An Exact Replica Of A Figment Of My Imagination Part 5

Then it was mid-April.

I'm not a fool. I could see the end of April coming toward me. We'd known all along I'd be induced, and I'd said that I wanted to avoid the end of April, particularly April 27, not for my own sake but for the kid's: it seemed like a too weighty fact to have in your biography, being born a year to the day after your brother who didn't survive, the sort of thing I wouldn't countenance in a modern novel. And then I said, Who cares, I don't care, whatever happens, I'll accept it. Dr. Knoeller had already suggested May 2, when I would be thirty-eight weeks and two days pregnant and she would be on call. But as she pointed out, I could go into labor before that.

Is it melodramatic to say that for the month of April, I was heavy with two children? There was the child in front of me, of course. Twice a week I went for monitoring, first fetal heartbeat and responsiveness, then amniotic fluid. Once a week we went to see Dr. Knoeller. All the signs looked very good.

But Pudding was with me then, and stronger than ever. Fifty-two weeks before, I'd walked the roads near Savary, hoping to trigger labor. Fifty-one weeks before, I'd sat in Bordeaux cafes, crying. I had been sad for nearly a year, but I had gone forward gone forward. That had been our plan all along. "We can only go forward," Edward had said a dozen times, two dozen, all through our Holt summer, and every time I made the merest noise of wondering how it might have turned out otherwise, he would say lovingly, firmly, "Sweetheart, don't." He was right, of course. Blame is a compulsive behavior, the emotional version of obsessive hand washing, until all you can do is hold your palms out till your hands are full of it, and rub, and rub, and accomplish nothing at all. And so we grieved but looked straight ahead.

And then - did I mention this? - it was April again, and I was pregnant again, and there were so many ways, it seemed, that disaster could strike, and nearly though not quite as many ways it could be averted. My hips ached the way they had the year before. I had trouble turning over in bed the way I had. People said, Any day now! And, Have you had that baby yet? On April 30, I had my first real crisis of faith. "This baby isn't moving," I told Edward, and I called the practice, and they told me to come in, and the nurses rushed me into the examination room, and everything was fine.

Dr. Knoeller ran into us in the hall.

"I sort of freaked out," I said, and she said, "If this is the first time, I think you've done very, very well."

It was almost May. I wanted to get through it, and I wanted to remember.

On April 26, 2006, a week after my American due date, Edward asked me, as he often did, "What's Pudding up to?"

"He's not moving around so much," I said. I touched my stomach. I was sitting in Savary's weird L-shaped dining room, next to the only phone outlet in the entire enormous house, so I could check my e-mail. Every now and then, I felt a dim stirring.

"Really?" he said.

"I don't know," I said. Everything I read said that babies move less when they're getting ready to be born: they have less room.

"Should we call someone?" he asked.

And there it is: the first moment I can look at and say, we could have changed things. This is the moment that Superman flies in and puts his hand on the fender of the runaway car to let the child in his cloth coat go toddling into the road after the bright kicked ball.

"No," I said. "Let's wait till morning."

The only reason that writing about this moment doesn't make me weep so hard I can't type is that it's just one of a dozen.

The next morning I lay in bed with my hands on my stomach and then phoned the local fox-faced midwife. As usual, I got her cell phone's voicemail. She called back a few minutes later.

"Could I come in and see you?" I asked. "The baby's not moving as much as he was."

Yes, she said, that happened. But all right. She had many appointments, but at about five - "Claudelle," I said, "I'm really worried," and I hadn't realized until I said it how worried I was. For some women - me, for instance, during my second pregnancy - hyperworry is a side effect, as sure as high blood pressure or high blood sugar. Your body just produces more, more, which means you do what you can to manage it. But back then when the worry flooded in, I believed it was serious, because it was anomalous. which means you do what you can to manage it. But back then when the worry flooded in, I believed it was serious, because it was anomalous.

"All right," she said. "Come now."

