The Day We Left E-Book

Caroline Bond

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 451

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

***A BBC RADIO 2 BOOK CLUB PICK*** Oli and Joe are identical twins. But they will never be the same. Lizzie Truman gives birth to her sons at thirty-one weeks. From the start, the differences between the twins are clear. Oli is bigger, stronger, healthier. Joe is small and much less robust, his future inexorably altered by the trauma of his premature delivery. As soon as the boys are well enough, Lizzie checks out of the maternity hospital and leaves her old life behind. By the time Oli and Joe are grown, Beth has a new name, a thriving business, and she has successfully raised her sons alone. But when the truth about their past emerges, the twins are forced to reassess everything they thought they knew about their mother, their upbringing and themselves. 'Wonderful ... such a great read ... made me emotional' Zoe Ball, BBC Radio 2 Book Club

Leseprobe

Caroline Bond was born in Scarborough and studied English Literature at Oxford University. She has worked as a cleaner, a receptionist, a kitchen designer, a market researcher, a company director and a victim support volunteer. She has an MA in Creative Writing. Caroline lives in Leeds with her husband and one of her three children... the other two having grown up and escaped.

Also by Caroline BondThe Second ChildThe Forgotten SisterOne Split SecondThe LegacyThea and Denise

Published in paperback in Great Britain in 2023 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

Copyright © Caroline Bond, 2023

The moral right of Caroline Bond to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Paperback ISBN: 978 1 83895 409 3E-book ISBN: 978 1 83895 411 6

Printed in Great Britain

CorvusAn imprint of Atlantic Books LtdOrmond House26–27 Boswell StreetLondonWC1N 3JZ

www.atlantic-books.co.uk

This book is dedicated to the many decent men in my life;Chris, Alex, Joe, Joseph, David, Isaac and my lovely, much missed dad, Pete Bond.

PART ONE

Chapter 1

LIZZIE STARTED AWAKE.

The clock on her bedside table insisted it was 7.26 a.m. She stretched out her hand. The duvet on Ian’s side of the bed was thrown back, the sheet cold. Could she have slept through the alarm? Or had it not gone off? Why hadn’t he woken her?

Click. 7.27 a.m.

She scrambled out of bed and shrugged on her dressing gown. She had time and ground to make up.

She made it down to the kitchen by 7.28 a.m.

At 7.32 a.m. she found herself on her hands and knees on the kitchen floor.

By 7.38 a.m. Ian’s packed lunch was made and neatly wrapped in foil.

He kissed her goodbye at the door at 7.42 a.m.

Between 7.45 a.m. and 8.02 a.m. she tidied the kitchen, washed her face, brushed her teeth and got dressed.

She rang in sick at 8.03 a.m. Sean, her department head, made sympathetic noises, but she could tell he wasn’t pleased. She’d already taken quite a lot of time off to attend her prenatal appointments.

For the next eighty-four minutes she sat on the edge of the bed and watched the minutes click by on the traitorous alarm clock.

She left the house at 9.27 a.m.

That was the seemingly mundane timeline of the cold, bright May morning that changed Lizzie and Ian’s lives, irrevocably.

Chapter 2

LIZZIE WENT the back route to her friend Heather’s house. When she pushed against the garden gate it didn’t open. It had been a wet spring and the wood was swollen and uncooperative. For a moment she stood in the chilly sunshine, defeated, then she rallied and used her by-now considerable body weight to get it to budge. It was an ungainly entry, but thankfully, at 9.30 a.m. on a midweek morning, there was no one around to witness it.

Heather’s back garden was well tended – the raised beds were full of heavy-headed tulips and lots of frothy white flowers that Lizzie didn’t know the name of. The flagged path was puddled with the previous night’s rain. It soaked into her slippers, staining the edges black. She took the three steps up to the back door carefully, her fear of falling acute. She knocked and waited, but not for long. She was relieved; she’d left the house without a coat and it was cold. The door opened. But it wasn’t Heather; it was Mick, her husband. That threw her. She stuttered out a ‘Hi’.

‘Hello, love. Are you looking for Heather?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’s off visiting her sister in Gateshead.’

‘Oh.’ Lizzie’s mind went blank. No other options presented themselves. There was a pause. She didn’t move; she couldn’t face going home.

Mick seemed equally at a loss. After a couple of seconds he said, ‘You’re welcome to come in, if you want to. I was about to stop for a brew.’ He opened the door wider. Lizzie stepped into the kitchen, grateful his politeness had outweighed his shyness.

Heather was the one who did the talking in their marriage. Mick was friendly enough, he smiled and waved when he saw Lizzie across the street, and he would always offer to carry her bags if he saw her walking home from the shops, but that was the extent of their interaction. She got the impression he was a man’s man. This reputation was reinforced by the pair of pliers and the dismantled light fitting that currently lay on the worktop.

He saw her looking. ‘The strip light under the cupboard has been flickering. It’s been driving Heather mad. Steam from the kettle getting into it, most like.’ He stopped talking, aware that she had little interest. ‘Do you want a tea? A coffee?’

‘Tea, please.’

‘Go through.’

She left him to it.

The lounge was very familiar to Lizzie. She and Heather had spent a lot of time in it over the past three years, even more so recently. Despite the age gap, they got on. They knew each other well enough to be comfortable in each other’s company, but not so well that there was any great pressure to share anything really personal. They chatted rather than talked, normally about the trials and tribulations of work – Heather was a doctor’s receptionist and Lizzie a teaching assistant in a primary school – and about the best dramas on TV. In recent months Heather had volunteered some pregnancy and parenting advice, although never too much, she was not the sort to impose her opinions. Mundane as their interactions were, Lizzie was grateful for them. She knew she was always welcome in Heather’s home.

