Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

'Are you all right?'

'What?'

'I seemed to have lost you for a moment'.

'I'm... all right', I said.

'Did you hear what I said - about not holding yourself accountable for your son's jaundice?'

'Yes, I heard'.

'And it will clear up in around ten days. During that time, we will have to keep him in the ICU. But, once again, there's nothing particularly ominous about that - it's just standard procedure for any newborn with jaundice. Is that understood?'

I nodded.

'Would you like to go up and see him?'

'All right', I said - but my voice sounded flat, devoid of emotion. Once again, I could see Reynolds studying me with concern.

The blue light of the ICU masked the yellowish tint that now characterized Jack's skin. Nor could I discern the discolouration around my son's pupils which Reynolds told me was another feature of jaundice. But it didn't matter that I couldn't see the actual physical evidence of his illness. I knew how sick he was. And I knew that, despite Reynolds's protestations, it was my fault.

Afterwards, I called Tony at work and broke the news to him. When I mentioned that Jack had become jaundiced because of my breast milk, my husband said, 'Are you sure that you weren't a Catholic in another life? Because you certainly love to wallow in guilt'.

'I am not wallowing in guilt. I am simply admitting the truth of the matter: his illness is my doing'.

'Sally, you're talking rubbish'.

'Don't accuse me of...'

'It's jaundice, not AIDS. And if the doctor says that it will clear up in a few days...'

'You're not listening to me', I shouted.

'That's because you're being preposterous'.

By the time Tony arrived at the hospital that night, I had managed to pull myself out of my self-flagellation jag - and immediately apologized to him for shouting on the phone.

'Don't worry about it', he said tersely.

We went up to the ICU together. Again, the blue fluorescent tubes cast the ward in a spectral light and also bleached out the yellowed pigment of our son's skin. When Tony asked the attending nurse just how bad the jaundice was, she reassured us that his was a very standard case and that (as Reynolds had told me) it would be cleared up in a matter of days.

'So there's nothing to worry about?' Tony asked, giving his question a certain for-my-benefit pointedness.

'He should make a full recovery, with no lasting side effects', the nurse said.

'See?' Tony said, patting my arm. 'All is well'.

I nodded in agreement - even though I didn't believe it. I knew the truth. Just as that nurse knew the truth. After all, she didn't say he will make a full recovery; she used the conditional verb should. Because she wasn't at all certain that Jack would get better and she knew that my milk had poisoned him.

But I wouldn't dare articulate any of this right now. No way was I going to open my big mouth and blurt out the reality of the situation. Especially given that everyone was now watching me for signs of stress and strain.

For the next thirty-six hours, I maintained this calm-and-collected front, showing a sane, rational face to the doctors and nurses of the Mattingly, visiting Jack several times a day at the ICU, and always nodding in agreement when they kept feeding me optimistic falsehoods about his progress.

Then, as expected, I was given the all-clear to go home. It was something of a wrench to leave Jack behind in the ICU - but I was glad for his sake that he was still sequestered from me, in a place where I could do him no harm. And every time a strange rational voice inside my brain admonished me for beating myself up over Jack's illness, another more forceful, prosecutorial voice reminded me just how culpable I was.

Getting out of the hospital was, therefore, something of a relief. Especially as Tony not only had dinner waiting for me when I came home, but (as promised) he'd also drafted in Margaret's cleaner, Cha, to give the place a thorough going-over... which meant that it now looked like a moderately tidy building site. And yes, he did have a bottle of Laurent Perrier in the fridge. But when he handed me a glass, all I could think was: this is not exactly a triumphant homecoming, now is it?

Still, I clinked my glass against his and downed the French fizz in one long gulp. Tony immediately refilled it.

'You're thirsty', he said.

'I think it's called: needing a drink'.

'And so say all of us'.

I drained my glass again.

'I'm glad I bought two bottles', Tony said, topping me up once more. 'You okay?'

I didn't feel that question needed answering. Just as I decided to sidestep my usual over-explanation of how I was feeling - because it was so damn obvious what was wrong here: I had come home from hospital after having a baby, but without the baby... even though I knew that Jack was better off without me.

'Nice bit of domestic news today' Tony said. 'The builders were in' -

'You could have fooled me'.

'Anyway, the foreman - what's his name?.. Northern Irish guy... Collins, right?.. he was asking for you. And when I mentioned you'd had the baby, but he was in intensive care... well, Jesus, you should have seen the Catholic guilt kick in. Said he'd get a full crew in the next few days, and try to have all the work done within a fortnight'.

'It's good to know that a potentially brain damaged baby can finally get a builder to...'

'Stop it', Tony said quietly, pouring me yet another glass.

'Have I already drunk the last one?'

'Looks that way. Shall I get dinner on?'

'Let me guess. Curry vindaloo?'

'Close. Chicken Tikka Masala'.

'Even though you know I can't stand Indian'.

'If you can't stand Indian, you've come to the wrong country'.

'Yes', I said. 'I have done just that'.

Tony got one of those uncomfortable looks on his face again.

'I'll get things underway in the kitchen'.

'And I'll go unblock a milk duct'.

Oh, God, we were off to a great start. To make things even merrier, both my breasts were now feeling like reinforced concrete again. So I retreated to the bathroom, and stared at the half-finished cabinets and untiled floors as I powered up the torture pump and screamed only three times until the right nipple finally spouted milk. However, the left breast seemed more pliable now. After five minutes of electrically induced suction, it burst forth. Then I staggered up off the toilet seat, dumped the pump in the sink, walked into the nursery, sat down in the wicker chair, and found myself staring blankly at the empty crib. That's when I felt myself reverting back into sinking mode, the same feeling that hit me right after the birth, and had now decided to pay me a second call. It was as if this brightly coloured room had become a cube, in which I was trapped as it headed on a downward trajectory. And the cube was simultaneously diminishing in size - to the point where all I could do was brace both legs and both feet against all four walls, in an attempt to stop it from crushing me.

'What the hell are you doing?'

Tony's voice stopped my free-fall - and also yanked me back to the here and now. The cube had become a room again. I was no longer plummeting, but I was certainly in an awkward and damnably embarrassing position, crouched against a wall, with my hands gripping the floorboards.

'Sally, are you all right?'

I didn't know how to answer that question - because I still wasn't certain where I was. So I said nothing, and let Tony help me back to my feet, and into the chair. He looked at me with that unspoken mixture of anxiety and contempt which seemed to characterize his reaction to my now-frequent moments of distress.

Only this time, the distress was short lived. As soon as he had me seated back in the chair, it vanished - and I felt functioning again.