Claudelle's waiting room was a gla.s.sed-in porch at the back of the house, outside of her office. We had waited there for plenty of appointments, looking over the back fence at the house next door. This time we sat on the wicker sofa for a few minutes, fretting.

She pulled back the curtain over the window in the door, saw us, and waved us in. Her office was decorated in the sort of filmy orange and blue color scheme that acknowledges you might wish to be elsewhere. Her examining table was stirrupless, ma.s.sage-worthy. The only overtly medical object in her room was an old-fashioned black doctor's bag, the kind carried by Norman Rockwell GPs. From this, that Thursday morning, she extracted a fetal heart monitor, to give me what is called in America a nonstress test.

This is of course a contradiction in terms, because listening to anyone's heartbeat for half an hour is stressful: it changes, and you want to ask the medical professional, Is that all right? Too fast, too slow? The suspense is terrible. Nonstress just means the heart rate and uterine contractions (if any) are monitored to see how the baby is reacting to normal life in the womb without the added stress of medication to mimic contractions. I'd had a routine nonstress test the week before, when Sylvie, the other midwife, had come to the house.

"There he is!" said Claudelle now, having found the heartbeat.

We'd heard plenty of different monitors by then: the wuAHwuAHwuAH of a silver flying saucer sailing to earth in a 1950s sci-fi movie, a ponyish clippety-clop, an expressionless chain of beeps. Claudelle's usual heart monitor, the one she held to my stomach for uneventful checkups, was horsey, but this one sounded like the forlorn footsteps of a tiny man, walking around a series of corridors, looking for a door. Tok tok tok tok. She pulled at the strap that held the device to try to get closer but couldn't. In my memory the heartbeat got louder and quieter - the tiny man turned a corner, tried a k.n.o.b, retraced his steps - but that doesn't make sense. Pudding was still alive then, but he probably wasn't moving.

I lay on my side. When Sylvie had tested me the week beforehand, she'd given me a b.u.t.ton on a cable to press when I felt Pudding move, but this time I just kept still and listened. The machine spit out a pen-etched tape, like a polygraph result in the movies. Claudelle studied it.

She was perfectly cheerful, she chatted to calm us down. It even worked for a while. Then she put one hand on either side of my stomach and shook. "h.e.l.lo," she said. "Bonjour, bebe. Wake up. Come, stop sleeping."

Tok, tok, tok, tok.

She shook harder. "Wake up, baby," she said.

After forty-five minutes, she took off the monitor.

"So?" I said.

"So," she said. "I wish he would respond more, but it is not serious."

When I was pregnant the second time, I became an old hand at nonstress tests: I had them twice a week, and mostly they pa.s.sed without incident. To pa.s.s the test, you need four heart rate accelerations within twenty minutes, and I usually hit that mark within ten. The nurses praised the kid for being agreeable, for never needing to be yelled at or jolted into action with fruit juice, though one of the nurses did once slap me around the midsection. "Child abuse, and the kid's not even born," she said, as the heart rate sped up. "Ah, there he goes."

At one of my last tests, I asked the nurse on duty, a sweet young woman with a gamine haircut and a two-year-old of her own, what happened if you failed a nonstress test.

"They'd keep you on for forty minutes," she said, "to make sure the baby's not just sleeping."

And then? I asked.

"Well," she said, "they'd send you to the hospital immediately."

And then? I wondered, but didn't ask.

This is the real Superman moment for me, as I sit at my computer, telling this story. I want to reach into the screen. I want to hit Return between I wish he would respond more I wish he would respond more and and but it is not serious but it is not serious.

I wish he would respond more - Look at that lovely white s.p.a.ce! There's my laptop screen in front of me. Surely I should be able to touch the s.p.a.ce, I am a science-fiction heroine now, touch the s.p.a.ce and pull it open. Can't I stretch time if I just push these paragraphs apart? Above, she is saying, I wish he would respond more I wish he would respond more. In the new bright hole in the computer screen, which is to say, the universe, she then says, I think you should go to the hospital immediately.