She lowered herself onto the sofa and listened to Mick pottering about in the kitchen, took a moment to settle.

Heather and Mick’s house was a mirror image of Lizzie and Ian’s in terms of size and layout, but it was very different in feel and decoration. It bore the patina of the many years they’d lived there. Heather and Mick were the street’s second longest-serving residents; only Margaret, who lived at number eight, pre-dated them. The room Lizzie was currently sitting in was busy with stuff. There was an array of framed family photographs on the windowsill – they had three children, all in their twenties – a TV cabinet stuffed full of DVDs and a number of paperbacks scattered around the room. Heather was an avid reader, novels mainly, all different types, although she had a penchant for historical fiction and doomed young queens. Lizzie had quite a few of Heather’s ‘recommended reads’ at home. She’d started a number of them, but had got no further than the first few chapters; her concentration wasn’t what it used to be. Heather never quizzed Lizzie about her ‘literary loans’, she simply kept offering more, as if the next paperback might hold the key.

‘Sugar?’ Mick shouted.

She didn’t usually take it. ‘Yes. Please. One.’ She still felt queasy.

‘Right you are.’

Was Mick putting off coming through to sit with her? Perhaps. She had no idea what they were going to talk about. The ache in her back deepened and the pain in her knees and hands throbbed. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, grateful for the peace. The sound of a mug being put on the table brought her back into the room. Mick took the chair by the window. He kept hold of his own drink. He had big hands, short, clean nails, a simple wedding band. Workman’s hands. ‘So, how are you doing, love?’

She roused herself. ‘Me? I’m okay. Just a bit tired.’

‘Understandable.’ He took a mouthful of his tea. ‘And how’s Ian?’

‘He’s fine.’ Ian and Mick sometimes spoke, about what she didn’t know. A shared interest in electronics? Sport? Ian never said. ‘His firm has picked up a new contract refitting a lot of council offices – DHSS, I think – so he’s working all over the place at the moment, but at least it’s guaranteed work.’

Mick nodded. ‘I did a few years on the rigs when me and Heather were first married. It paid for the deposit on this place, but I knocked it on the head when she fell pregnant with Claire.’

It was Lizzie’s turn to nod, Mick’s to take another gulp of tea.

‘Expensive things, kids. In more ways than one.’ There couldn’t be much left in his mug. ‘But worth it.’ He had a nice smile. She should let him get on; this was uncomfortable for both of them.

It happened as she shifted position and attempted to stand up. Instinctively she sat back down. Mick continued to smile at her. She felt shivery. The pain in her lower back tightened and threaded deeper inside her.

‘Are you sure you’re okay, love? You’ve gone very pale.’

How to tell him? ‘I’m so sorry, Mick, but I think I might have wet myself.’ She looked down at the circle of darkness that was spreading around her.

Mick’s expression shifted from smiling discomfort to smiling concern. ‘Oh. Right.’ He put down his mug. ‘Well, that’s not a problem.’ He stood up, then sat down again, pushed his mug further away in preparation for action.

‘That or my waters have broken.’ Surely she should know the difference? Fear overtook the shame. ‘Mick, I’m not due for another nine weeks.’

‘Okay.’ He paused. ‘Well, it’s probably best we get you to the hospital. Get things checked out. Just to be on the safe side.’

She knew he was right, but she couldn’t make herself stand up. It was as if her belly was full of bones. Her stomach muscles, which she’d thought had stretched to the point of no return, were rigid. ‘Mick, I think something’s wrong.’

He came over and sat beside her. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. Heather’s been saying how you’ve being doing all the right things… been for all your check-ups and whatnot. Eaten your greens.’ It was a weak attempt at levity. He switched tack. ‘From what little I can remember, you can have these false alarms. Heather went in at least twice with our Steve before the real event. Braxton Hicks, they’re called.’ He seemed pleased to have been able to recall the medical term.

Lizzie wanted to believe him, but the cushion beneath her was soaking and her belly was rock-hard. That wasn’t normal, not at this stage of a pregnancy. Her body was rebelling.

Mick touched her hand. ‘What we’re going to do’ – she loved him for taking charge – ‘is you’re going stay put and I’m going to get my car keys. I’ll open up the car and get us ready to roll. Have you packed a bag?’ He tapped the top of her hand lightly, summoning her attention. ‘For the hospital? I can go and fetch it from your house, if you want me to.’ He gestured at the keys in her hand.

She passed them to him. He was talking to her as if she was a child. In her current state of panic she didn’t mind. But as he stood up, a glimmer of common sense reasserted itself. There was no point him trailing over to her house – she hadn’t packed a bag. ‘No.’

She wasn’t ready for this. The cot was still in its box in the nursery. True, she had bought some baby clothes and there was a steriliser on the side in the kitchen, but there were no bottles as yet. And she only had one pack of muslins. Heather had bought them for her, told her you needed loads in the first few months, for mopping up. She’d been planning on buying more, she really had, but she hadn’t got round to it. She’d been too busy with work and the house and Ian. The panic gathered momentum. If she couldn’t even manage the basics, what chance had she of being a good mother?

Mick smiled. ‘Hey. It’s all right. Ian can always bring your bits to the hospital later, if you need to stay in. You just sit tight. Try and stay calm. I’ll be back in a minute. Two, tops.’

