Rock-A-By-Baby.

From Writers of the World

Life can be cruel in so many ways.

ROCK-A-BY-BABY. Sugar Mama

Isabella’s tear-stained face told me that the IVF treatment had failed again. She tried to hide it, but black mascara slid down her flawless, cream-coloured skin. I could give her anything she wanted, holidays abroad, clothes, jewellery, but not the baby she so desperately longed for. It tore me to pieces to see her get excited each time we went to the clinic. Only to see her dreams shattered by the cold, unacceptable words “I’m sorry Mrs Yeltkin, but I’m afraid the treatment hasn’t worked this month.” The complications lay with me and of course, I felt inadequate. Isabella knew I constantly blamed myself for our childless relationship. She tried to remain optimistic. Always offering me encouragement to salvage my pride. “Sam, next month could be our month,” she’d say squeezing my hand. Smiling weakly, I played along, “Of course, we’ll hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet soon.”

Month after month had passed. The date ringed in red ink on the calendar, became a bitter reminder of previous failures. Isabella became more despondent at each visit to the clinic. She didn’t have to say anything, I could see the sadness bubble beneath the surface in her malteser-brown eyes. The morning of the clinic she suddenly kissed me long and tender on the lips. Her fingers softly caressing my face. I wondered what had brought it on. “Sam, if it doesn’t work this time. I think we should let nature have its own way.” “You mean stop the treatment?” “Yes. If it’s not meant to be, no amount of treatment will work,” she said, gently closing my gaping mouth. “Are you sure? I mean, have you thought this over?” She pressed her index finger against my lips. “It’s all I’ve thought about for the last two weeks. We can’t go on like this. It’s not fair.” “But I don’t mind, if it’s what you want, then so be it. I know you would be a great mum.” “Maybe, but as long as I have you, it’s all that really matters, Sam.” I held her close and looked deep into her eyes. I knew then, her mind had been made up. “Well if you change your mind…” “I won’t. This is the right thing to do. If it doesn’t work this month, then it doesn’t work.”

We sat silently in the waiting room. Isabella twisted her wedding ring, first one way, then the other. I strummed my fingers on the edge of the table. Every time the nurses walked passed, she would glance up quickly and sighed as they strolled past us. “Shouldn’t be much longer,” I said, giving her knee a squeeze. Isabella smiled nervously. “Mrs Yeltkin,” said a rather plump, but cheerful nurse. “All ready, love?” She looked up and took a deep breath. “As ready as I’ll ever be, yes.” “Isabella, do you want me to come in with you?” “No, it wont take long. We know the answer already, don’t we?” Smiling weakly, she bent her head, leaving me alone in the comfort of the warm waiting area. I glanced at my watch every couple of minutes. Maybe this is what an expectant father felt like. She should be out shortly, it never took long for the results. Another couple came in. They looked late 30’s to early 40’s and seemed as apprehensive as we had when we first arrived, five months ago. I sifted through the neatly stacked magazines on the table in front of me, most of which were woman’s magazines. I managed to find one copy of ‘Auto Express’ and flicked through the pages without much interest. I worried what the outcome would be. Several minutes passed and I heard the creak of the door. I glanced up to see Isabella being helped into the room, by the same nurse she had left with. Tears streaming down her face, her mascara running into several ravines down her cheeks. She sat down beside me, trembling. I put my arm around her and hugged her gently. “Will you be alright, dear,” said the nurse. Isabella nodded. “I’ll get you a hot coffee.” “Thank you,” sniffed Isabella. I coughed, clearing the lump lodged in my throat, “we can always try again, sweetheart.” Her sobs increased. “No, there’s no need, Sam, honestly." She paused, breathed in deeply and stammered, “I’m, I’m pregnant.” I sat there soaking in the words like a sponge. “You’re pregnant! It worked, it actually worked.” I jumped up from my seat punching the air with an explosive “Yes.” Isabella laughed, her delight obvious in the stream of black tears flowing down her face.

The pregnancy took its toll. Her extreme bout of morning sickness, which lasted nearly all day, every day led to exhaustion. In the months that followed, I refused to let her do anything. I wouldn’t risk her losing our baby, however small the jobs were. The ultra sound scans left us both ecstatic, although we didn‘t manage to find out the sex, but I didn‘t care. As long as the baby is healthy and Isabella is too, it’s all that matters. The months rolled past quickly, before we knew it the pregnancy hit its third trimester and we were in the forty week zone.

Isabella shook me gently in the early hours of the morning. “Sam, I think our baby wants to come into the world.” “What?” I said, still struggling to prise my eyes open. “The baby…I think it’s on its way.” “Umm, right,” I threw the duvet cover off me, hurriedly got out of bed and tripped over. Isabella laughed in between sucking in deep breaths of air and stifled groans. “I’ll give the hospital a ring to let them know.” “Okay, sweetheart. I’m going to have a bath…” “A bath! You haven’t got time, I have to get you to the hospital.” “No, you daft bugger, it will help ease the pain. I won’t be long.” “Oh, okay.” After ringing the labour ward to let them know we were on our way, and a few close relatives to say the contractions had started. I grabbed Isabella’s over night bag and put it in the boot of the car along with a large, cream-coloured rabbit I had purchased from The Nursery Shop yesterday. She didn’t have a clue, I’d got it as surprise for her and the baby. “Are you ready, Isabella?” I shouted up the stairs. “Yes, on my way.”