But you cannot. You cannot. You cannot change time. You can't even know that it would have made any difference: a baby can be born alive and still die. A baby can be born sick, and get sicker, and then die.

Claudelle took the printout from the test and tried to fax it to Sylvie's office in Bordeaux, but Sylvie's fax machine wasn't working. Instead she called the office, and they had a quick conversation in French.

"It's not serious, I think," she said to me again. "Go home and relax, have a sleep, and then you will meet Sylvie at the hospital. At five o'clock, yes? But go home and lie down first."

I really don't blame Claudelle, though the day I asked the American nurse what they did when babies failed to respond was a very bad day for me. Let me be honest: it was a year to the day after the test with Claudelle, so it was already bad. I wish I hadn't asked.

Still, I don't blame Claudelle.

It's a strange business, turning those days into sentences, and then paragraphs. When I've thought of Claudelle since Pudding's death, it's been with sympathy: she must feel terrible she must feel terrible. I've never wandered further down that road, wondered whether she feels culpable, whether she worries that she's the villain in our version of the story. I've never wondered whether it's terrible that we simply disappeared - because we did disappear, soon enough after that day we erased ourselves from that part of the world as completely as we could - or a relief. Maybe it's a relief. Maybe every day we stayed gone was a relief to her.

Or maybe it was just one of those sad things that happens when you're in the mostly joyful business of childbirth, and she never thinks of us at all.

We went out to lunch at an Indian restaurant close by. Edward's parents swore that really hot curries induced labor. In those days we drove miles and miles to find the curry houses of southwest France.

"Oh!" I said to Edward as we sat. "He just moved."

"Jolly good," he said.

I put my hand on top of my stomach and felt what I thought of as Pudding's rolling-over-in-bed move. "G.o.d, I feel better," I said. I exhaled. "All right. Well done, Pudding."

Later I found out that this was a Braxton Hicks contraction, my uterus puttering around, maybe getting ready for labor, maybe not. I found out, you see, because I continued to have them even after he was irrefutably dead.

We went back to Savary. I ate some cookies. At four we got in the car with my hospital bag - my clothes, Pudding's coming-home outfit, the books that Edward was going to read to me, the books I would read to myself. We always had great plans to read d.i.c.kens to each other, but we only ever got a chapter in at a time. Now it was Great Expectations Great Expectations - if we were only to get one chapter in, that was fine. We both know the book nearly by heart, and the first chapter is glorious, if, at this remove, a little overpopulated with dead children. - if we were only to get one chapter in, that was fine. We both know the book nearly by heart, and the first chapter is glorious, if, at this remove, a little overpopulated with dead children.

Again to Bordeaux in the rented car. We listened to Round the Horne, Round the Horne, an old English radio program that Edward had bought me for Christmas. We had a CD of Mozart chosen especially for children for the three of us to listen to on the way back. an old English radio program that Edward had bought me for Christmas. We had a CD of Mozart chosen especially for children for the three of us to listen to on the way back.

"I hate this," I said to Edward.

"I know," he answered.

"I hate hate this," I clarified. this," I clarified.

He nodded.

Sylvie was not there when we arrived. We were taken to an examination room, where a very young male sage-femme sage-femme - not very - not very sage, sage, not at all not at all femme femme - shook our hands. He wore a pair of bright rubber clogs. I thought then that I would never forget what color they were, red or green or yellow, but I have no idea, I just remember that they were unusual. - shook our hands. He wore a pair of bright rubber clogs. I thought then that I would never forget what color they were, red or green or yellow, but I have no idea, I just remember that they were unusual.

He put the straps around my stomach and turned on the monitor. Nothing. He shifted them around.

He said, in French, I am going to go get my colleague. She is better at this than I am.

He disappeared and instead came back and brightly told us that we would go have a sonogram. Good, I thought. Enough messing around. Let's see the kid.