She tracked his movements: to the kitchen to collect his car keys, into the hall, out of the front door. She heard the car beep, a door opening, the engine firing up, his footsteps again. There was a brief pause then he was back in the room – as good as his word.

‘Do you need a hand?’ Without waiting for a reply, he offered her his.

She didn’t want to move from the damp safety of her perch. ‘I’m sorry… about your sofa.’

‘Lizzie, look at me.’ She did. It helped. ‘It’s going to be okay. Come on. Up you get.’

She took his hands. The skin on his palms was rough and calloused, but his hold was steady. Everything about him was reassuring.

He tugged her to her feet. ‘That’s it. Off we go.’

She made the mistake of glancing down.

There was blood on the cushion. A large patch of it. Black against the green. Neither of them commented on it.

He propelled her out of the house.

As Lizzie lowered herself awkwardly into the car, he shielded her head with his hand like she’d seen police officers do with criminals on TV. He pulled the seatbelt around her belly with care and respect. One click and she was in. He climbed in beside her. ‘Comfortable?’ She nodded. A lie. ‘What about Ian?’ he asked. She didn’t know what to say, what was for the best, so she said nothing. Mick persisted. ‘Do you want me to call him?’

‘Not yet.’ Contacting Ian was tantamount to admitting the worst was happening. ‘I don’t want to worry him.’

‘If you’re sure. Okay. Well, let’s get you to the hospital.’

He released the handbrake gently and they set off.

Chapter 3

SHE WOULD NEVER forget that drive.

Her memory of the distress and panic faded to an indistinct, ugly smear with time, but not her recall of Mick’s valiant and sustained efforts to distract her. Because the man who never said more than was strictly necessary never stopped talking the whole way to the hospital.

He talked as they made their way along the familiar roads and sat at the seemingly innumerable red lights and at the traffic-clogged junctions. He talked as they pulled into the hospital grounds and crossed the car park, at a snail’s pace. He talked as they shuffled through the revolving entrance doors and when they stepped out of the lift into the unnervingly quiet corridor.

And what he talked about – as Lizzie held her breath and her distended belly – was the joy of being a parent.

He told her how overwhelming he had found holding his daughters, then his son, for the first time, and what respect he had for the strength of women, having seen three births at close quarters. He spoke about how having children had cemented his and Heather’s marriage, turning it into something unbreakable. And, most of all, he talked about the happiness his children had brought him. How hearing your child laugh was one of the best sounds in the world. How you loved them instinctively, but how you had to learn to trust them and let them be. And he described how life became far more complicated, but at the same time far simpler, once you had a child, because once you became a parent you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, what really mattered.

And he didn’t stop talking until he handed her over into the care of the nurses on the maternity ward.

By that point, panicking and in pain as she was, Lizzie knew why Heather loved Mick and what a good husband was.

Chapter 4

WAKING FROM THE ANAESTHESIA was a messy business.

Lizzie was violently sick, twice. She rolled around inside her sticky sheets and made things worse. Hands gripped her and someone tried to speak to her, and although she could hear their voice, she couldn’t make out what they were saying. Nothing made sense. Confused and disorientated, she closed her eyes, wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep, but they insisted on cleaning her up. She didn’t cooperate. That didn’t stop them. They were rough with her, yanking and pulling. But awful as it was, it was worth it, because when they’d finished she was dry and not cold anymore. Indeed, as the heat trapped between the sheets rose, so did her consciousness.

She was in hospital.

Mick had brought her in.

There had been an ugly black stain on Heather’s nice green sofa.

Blood.

And pain.

Now there was nothing, only a strange numbness.

She opened her eyes, blinked at the ferocity of the overhead light, forced herself to keep her eyelids raised. She lay still, signalling that she was compliant, sane, back to normal. This was not about her anymore. A face appeared above her: a nurse in pink scrubs. The nurse flashed a smile. That was surely a good sign. ‘Well, hello. Back in the land of the living at last, I see. Nice to meet you, Elizabeth. Is that what people call you? Or do you prefer Beth?’

‘Lizzie.’ It came out as a bit of a croak.

‘Well, Lizzie. We’ve had some fun and games with you, but nothing we haven’t seen before. How are you feeling now?’ The nurse didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Don’t worry about the lack of feeling, that’ll come back soon enough. Do you want me to prop you up a little bit?’

‘Yes, please.’

The nurse set about raising the bed and repositioning Lizzie on the incline. ‘There, that’s better; you can see what you’re doing now.’

It was true, Lizzie could, or at least she could see where she was. She was in a curtained-off area. She sensed there were people in the other bays, though she couldn’t see them.

‘You’re in Recovery. As soon as we’re happy with your stats, we’ll get you transferred onto the postnatal ward.’

Postnatal. She was no longer pregnant. She had given birth. She had no recollection of it. ‘And my babies?’

‘They’re up in the NICU. Being well looked after.’

‘Both of them?’

The nurse stopped fussing with the equipment. ‘Yes, both of them. Low birth weight, but holding their own.’ She held up her hand. ‘Before you ask, I’m afraid I don’t know anymore than that, but rest assured they’re in the best possible place. Someone will, no doubt, come and tell you all what’s been happening, soon, but for now you’re the priority.’ Lizzie closed her eyes. ‘Hey, now. No drifting off, or I’ll have to keep you here even longer. And you don’t want that, do you?’

‘No.’