I turned the key in the ignition, the engine coughed, spluttered a few times and cut out. I tried again, still the same. “Oh for Christ sake, start will you,“ I said slamming my hands down hard on the steering wheel. Isabella rubbed my shoulder, “Calm down, give her time, she’ll start in a minute.” I turned the key slowly. “We haven’t got time!” “Stop panicking. Deep breaths,” she said with a grin. On the third attempt, the engine purred with satisfaction. I sighed heavily. “Bloody car, its never done that before.” “Always a first time for everything, Sam.” “Yes, but today, of all days!” “There’s a reason for everything, love.” “Hmm.”

I could hear Isabella’s breath rasping in short, sharp, bursts. She gripped onto the side of the seat, her knuckles white, “I never thought that labour would be this painful.” She groaned loudly, swearing under her breath. “The contractions are every five minutes now.” “It’s okay, not much longer, sweetheart. Hold on we’re nearly there, five more minutes.” Everything seemed against us, even the traffic lights. Each one turned red as we approached it. I began to think I might end up delivering the baby myself. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. “Come on, damn it, change.” The green light glowed like a cat‘s eye in the darkness and I put my foot down on the accelerator, moderately. The hospital came into sight; its large white building with modern architectural structure looked impressive lit up. Isabella groaned again. I turned and glanced briefly at her. She grimaced, her body arched forward as she rocked back and fore, her breathing becoming more strained. “Nearly there, sweetheart,“ I said, focusing quickly back to the road ahead. The traffic lights on the other side changed to red. I heard the screeching of tyres and glimpsed a car ignoring the lights, its headlights shone directly into my eyes. I squinted, struggling to see .“Shit,” I yelled. I tried to steer away from the on-coming car. I felt the impact as it bulldozed its way into the side of us. As my head hit the dashboard I heard glass shattering and Isabella’s screams.

Two weeks later.

I walked briskly past the playground. My head bowed, eyes firmly cast upon the grey concrete and it's patchwork of black tar. I tried hard to block out the children’s shouts and excited screams that filled the mid morning air. The street was fairly quiet, most had gone away on their Summer holidays. I wanted to get by unnoticed and slip in through my front door, away from prying eyes and sorrowful stares. The thing I dreaded most were the questions, I couldn't handle them. Nearly there, a few more steps, the gate was in clear view.

"Sam, Sam." Came the shrill voice floating across the idyllic cul-de-sac. I spun round. "Hello Mrs Holden," I said, giving a weak smile. "Wait a minute, dear," she said, waving her arm. Before I could answer, the hunched figure shuffled towards me in electric blue slippers. Her wooden stick thudded dully across the tarmac at a quick pace. A lovely woman, but she always caught me at the wrong times, though she meant well. "How is Isabella?" "About the same really, Mrs Holden," I said, feeling my voice quiver. "Oh dear, Oh dear," she tutted and bowed her head. "Its such a shame, you waited so long for a baby and then this happens…" I felt my eyes become moist. "Yes. I know." “I’m so sorry, Sam, I really am.” “Thank you Mrs Holden.” She nodded slowly, looked at me with tear filled eyes and turned away. For an eighty year old she was quite nifty on her feet, even though she suffered with Osteoporosis in her spine. I watched her cross the road, the knot tightening more in my stomach. My legs felt like they were being weighed down by lead shoes, I fought to put one foot in front of the other until I faced the white PVC door, with it's rose patterned glass. I gripped the handle, hesitated, gulped, and slowly turned it clockwise.

Isabella lay asleep on the sofa, with a blanket draped over her legs. I sat opposite, watching her as she slept. She looked worn out, her colour pale and dark circles hung beneath her eyes. The accident had taken what we both longed for - a family. We would never have another chance. The large, cream-coloured rabbit I had bought for the baby sat idly on the chair and lots of sympathy cards stood upright on various pieces of furniture around the room. I put my hands over my face and sobbed quietly. Isabella woke up and crossed the room slowly. “Oh, Sam. Why did this happen to us? Why our family? Why now?” she cried. I held her tightly in my arms, I didn’t answer her. I couldn’t find the words to comfort her grief and ease her pain. “Why Sam? It’s not fair,” she sobbed. I brushed strands of hair, softly from her eyes. “I don’t know, sweetheart,” I whispered. “I wish I could tell you.” I kissed her gently on the forehead and breathed in her musky perfume. The knock on the door interrupted us and Isabella left to answer it. She opened the door to a man dressed in a long, black overcoat standing on the doorstep. “ Mrs Yeltkin?” Isabella nodded. “I’m from Hargreaves & Son’s Funeral home. I’m so sorry to hear of your sad loss, ” he said, shaking her hand. “Thank you. Please, come in.” He nodded sombrely. “ Is today convenient? “Yes, it’s fine.” He paused momentarily. “I’ve come here today to help you arrange your husband’s funeral.” “Yes, of course.” He smiled at her. “What a beautiful baby you have,” he said, looking at the small bundle she cradled in her arms. “Thank you. His name is Sam.”

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