He led us into the hall and then out a side door. The sonographer's office was in a separate cottagey building, covered in lilacs, just outside the hospital. I had been there less than a week before, for a diagnostic scan, which led to a diagnostic X-ray: the doctor had thought there was something a little funny about my pelvis, an odd angle to my pubic bone. An X-ray after all! He had made it very clear: if the X-ray suggested that my pelvis was in fact a little funny, I would have to check into the hospital immediately for a C-section: he wouldn't want to risk me going into labor. But my pubic bone pa.s.sed muster - I'd nervously told the technician I was pregnant, just in case it wasn't glaringly obvious - and so I'd gone home that day. "Thank G.o.d," I said to Edward on the car ride home. "I'm really glad I'm not having an impromptu caesarean." It felt like a narrow escape. Instead we went home to wait some more.

You cannot.

So. It was a week later. The lilacs outside the entrance to the sonography cottage were still in bloom. We were led by the little male midwife past all the other people in the waiting room and into the two-room office. There was a desk and two chairs in the front room, which is where you sat and talked to the doctor when you weren't in a hurry. We didn't stop. Last week's doctor was fortyish and spoke some English. This week's was in his sixties, and didn't. I lay down on the examining table. Edward sat in the husband's chair in the corner of the room.

The doctor worked the paddle around my stomach. He didn't pause. He searched and searched. If he stops I know there's hope. But he doesn't stop.

I say, "Non?"

He doesn't look at me. He doesn't stop. But he says to the screen, "Non."

I understand immediately and begin to sob.

Grief is a waterfall, and just like that I'm over it, no barrel needed, I'm barrel-shaped.

Edward doesn't understand at first. "Comment?" he asks from his stool, and the male midwife says, "C'est fini." It's finished It's finished.

Here is exactly how I remember it.

The midwife threw himself into my arms. We embraced as the sonographer continued searching with his paddle, though what was he looking looking for, why wouldn't he leave me alone? (He was a diagnostician. He was looking for clues.) I submitted myself to the hug. I held still for the paddle. I tried to weep only from the chest up. Suddenly Edward had knocked aside the male midwife to take his place. He stroked my hair and told me that it was all right, it was all right, "Oh, sweetheart," he kept saying, "oh, sweetheart. It's going to be OK." for, why wouldn't he leave me alone? (He was a diagnostician. He was looking for clues.) I submitted myself to the hug. I held still for the paddle. I tried to weep only from the chest up. Suddenly Edward had knocked aside the male midwife to take his place. He stroked my hair and told me that it was all right, it was all right, "Oh, sweetheart," he kept saying, "oh, sweetheart. It's going to be OK."

The midwife in his sorrow threw himself on Edward. Who knocked him aside again, saying, "Pas maintenant." Not now Not now. My nice husband, who could not say simply, Stop, Stop, or or No, No, or nothing at all. Poor midwife, who needed such comfort. Like anyone else in the profession he'd become a midwife for the babies, for the quotidian miracle of human reproduction. He was very young. This was probably his first death. or nothing at all. Poor midwife, who needed such comfort. Like anyone else in the profession he'd become a midwife for the babies, for the quotidian miracle of human reproduction. He was very young. This was probably his first death.

"Sweetheart," Edward kept saying. "It will be all right. We're going to be OK."

And I thought what a good man he was, that he was so understanding, because, and this made me weep harder, because I knew, I knew, knew, that this was all my fault. My essential reaction was grief, but somehow the words that floated to the surface of my brain were: that this was all my fault. My essential reaction was grief, but somehow the words that floated to the surface of my brain were: people are going to be mad at me people are going to be mad at me.

Then the male midwife's head floated away from his body like a balloon and traveled up my torso. It said, "Ce n'est pas ta faute!"

It's not your fault.

It was my fault.

Edward turned to the doctor. "Et maintenant?" he asked.

The doctor shrugged, and spoke his second two words.

He said, "Le travail."

The work.