‘Right,’ the nurse became brisk again, ‘let’s have another look at your oxygen levels, now you’re nice and calm.’

Lizzie let the nurse work, but as she lay passive and immobile on the bed she felt a pressure building inside her. She wanted someone – and the only person she had nearby for the time being was this woman – to acknowledge that she’d given birth. That she was a mother.

‘They’re boys, my babies. Twin boys.’

The nurse didn’t look up. ‘That’s nice.’

Chapter 5

LIZZIE HAD TO WAIT another two hours before anyone came to speak to her, by which time the whole thing had taken on an unreal, nightmarish edge.

All the other women on the ward had cribs beside their beds and bundles of tightly wrapped babies. She saw them as they wheeled her in, before they briskly drew the curtains around her bed. They kept the curtains drawn after they’d settled her and left her to rest – as if that were possible. A woman without a child was, understandably, something to be kept hidden on a postnatal ward.

The other thing that marked Lizzie out was her lack of a partner. There was still no sign of Ian. Lizzie didn’t understand it. Leicester was a long drive, but she’d been in the hospital since late morning and it was gone 5 p.m. now. When she asked, yet again, if anyone knew where he was, one of the nurses took pity on her and lent her a phone.

Her call went to voicemail. The message she left sounded desperate because she was.

The doctor, when she eventually came, was sympathetic, but it was precisely her kindness that threatened to undo Lizzie’s tenuous leash on her emotions. After quickly checking Lizzie over and making reassuring comments, the doctor took a seat. She explained that Lizzie’s placenta had ruptured and it was this that had caused the bleeding. ‘Unfortunately it was a full separation, which meant there was nothing we could do to stop it. Your babies’ oxygen supply was failing and, as a consequence, they were in danger. Hence the need to perform an emergency Caesarean. Given their gestational period, your babies are, obviously, very small. The main concern is their breathing. Lung function is always a problem with prem babies and, of course, there’s their vulnerability to infection. We’ll also have to monitor all other areas of their development, including their cognitive function.’

‘What do they weigh?’ Lizzie was afraid to hear the answer.

The doctor checked her notes. ‘Three pounds fourteen ounces and two pounds seven ounces.’

Lizzie couldn’t image what a baby weighing less than three pounds would look like. Her brain spun with fear at the disparity in their size, and the impact it might have on their chances of survival.

The doctor smiled, an attempt at reassurance after so much bad news. ‘We are recognised as a centre of excellence for neonatal care.’

That might help, but her fear wouldn’t. Lizzie knew she had to get it under control. ‘When can I see them?’

‘Whenever you feel up to it.’

‘Now?’

‘Of course. I’ll speak to one of the nurses and we’ll get someone to take you up to the NICU. I have to warn you, it can be a little overwhelming at first – lots of complicated-looking machines – but the staff will explain everything to you. Ask anything, as many times as you want. The days of keeping parents at arm’s length are, thankfully, over. You and your husband will have an integral role to play in the care of the twins. Regular early parental contact helps hugely with outcomes.’ She stood. ‘I’ll swing by to see you again tomorrow, examine your wound again, check you’re doing okay.’

Her beep went off, she glanced at it, then slipped it back in her pocket.

‘Your sons will have their own specialist paediatric team assigned to them now, but I’ll keep an eye on them as well. Oh, and a word of advice: you must pace yourself. A C-section isn’t a small operation. We gave you a blood transfusion and so, fingers crossed, that should reduce your risk of becoming anaemic, but you’ve been through the mill and caring for prem babies is a long haul. You’ll be no use to them if you’re not feeling strong yourself.’

Lizzie nodded, although she wasn’t really agreeing. The doctor was wrong. Now was precisely the time to start putting her twins first, but she could only do that if she was with them. ‘You’ll ask – about me going to see them.’

‘Yes. I promise.’ The doctor disappeared through the gap in the curtains, her mind on the next patient.

Chapter 6

THE NEONATAL INTENSIVE CARE UNIT was the place no parent wanted to be, but her boys were here, and therefore so was Lizzie.

As the ward sister helped her on with a disposable apron and gloves, she explained the hygiene protocols. Lizzie tried to concentrate on what the nurse was saying, but it was difficult. Certain words ballooned and obliterated everything else: susceptible, compromised, vulnerable; above all… vulnerable. Then, without any warning, they were on the move into a big white room. It was surprisingly busy, filled with medical staff, silent parents and lots of blinking, bleeping technology.

For a second or two Lizzie felt a wave of pure, unadulterated panic wash through her. The urge to flee was overwhelming; she simply wasn’t strong enough to cope with this. But running away wasn’t an option – her boys needed her. She made herself focus on the nurse’s voice. This was going to be a steep learning curve, and Lizzie simply had to cling on as best she could. And after a few seconds and some deep breaths, it became apparent that the seeming chaos did have a certain logic. The nurses and the machines were clustered into hubs, and at the heart of each hub there was an incubator, inside which lay a tiny, skeleton-like creature.

The harsh reality was that any of these nearly-children could be Lizzie’s sons.

She scanned the room and saw Ian – her brain was picking up speed, returning to a more normal functioning pace – which meant that the incubator he was leaning over, his blue-gloved hand through the hatch, must contain one of her babies. It was time to face reality, head-on.

At her approach, Ian looked up.

So much had happened since they had last been together.

They had become a family. Albeit a very fragile one.

