.”
“She’s coming?” he asks, immediately standing and moving to my side. He takes my hand, then presses the call button with the other. “What does it feel like?”
“Like bad period pain, but it comes and goes. I thought I was imagining it.”
The door opens, and a different nurse walks in. She’s younger with long brown hair tied back in a high ponytail, but she wears the standard white uniform. “How are you, Emma?” she says, her voice calm. “Is there something you need?”
“I think I may have started having contractions,” I tell her. “But I don’t know.”
“Okay, I’ll take a look and we can go from there,” she says as another twisting pain takes hold, this one stronger than the last in my lower back.
“Ouch,” I whimper. Damon’s hand moves to my back, and he strokes up and down my spine. “That one hurt.”
The nurse starts rummaging around in my nether regions. “Yes. It looks like the baby has decided it is time to make an appearance. Are you planning to use the pool?” She signals to the bath in the corner.
“Does it help?”
“With the pain, it can,” she tells me. “I’ll prepare it in case you do want to use it. Things are beginning, but I expect we could be here awhile. All options will be available to you, Emma. This is your day, and you need to feel most comfortable.”
Damon leans down, whispering in my ear, “What can I do?”
“Just be here.”
My labor progresses well for a first-time mother according to the nurse. Personally, it feels as though my insides are being ripped apart piece by piece. She tells me things are moving along as they should and that it’s not time to start pushing yet. I need to give my body time to prepare.
“Would you like to try the water bath now?” she asks. “Some ladies find it helps a lot with the pain and for relaxation.”
“I think that would be a good idea,” I agree.
I’ve been putting off using the pool, nervous of being naked in front of Damon.
He’s about to see me at my most vulnerable, and after my outburst earlier, I’m not sure I can handle more emotion.
I turn to him. “Please, could you give us a moment to get me in the bath?”
He blinks at me as the dots connect. “A little privacy.”
“Of course, I’ll go for a walk for ten minutes.” He lets go of my hand and leaves the room.
“He’s not my partner,” I tell the nurse.
“I know,” she says with a kind smile. “But he is a really good support. I’ve seen men walk out and not come back. He’ll be back.”
She helps me off the bed, and I waddle over to the bath, stopping each time a contraction vibrates through me.
Finally, we arrive at the side of the tub, and I slip out of my gown.
Underneath, I’m still wearing a thin white tank top.
“Can I leave this on?”
“Of course.”
Ten minutes later, Damon reappears when I am settled in the water. He comes to my side and crouches down. His eyes hold mine for a beat; his expression is one of concern. He retakes my hand, and we move forward in the process of bringing his daughter into the world.
The next time someone tells me birthing a child is the most excruciating pain they’ve ever experienced, I will believe them.
The four hours I have labored are the rawest of my life.
Each contraction surges through me, my whole body pulsating under the pressure.
The midwife coaches diligently as I try to breathe as instructed, but it’s so hard to concentrate with the pain.
Sweat runs down my brow, and all I want is for it to be over.
Damon strokes my hair and speaks calmly of random topics as I feel myself ripping in two. I remain in the bath until my body finally decides to release her into the world. Eventually, she slides out, and the nurse lifts her above the water line.
“Do you want to cut the cord?” she asks Damon, offering him a pair of scissors.
He’s still crouched beside me, holding my hand.
When his baby appeared, he dropped a kiss on my forehead.
He takes the scissors from her and cuts the bloody cord where they point, then the nurse whisks the baby away.
He focuses on me with intense eyes that feel as though they’d burn my skin.
“Is she all right?” I splutter, aware she’s not made a sound. Just then, the room fills with the cries of a newborn. My heart fills and shatters in one swift motion. It’s both the joy of knowing she’s here warring with the pain of understanding she’ll never be mine.
“She’s perfect,” he says. The look on his face is one I’ve never seen. He appears both elated and terrified. “Thank you. You were amazing. So brave.”
“Go get your daughter,” I tell him, not wanting to hear any endearments from him. My sanity can’t take it. I don’t want to say something I’ll regret or that he will hate me for.
“Are you sure you don’t want to hold her?”
“No, please.” My voice breaks. The enormity of the situation taking hold. Panic at the reality of being left alone hitting me with full force. “Please go, both of you.”
“Emma, I don’t want to leave you on your own after everything you’ve done.”
“Damon, fucking go, will you? I don’t want you here.”
***
Damon
“So, how does it feel? You’re a father,” Harrison asks.
My friend came straight to the hospital when I phoned him and told him of my daughter’s arrival. We’re sitting in the room the nurses made up after I advised them that Emma wanted me and the baby to leave as soon as she was born. Her request stung, but I understand why.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, still staring at the little person in my arms. “I can’t believe she’s here.”
“Connie would be so proud,” he says. The statement’s not as difficult to hear as I thought. And in true Harrison style, he says the uncomfortable words out loud, and I need to suck it up.
“She would be.” My little girl is wrapped in a soft pink knitted blanket.
On her head is a matching hat that Harrison’s housekeeper Mrs. D made.
“I hate that she is missing this.” The devastation of her being gone resurfaces for a moment; it has on and off all day.
But then I look at my daughter, and all I feel is joy that she is here.
“You have to enjoy it enough for both of you,” he tells me. “This little one is a gift. Have you decided on a name?” I look from my daughter to my friend, then my focus returns to her.
“Constance.”
“That is beautiful and a nod to her mother too, I assume.”
“It means steadfastness,” I say. “It embraces everything we’ve been through for her to be here. All the sadness and heartbreak. We’ve endured it all, and she’s here.”
Choosing her name was probably my most difficult task.
I debated whether a name close to Connie was the right decision, but it felt like the least I could do. She deserves to be recognized.
“When do you get to take her home?”
“Tomorrow. My mother is also arriving then; she will stay with us for a few weeks, then I’ll be on my own. I’ll need to sort childcare, whatever that will look like.” My mind whirls with the thought of how I am going to balance my job and my new family. It’s an issue I’ve been ignoring for months.
“Can you not arrange some time off?”
“With the ongoing cases, I doubt it. It was hard enough negotiating two weeks of paternity leave. But to be honest, that isn’t what I’m most concerned about. I need your help.”
“Anything,” my friend responds immediately. “Whatever you need.”
“I’m worried about Emma. She’s going to leave here and move to an empty apartment. Things have been…”
I pause, unsure what to say or how to explain something I don’t even understand myself.
“Things have changed. She was more emotional. More vulnerable. It’s been a traumatic year for her as well as me. She’s not as strong as she makes out, and this has taken more out of her than I think she ever thought it would.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Will you take her home tomorrow? Ensure she’s safe? Keep an eye on her? I know you’re preparing the paperwork for her to waive her parental rights, but I’m concerned this hasn’t been as easy for her as she thought it would be.”
“I can do better than that,” he says, flashing me a reassuring smile. “I’ll allocate the task to Mrs. D. She will love having someone to check up on.”
“Thank you.”
“Is there anything else you need?” he continues.
“Yes, but I don’t think it’s your responsibility to do it.”
“What’s that?”
“Tell my in-laws they’re grandparents to the child they didn’t want.”