I would have to go through labor. I knew that already, the minute the doctor had shaken his head and said Non Non. The baby was dead, but he still had to be born. I knew this because my friend Wendy's sister had lost two late-term children to placenta previa. Before Wendy explained it, stillbirth stillbirth to me was what happened in black-and-white engravings, in iron beds with nearby pitchers, and it was always a grim surprise. The baby was born. The attending physician shook his head. When Wendy explained it to me, I was shocked. I don't know how I supposed you got a late-term baby out. to me was what happened in black-and-white engravings, in iron beds with nearby pitchers, and it was always a grim surprise. The baby was born. The attending physician shook his head. When Wendy explained it to me, I was shocked. I don't know how I supposed you got a late-term baby out.

"That's the worst thing in the world," I said to Wendy when she told me about her sister.

Now I understand. Of course it wasn't the worst thing in the world. The worst thing in the world had already happened. He was dead. Everything else was easy.

I leaned on Edward. On the other side of the door was a waiting room full of pregnant women and their partners. On my side of the door, I thought, Don't catch anyone's eye Don't catch anyone's eye.

I was not in shock. I was certainly not in denial. I was thinking quite clearly. I could remember what it was like to be pregnant and hopeful. That was minutes ago, though already in the remotest past. I had been shot out of a cannon since then, I was gone, but I knew: the women outside didn't deserve to see me, but they would. I had been hustled past them; I had disappeared and wailed; whenever a door opens into a waiting room, all eyes go to see who's behind it. In this case, me, the intact ruin. From the neck down I looked, like any heavily pregnant woman, like a monument to life. I knew where I was and what I was: bad luck for any pregnant woman to see. I was thirteen black cats. I was all the spilled salt in the world, a thousand smashed mirrors - No. I was a dropped and dropping mirror. Look at me and see your reflection, for one clear instant before the disaster.

I unfocused my eyes and leaned harder on Edward and let him take me through the waiting room, past the lilacs, and back to the hospital proper.

The little midwife asked if I wanted a tranquilizer. Yes, please. He went running out of the room. We never saw him again.

A while later Sylvie, the delivering midwife, appeared in the room, and said - Edward and I disagree about what she said. In a little while she would do something we couldn't forgive her for, but at that moment I still loved her. Even now, I don't hate her with the hot pa.s.sion that Edward does, though I don't remember her with fondness. At any rate: I might in my confusion and sorrow have misheard her; Edward, in his sorrow and anger, might misremember. Everything, of course, is shrouded by our lack of fluency, since she spoke only French.

I thought she said, Elizabeth, what has happened to your baby? Elizabeth, what has happened to your baby?

Edward remembers, Elizabeth, what have you done to your baby? Elizabeth, what have you done to your baby?

I burst into tears.

You may add that detail into the description of the next five days approximately every four sentences. I burst into tears. I got up. I pulled on my robe. I began to feel around in the dark. What do you need, what can I do? Edward asked me. I burst into tears. I burst into tears. I got up. I pulled on my robe. I began to feel around in the dark. What do you need, what can I do? Edward asked me. I burst into tears.

Et cetera.

She hugged me as I cried, and whatever the question was, she asked again, and I loved her. It was so early on, but here was another angle on my grief, and I was glad to get it. She had known Pudding in her way. She had listened to his heartbeat and p.r.o.nounced it excellent; she had mapped its accelerations and decelerations. Now she said my name over and over, in the French way, Eeliza-bett, Eeliza- Eeliza-bett, and she seemed to understand that her hugging me made me cry harder, and that making me cry harder was something I'd be grateful for. The little male midwife had disappeared; the stern sonographer was back investigating the pregnancies of the lucky. Sylvie was here. She would help us get through all the very terrible things that came next. and she seemed to understand that her hugging me made me cry harder, and that making me cry harder was something I'd be grateful for. The little male midwife had disappeared; the stern sonographer was back investigating the pregnancies of the lucky. Sylvie was here. She would help us get through all the very terrible things that came next.

Let's go get some air, she said, and we went outside.