His face looked different. It seemed softer, less defined somehow. Shock could do that to a person, she supposed, shake the certainty out of them. This man, unlike her normally self-assured partner, looked frightened – which made absolute sense, in the circumstances.

‘Oh, Lizzie. Thank God. At last.’ Even his voice had changed. He carefully withdrew his hand from the incubator and studied her, searching for… what? Reassurance? Understanding? Forgiveness?

The nurse pushed Lizzie into the gap between the incubators, reached down and flipped the brakes on her wheelchair. ‘I’ll leave you to meet your sons, but I promise I’ll be back soon, then we can have a proper talk about where we’re at.’ She walked away to assist with another tiny, struggling baby.

Ian reached out for Lizzie. The wheelchair was a major hindrance, but, undeterred, he crouched at her feet and wrapped his arms around her. He held her tight, his forehead pressed against hers. His voice was gentle, fractured. ‘I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I’ll never forgive myself.’

He clung onto her and she felt his desperation, understood it, but in that moment she had nothing to give. She waited for him to release her. She needed to see her boys. Still he held onto her, his face filling her vision, his voice pleading.

‘When Heather rang and told me Mick had taken you to the hospital, well, I was beside myself. Jesus, it was awful imagining what you were going through… on your own. I drove like a mad man, but I was too late, they’d already put you to sleep by the time I got here.’ He swallowed, the emotion obviously still bitter in his throat. ‘Everyone was rushing about. You could tell they were worried. They sat me up at the top, out of the way. It was so frightening seeing you out cold like that. Really frightening. It all happened so quickly. When they lifted them out, first one, then the other, I could hardly bear to look. But, Lizzie,’ his eyes filled, ‘it was amazing. One minute they were inside you, and the next they were out.’

She was thrown. ‘So you were there for the birth?’

‘Yes. Just.’

‘Oh.’ Drained and distraught as she was, she felt a flash of jealousy. Ian had seen their babies born. He’d been at their side ever since, while she’d been alone, frightened and in pain. He’d chosen them over her. That was a shock. His devotion to her was the one aspect of their relationship she’d always been certain of. She dug deep into her reserves of selflessness. Perhaps it was a good sign. It was the right choice. Good parents put the needs of their children above everything – and everyone – else.

‘Ian, please, let me see them.’

‘Oh Christ, sorry, yes.’ Finally he let her go. He stood up and moved out of the way.

She released the brakes and edged the wheelchair slowly forward, terrified of bumping any of the equipment. When she was level with the incubators she finally looked at her sons.

Their little bodies were starkly different.

As she’d feared, twin two – as he’d been labelled at every appointment over the preceding six months – was unbelievably tiny, a scrap of humanity. His frail body was barely visible beneath all the tubes, splints and bandages. He looked as if he was being held together by the brown tape that encased him. It surprised Lizzie to see his little legs waving in the air. Such a clear sign of life seemed incongruous, in the face of so much evidence to the contrary. She glanced in the other cot. Even to her untrained eyes, it was obvious that twin one was stronger. He was noticeably bigger, more fully formed. He was also on a ventilator, but inside his incubator there seemed to be more baby and less machinery.

‘They’re so small.’ Lizzie spoke in a whisper, foolishly fearful of disturbing them.

‘I know,’ Ian touched her shoulder, trying to soften the blow, ‘but there’s a little girl over there who was only two pounds four ounces when she was born, and she’s doing okay.’

This was what they must do now: hang onto such slender shreds of hope. Lizzie put her hand through the aperture in the side of the incubator and nervously touched her first-born child’s blue-veined belly with her fingertips, saying the gentlest ‘hello’. She repeated the greeting with the second-born child. Finally she had touched her sons. Surely that made them hers.

After a little while Helen, the nurse who’d introduced her to the ward, came back and for Lizzie’s benefit – Ian already knew all this stuff – explained the various machines that were keeping the boys breathing and hydrated and fed. She deftly but subtly acknowledged that twin two was the greatest cause for concern and, although she was calm and reassuring, she made no promises. She stressed that, with prem babies, every hour they got through was a milestone. ‘It’s the slow accumulation of hours that turn into days, and of days that turn into weeks, that gives them the time they need to catch up.’ The gentle wisdom of her words would have been beautiful if it hadn’t been so terrifying. Explanation over, Helen set to work – cleaning and adjusting the boys’ breathing tubes. Lizzie had to look away. Listening to the procedure was tough, lessened only by the light patter of conversation Helen kept up as she worked.

‘Right, that’s you all done. Time to get your brother sorted now.’

Lizzie heard the crash of a bin lid, the snap of new gloves, the crackle of Helen’s plastic apron, then the awful sound of the suction tube again. She didn’t breathe out until Helen announced that little man two was all sorted as well.

With Helen gone, Lizzie and Ian took up their positions in the space between the incubators, facing each other. There was so much to talk about, but they said very little. It was Ian who eventually broke the trance. ‘We can’t keep calling them “little man one and two”.’

He was right, they needed to have their own identities. And naming them might help to anchor them. Or so Lizzie hoped. It had to be a good first step. ‘No, we can’t.’

Ian peered down at their sons, seeking inspiration. ‘Well, we had narrowed it down, hadn’t we?’ She nodded. ‘I reckon this one is Oliver,’ he indicated the stronger baby, ‘and this one’s Joseph?’

