Close My Eyes by Sophie McKenzie Read Free Book Online

‘Sorry, Gen, I have to go. I was supposed to be in my next meeting ten minutes
ago.’
    ‘It’s fine,’ I say.
    ‘Are you sure you’re okay? Why don’t you call Hen to come over, or Sue, or—’
    ‘I’m
fine
, Art, honest.’
    We say goodbye and I curl up on the sofa. The memories that I keep walled up are flooding back. How I got pregnant with Beth so easily – within a couple of months of coming off the Pill.
How happy Art was when I told him: his eyes lit up with a boyish grin. How tired I felt and how it didn’t feel real until I saw Beth sucking her thumb on the scan. Not that I knew she was a
girl then; I asked, but they said the position she was in made it impossible to tell. How I sang to her songs that my dad used to sing to me. How she would kick when I was in the bath and how Art
and I would watch my belly moving, entranced and – we laughingly admitted to each other – ever so slightly freaked out.
    The day we travelled to Oxford to stay in our rented house for the last month, I was all hormonal, crying at the change of scene, worried I wouldn’t settle and that we should never have
left the security of London and our local hospital. But the house was so lovely and Dr Rodriguez was so reassuring that I felt right at home within hours of arriving.
    My mind skips to the day itself: 11 June. I’d been feeling light-headed and groggy all day and hadn’t felt the baby move for hours. At first, I wasn’t particularly bothered by
this – at 37 weeks her movements had slowed right down. But Art was anxious. Jittery. He was trying not to show how concerned he felt, but he kept suggesting I went to the hospital for a
proper check. I hadn’t had a scan for weeks but Dr Rodriguez said they could fit me in late afternoon. We got there early, so took a stroll around the natural-birth pod, which wasn’t
being used that day The pod was – is – an amazing creation. A womb-shaped environment designed to replicate whatever natural scene you choose: at the flick of a button, the walls show a
film of the sea, or woods or open countryside – or even, at an extra cost, the client’s own footage – with sounds and smells to match. There’s a birthing pool, a soft,
padded floor that can be sloped at various gradients, and pillows and cushions in a range of sizes and textures. I was still, at that point, hopeful I’d be able to give birth there. I
remember Art and I agreeing that the pool with the film of the ocean all around and a starlit sky above would be our first choice – both of us loving the swish and drag of the waves and the
scent of salt in the warm air.
    Still feeling lightheaded, and increasingly worried that I hadn’t felt the baby move for hours now, I walked with Art across to the main building for my check-up. Dr Rodriguez asked me to
wait: there was some problem with the ultrasound scanner in his usual room. We waited nearly two hours until another was free. It grew overcast outside. Art was fidgeting, anxious. And then Dr
Rodriguez was with us. The radiographer had gone, so the doctor did the scan himself. I remember him peering at the screen, the concern on his face. And then him turning to us, saying that he was
so terribly sorry. He had to say the words three times before I heard them: our baby had died in the womb.
    Art and I were distraught. Then Art insisted the hospital did the C-section to remove Beth as soon as possible. I hadn’t eaten for hours, he argued, there was no reason not to go ahead
straightaway. The doctor insisted I should have a few hours – maybe even a few days to get over the shock of the news. Art refused to listen. I don’t remember having an opinion myself.
I was too numb, swept along by Art’s fury and determination.
    Then the doctor suggested I should give birth naturally, and both Art
and
I insisted that we wanted a C-section. Art was a whirlwind on this. At the time I felt grateful to have someone
fighting my corner for me.
    Now, I