Читать книгу Taken - Rosie Lewis - Страница 8

Barely five minutes later the peace was shattered by a series of howls and loud bangs coming from outside the unit. Turning sharply towards the glass security doors and the reception beyond, I must have jogged the bottle because Megan suddenly spluttered and began to choke again. Silently cursing myself and fumbling for the suction, the commotion going on behind me instantly faded.

I did my best to clear Megan’s airway quickly, only vaguely aware of Angie rushing across the ward, another nurse following hastily behind. As her breathing settled I snatched another glance over my shoulder, wondering what on earth was going on.

It was difficult to see anything beyond a blur of royal-blue uniforms, but from the nurses’ frantic movements and strained voices of forced calm, I could tell they were concerned. Perhaps sensing something, Megan began to cry. I got to my feet and soothed her, rocking gently from foot to foot. Thankfully she brought up some wind as I rubbed her back, and as soon as she’d quietened I settled her into her crib and popped her a fresh dummy back in. It was just as well I had because at that moment a midwife I didn’t recognise hurried over. ‘Mum’s outside,’ she said in a rush, reaching for my bag and handing it to me. ‘She’s insistent that it’s her time for contact so you’d best leave. We’ll take the staff exit.’

With a regretful glance Megan’s way, I followed the nurse past several other incubators, the tiny babies inside surrounded by a tangle of wires and tubes. Their parents, seated protectively nearby, stared between me and the commotion going on beyond the doors with shocked astonishment.

The further away from Megan I got, the more aware I became of the gritty, surprisingly deep voice of her mother. Almost at the other end of the ward, I couldn’t resist another glance behind and saw the face of a small woman somewhere in her early twenties pressed up against the glass doors, her hands resting either side of her like giant suction pads. Dressed in blue tracksuit bottoms and a loose white t-shirt, she had light, thin hair and a narrow face with bloated, heavily hooded eyes. She was flanked by two nurses, each trying to peel her hands away. ‘Get off o’ me!’ she bellowed, her words punctuated by a rattling buzz as she lunged out and jabbed at the intercom. ‘Why you letting some stranger hold my daughter? She’s my fucking baby. Mine.’

Despite her aggression, her expression was distraught and when a thread of uncertainty entered her voice, so that she began to sound more upset than angry, I felt an unwelcome trickle of sympathy for her.

‘This way,’ the midwife said with a curt nod, flinging the door open and ushering me through. Sweeping through a set of double doors, the nurse turned right and then took a sharp left along a narrow, less brightly lit corridor. When we reached another flight of stairs she stopped and faced me. ‘We’re going to have to speak to the social worker before you visit again,’ she said, sounding apologetic but brisk. ‘I don’t know what they can do about it, but she’s going nuts up there. We can’t let that happen again.’

After the sterility of the unit, it was lovely to get home to the scent of coffee and the pancakes Emily was making in the kitchen. She downed the whisk she was holding as soon as she realised I was back. ‘Tell me, tell me!’ she said, waving her hands so that little puffs of flour rose, speckling her rosy cheeks and settling in her dark-blonde hair. ‘What’s she like? Did you take some photos?’

‘Sorry, Ems. I didn’t get a chance.’

Her face fell. ‘Oh, why not?’

‘Photos?’ my mother said, coming into the kitchen. Mum was my back-up carer – after attending a course for respite carers she had been interviewed by my fostering agency, who had also checked her background to make sure she was responsible enough to take care of the children I fostered when I was unable to, and had child-proofed her home to pass the local authority health and safety standards check – and had come over to babysit while I went to visit Megan.

My son, Jamie, loped in closely behind, listening to his iPod. With earphones in place, there was that vacant, slightly sleepy look on his face that teenagers so often wore. I slipped a finger behind one of the thin dangling wires hanging from his ears and gave it a tug. ‘Hey!’ he moaned, jerking away, though there was a playful light in his eyes. ‘Quit messing with my muse, Mum.’

‘Just saying hello,’ I said, smiling. Cool aloofness was the attitude he generally aimed for lately but, at just 13, there were still lots of times when it eluded him.

‘Show us then,’ he said, with as much detachment as he could muster. He leaned in, trying to shoulder Emily to one side.

‘Ow, give over, Jamie!’ she groaned.

‘Sorry, I don’t have any piccies,’ I said, holding my hands up. ‘The visit came to an, um, abrupt end.’ I pulled a face and they nodded knowingly. Having fostered a number of children over the last ten years, my family were well aware of the pitfalls as well as the joys of fostering. While I was always careful not to tell them more than they needed to know, out of respect for the child’s right to privacy rather than any lack of trust, they had seen enough over the years to reach accurate conclusions of their own.

I spent the next half an hour telling them all about Megan and how lovely she was, all the while aware that Zadie was still shut away in her room. I wanted the teenager to feel as much a part of this new adventure as Emily and Jamie and, still unaware of the real reason for her withdrawal, I made a conscious note to try and include her as much as I could in the coming days.

Her reticence worried me slightly, but it was Megan who was at the forefront of my mind when I went to bed that night. Whenever I thought of her I felt an irresistible itch to get back to the hospital – I just couldn’t wait to hold her again.