They were the names Lizzie had chosen when she’d imagined holding her healthy baby boys in her arms, delivered by a planned, safe, routine C-section at thirty-eight weeks. Did Oliver and Joseph suit these desperate, struggling bundles of thin skin, delicate bone and laboured breath? She didn’t know, but she nodded her assent and for the first time since they’d parted that morning, a lifetime ago, Ian smiled – his full-throttle, heart-lifting, joy-filled, oh-so-familiar smile.

‘Well, I think they’re fine names.’ He crouched down beside twin one’s cot and, in a voice that sounded much more like his old self, spoke to his son. ‘Hello, Oliver. It’s good to finally meet you. We know you’re a bit busy getting better at the minute, that’s fine, but we want you to know that we’re here for you, your mum and me, and we can’t wait to give you a proper cuddle.’ He kissed his gloved fingertips and pressed them against the Perspex side of the incubator. Having welcomed his first-born to the world, Ian swivelled around so that he was level with twin two and repeated the process.

In the face of his simple happiness, Lizzie began to cry.

Chapter 7

IT WAS AMAZING how quickly they adapted to the new routine.

Lizzie spent nearly every waking hour with the twins, watching and waiting and, for the first time in her adult life, silently praying. With the help of the nurses and Trish – the no-nonsense, had four kids and a ‘glad to see the back of him’ bastard-of-a-husband ward cleaner – she started to gain some confidence in caring for her sons. Being able to change their tiny nappies and wash their bird-like limbs helped her to slowly feel like a real mother. And although neither of the boys could feed normally yet, she kept expressing milk – for later. All of it was difficult, all of it was stressful and frightening, but she persevered as she’d never done before. She had to, because the doctor’s words on the day they were born had lodged in her soul. This was down to her. She had to do her best, if they were going to survive.

Ian came in every evening after work, then they sat together with their boys. They had agreed, after the first fraught forty-eight hours, that he would keep working, while he could. They needed the money and, Lizzie reasoned, if he put in the hours now, it would mean he would be able to take more time off when she and the twins finally came home. With reluctance, he’d agreed. They were a tag team now. This was a shared vigil. But they assumed different roles.

Ian was the positive one, relentless in his belief that it was all going to be okay. He talked to all the nurses and doctors and to the myriad of specialists who visited the ward, asking endless questions – within days he was au fait with the technology and most of the medical terminology. He went into overdrive socially as well. He got to know the other parents quickly and easily. Lizzie watched him sharing this most difficult and frightening of times with them as if it was all perfectly normal and natural. Even in this context, his charm worked to his advantage.

Then there was his role as chronicler of what they were going through. His need to record every milestone was compulsive. He took photos of everything: their translucent feet, their tape-smothered faces, their distended bellies, their tiny, claw-like hands, the nurses at work, the machines with their incessant, essential flashing displays. Day and night, minute by minute, it all had to be captured. Or at least that’s how it felt to Lizzie. No moment was too personal or too stressful.

Lizzie knew why he was doing it. It was his way of saying, These are my sons, I am their father, I was there from the beginning, I was there for them every step on the road to recovery – even when he wasn’t. She watched him, marvelling at his energy and intimidated by his optimism about their future.

In comparison, she felt weak and uncertain.

But then, as everyone kept reminding her, she was still recovering from the trauma of the birth.

Ian was very sensitive to how fragile she was. Never before had he been so solicitous, so mindful of how she was feeling, physically and mentally. There seemed no limit, despite his own tiredness, to his capacity to care. When he arrived on the ward every evening he always urged Lizzie to go and get some rest while she could, repeating the advice of the doctors – that she must take care of herself. She always refused. She couldn’t bear the thought of them being together without her. She only left the ward when he did, heading back to her own bed along the dark, deserted hospital corridors. And even then she often sneaked back in the early hours of the morning. She couldn’t sleep, not without the twins near her. She had failed to protect them in the womb; she needed to do better now.

The nurses chided her, but gently, insisting that she came away from their bedside every now and again to drink the tea and eat the toast made for her. They had obviously seen the strength of maternal love before and knew not to underestimate it, even in Lizzie.

The good news, during the first week, was that neither of the twins picked up any infections. Oliver was, they repeatedly reassured her, doing well, his lungs coping better with each day that passed, his weight slowly but steadily increasing. His development was on-track. By contrast, Joseph was still a major cause for concern; his blood pressure and oxygen levels kept dipping dramatically and, to Lizzie at least, inexplicably. Each time the team had to intervene to get him back on an even keel, she felt the hole that had been ripped open in her soul by his birth gape even wider. Watching them work on him, all those hands on his small body, was agony – each time he pulled through was an exhausting relief.

Through it all, Helen was their rock. She was calm, supportive, experienced, professional and, above all, kind. She was still capable of imagining what it was like for them, as novice parents. She kept repeating that all the boys needed was time, that Lizzie and Ian must be patient, especially with Joseph, who was a little superstar for bouncing back after each sticky patch.

The best of times was when they allowed Lizzie to hold her boys. With all the lines and the tubes, it took two nurses to arrange, but when the unit was calm and they could spare the time, they helped Lizzie get the twins out of their incubators, taking it in strict rotation. It was in those rare moments, with either Oliver or Joseph resting lightly – oh so lightly – against her breast, tucked safe inside her top, that she felt anything close to happiness. Holding them near helped her believe that they might, if they were really lucky, all get out of this alive.

Whether she deserved such luck she wasn’t sure.

The nurses kept reassuring her. They said that guilt was common among mothers of prem babies, but misplaced – a waste of energy and emotion. ‘Look around,’ they said, ‘pregnancies don’t always go to plan. There’s nothing you could have done differently. It’s just the way it is.’

Lizzie listened to their reassurances, but she couldn’t bring herself to accept them.

Chapter 8

THOSE EARLY, EXHAUSTING, blurry days spent shuttling between her largely unslept-in bed on the postnatal ward and the NICU were lonely for Lizzie.

Only immediate family were allowed on the unit in order to limit, as much as possible, the risk of infection, and no one came into the hospital to visit her. Although that was at her own request. Lizzie reasoned that it was pointless. She spent all her waking hours with the boys – there wasn’t the time for visitors. Added to which, she simply didn’t have enough energy to deal with other people’s distress while there was so much going on.

Her friends and work colleagues said they understood and promised to visit her as soon as things settled down. Instead they texted – a lot. She appreciated their support, but it was an added pressure. It required her to put on a brave front in her replies, when in reality she was struggling to accommodate any emotion other than terror. After a while she stopped responding to their many messages and barely looked at her phone. It was rude, but it helped. The other benefit of unhooking from the outside world was that it reduced her exposure to her mother.

Her mum had, understandably, been deeply upset when Lizzie had called to break the news of the boys’ premature arrival and to request that she put on hold her plans to travel down from Greenock – at least for a little while. It was the first time in years that she’d heard her mother get upset. Lizzie had nearly weakened and let her come, but then Carol had started talking about how God’s plan wasn’t always clear, and Lizzie had decided that, if prayer worked, it could operate just as well from a distance.

And perhaps He did work in mysterious ways, even for non-believers, because both of the twins made it safely to the end of the second week. They were still seven weeks shy of full term, but they were both holding their own. Indeed, the prognosis for Oliver was now looking positive; as for Joseph, well, as Helen kept reassuring them, Joseph was a fighter.

With both of the boys making progress, albeit at very different rates, Lizzie felt she could finally breathe out, a little, and with more oxygen and space in her brain, she started thinking about the realities of life outside the hospital.

She knew that if she was going to cope, she was going to have to ask for help, so she asked the person she trusted most.

Chapter 9

THEY MET IN THE CAFÉ on the ground floor of the hospital, amidst the smells of milky coffee and grilled cheese – ordinary life in full swing on a sunny Saturday morning. It was a shock to Lizzie. She felt like a prisoner emerging after a long sentence, blinking at the volume and the intensity of it all. Could it really only be little more than a fortnight since she’d sat on Heather’s sofa trying to ignore the searing pain in her back, unaware that the twins were already in serious trouble?

‘You’re a sight for sore eyes.’ Heather kissed her cheek. She smelt of fresh air. Lizzie had forgotten how good that smelt. The kiss was a small, but welcome benediction. ‘This must all be so stressful for you?’

Lizzie shook her head. ‘Don’t go being all kind and sympathetic.’

Heather slipped off her jacket and sat down. ‘I’m so sorry I wasn’t there when it all kicked off.’

‘Don’t be silly. Mick looked after me. Royally.’

‘So I gather.’ Heather smiled, pride mixed with some amusement. ‘Bless him, you gave him quite a fright. It wasn’t quite what he’d had planned for his day off.’

‘No. I know. Did he ever get your kitchen light working?’

‘Yes. Though he took his sweet time about it.’

Lizzie tried to sustain the banter. ‘I’m sorry for disrupting his day… and for the mess. Has your sofa recovered?’

Heather laughed. ‘Don’t worry about that. It’s had worse things spilled on it over the years.’

It was the first time since the birth that Lizzie had been able to find anything remotely funny in what had happened. The memory of the mundane reality of fixed kitchen lights and comfy sofas and Mick and Heather’s cluttered but cosy house was very welcome. It was a glimpse of what was normal, and possible.

Heather went to get them a drink. When she returned her tone became more serious. ‘It’s all quite brutal, isn’t it? This whole… giving-birth process.’ Lizzie nodded. ‘How are you feeling, in yourself?’

‘I’m doing fine. They’ve got the anaemia under control and I’m much more mobile now, which helps.’

‘How long will you be staying in?’ Heather must have noticed something shift in Lizzie’s demeanour, because she hurried on, ‘I just wondered how it works, with the twins needing to stay here and you being well enough to be discharged.’

‘Nothing’s decided yet.’ But the clock was ticking. Lizzie didn’t want to think about having to go home – leaving the boys behind. It didn’t seem feasible. But that was precisely what she was going to have to do in a few days’ time. She couldn’t stay indefinitely on the postnatal ward.

‘Right.’ Heather paused, always careful of causing upset. ‘And how are the boys doing? Really?’

‘Better with every day that passes. Oliver is doing really well. Which is good, obviously. Joseph isn’t out of the woods yet. He’s still very small and there are some concerns about his development, longer term, because of the oxygen deficit he endured.’ Heather covered her distress at this news well, but not completely. Lizzie endeavoured to reassure her. ‘But he’s making progress, in his own slow but steady way. I’m sorry you can’t come up and see them.’

‘That’s fine. Best to keep them safe, rather than having everyone and his wife trooping through the ward, bringing all their germs with them. I’ll be seeing them soon enough. I’m glad things are a little easier. We’ve been so worried, about all of you.’ She paused. ‘Whatever we can do to help, just let us know.’

Lizzie noticed how Heather often expressed herself in the plural – the testament of a good marriage?

As if psychic, Heather’s next question was, ‘And how’s Ian doing? Has he got over the shock yet? He was beside himself when I rang to tell him Mick had taken you in. I’ve never heard him sound like that before. He was in no fit state to drive, really. I gather he made to the hospital in time for the birth.’

‘He did.’

‘Well, that’s something. I see him sometimes, returning late at night.’

‘Yes, he’s been coming in every day after work. Staying for as long as he can. He’s been amazing.’ It was true. Ian had been, since the boys had been born.

‘That’s good.’

They fell silent.

Heather’s next question was hesitant. ‘Have they established why you went into labour so early?’

Lizzie’s gaze went to the lace of froth around the edge of her coffee cup. The pattern was delicate, intricate. ‘My placenta ruptured.’

‘Do they know what caused it?’

‘No. They don’t know for sure. It can happen with twins.’

Heather didn’t push for any further explanation. She turned her attention to the bag on her lap. ‘I brought you some bits and pieces I thought you might need. A few home comforts.’ She passed over a cotton tote bag. It had a cartoon hedgehog printed on it.

Lizzie looked inside. There was a pack of nice biscuits, a small box of chocolate gingers, her favourites, and a paperback, because Heather would never give up on trying to turn her into a reader. There was even a mini bottle of champagne – to celebrate the boys’ arrival.

She felt a rush of affection. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’m not sure what the hospital policy is on alcohol but, you know, tradition and all that. I gather Ian has already suggested that he and Mick go out for a pint to wet the babies’ heads… when things are more settled. Oh, and I nearly forgot, your keys are in there. You must have left them behind in the panic.’

Lizzie slid her hand inside the tote bag and felt around for her house keys. She gripped them. The teeth dug into her palm. They represented the home that she and the boys would return to. She held them out to Heather. ‘Can I ask you to hang onto them for me?’ Heather looked slightly perplexed, but nodded. ‘I’ve a favour to ask.’

Chapter 10

THE SENSE OF CALM Heather had bestowed on Lizzie evaporated the minute she pushed through the swing doors onto the unit.

An alarm was going off. Its persistent beeping pierced the air, a shrill reminder that stability was tenuous on the NICU – you took it for granted at your peril. And she had taken it for granted. She had sat and drunk coffee and laughed with Heather as if things were fine, as if they were safe.

It was not fine.

They were not safe. The huddle of nurses around Joseph’s incubator testified to that.

She caught Ian’s eye. He was standing, rigid, to one side of the cluster of busy bodies, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. She could see the tension in his hands, his fingers digging into the flesh of his upper arms. He was literally holding himself together. Lizzie didn’t go any further into the room. She couldn’t. The noise of the alarm held her back. Was this the sound she would forever associate with her child dying?

The nurses moved swiftly, quietly and efficiently. They were an experienced team. They knew what they were doing, but they weren’t miracle-workers. The beeping seemed to speed up and grow louder, leaving no space to breathe or think or hope.

Then, suddenly, it stopped – leaving in its wake the reverberations of panic. The choreography around the incubator changed, softened, became less staccato. ‘It’s okay,’ one of the nurses said, ‘it was a false alarm.’ Lizzie desperately wanted to believe her. ‘Joseph’s stats are stable. That’s not what triggered the alarm. One of the plugs seems to have been knocked loose.’

Relief, a drench of cold water, made Lizzie shiver. There was a beat and the nurses began to disperse.

Then…‘What the fuck!’ from Ian.

The sound of his anger, coming so soon after the fear, was shocking. No one shouted or swore on the NICU. It was an unspoken code, a mutual pact agreed upon to protect raw nerves and exhausted souls. Ian moved, rapidly.

Lizzie was confused for a second, then she realised where, or rather who, he was heading towards. Trish. Lizzie hadn’t seen her, standing against the back wall, a cloth in her hand.

‘You stupid cow!’ Ian had found his target. ‘How fucking careless can you be? Where do you think you are? You’re not slopping out in some pub. This is an intensive-care ward, you slack, useless waste of space.’ He turned to the assembled staff. ‘I want her’ – he jabbed his finger at Trish – ‘off this ward. Now.’

In a smooth, decisive movement, one of the nurses stepped in front of Trish. Suddenly everyone was talking, filling the vacuum left by the silenced alarm. Trish started apologising, Ian carried on shouting, and the nurses repeated their assurances that Joseph was fine. It was chaos – an alien and dangerous concept on the NICU. The other parents watched in horror.

Ian’s raised voice was enough to unlock Lizzie.

But instead of going to check on her son, she went to soothe her partner.

She didn’t touch him. She knew, from experience, that when Ian was this upset the only way to get through was with stillness. She stepped in front of him, leaving enough space for the panic he was experiencing to radiate off him. Trying to dampen his emotions when he was in such a heightened state never worked; his stress had to be allowed to race, peak and then subside. Hence she said nothing. She let him vent, but stood her ground, in his eyeline: a physical barrier, protecting Trish, and him.

After a few more seconds of ranting, Ian finally looked at her. He stopped shouting. His chest was heaving, his breathing rattly. Lizzie took a slow, deep breath, then another and another, and on the fifth inhale he matched her. Although it was clear he was still wrestling to get himself under control, he began, tentatively, to follow her lead.

The energy dropped out of the situation. Lizzie felt weak with relief, but she kept breathing steadily, evenly, slowly. Only when she was convinced that Ian was calm and rational did she step away and go to Joseph.

As the conversation began about what was going to be put in place to prevent such an incident ever happening again, Lizzie saw Trish slip quietly away. It was for the best.