As Razeen brought the car to a screeching halt on the hot concrete in front of the emergency entrance, she gripped the door handle tightly, trying to quiet the shaking, but it didn’t work. Grief rose up in her gut like a fiery ball.
“Are you OK?”
She shook her head, unable to speak, not knowing whether rational words would emerge or some primeval scream of loss.
“It’ll be all right. Don’t assume the worst. Come on.”
They ran through the corridors to the operating theatre where they were met by a distraught Mohammed who was pacing outside. He turned to Lucy and hugged her instinctively before turning to Razeen to do the same. He stopped himself suddenly as he remembered he was about to hug the King. Instead he stumbled back and leaned against the wall, his face a picture of agony.
Lucy’s heart sank but somehow seeing him so full of despair summoned up her own strength. “How is she?”
Mohammed appeared to have forgotten his English and, instead, uttered a stream of Arabic.
“He says she’s had an emergency caesarian but she’s hemorrhaging badly.”
“Can you ask him what happened?”
But there was no need to. Mohammed gesticulated wildly while pouring forth a stream of words which Razeen listened to patiently, before turning to Lucy to translate.
“Apparently everything happened fast. They were on their way here—luckily Maia decided to leave earlier because you’d arrived—and she started bleeding. It seems the baby is well, but he doesn’t know about Maia. He’s waiting to be allowed back into the theatre.”
Mohammed began pacing again, unable to keep still and Lucy leaned back against the wall, crossed her arms and watched him. In those moments of his grief she saw how much he loved Maia. It was written in every impatient, angry, distressed gesture, it was written in the tears that streamed down his face unchecked and in the words of self-recrimination over nonsensical things that Razeen translated. She understood then. Maia had always been popular, always had friends but Lucy had never witnessed such utter devotion. And she was happy for Maia. Happy she’d found a home after so many years without one. It was a home she would never have.
As a doctor emerged through the swing-doors and spoke briefly to Razeen, she caught sight of Maia’s face—deathly white, lively eyes closed now—and grief welled up inside her. “No, Maia, you can’t damn well leave me.” She shook her head and swiped at the tears that had begun to fall down her face. Suddenly Razeen’s arms were around her. “She can’t leave me.” The words emerged as a moan from the fear and grief that lay knotted in the pit of her gut. She crossed her arms over her body as if to contain the pain. “Will she be all right?” She looked up at him. “She will, won’t she?”
“They don’t know yet. They’re working hard. She has a postpartum hemorrhage, something to do with the placenta. But the blood isn’t clotting easily so they’re doing a transfusion of platelets.” He put his arm around her and brought her to his side. “Don’t worry, Lucy. She’s in capable hands.”
But Lucy did worry.
A nurse appeared and beckoned Mohammed who disappeared into the room. Lucy began to follow but Razeen stopped her.
“Leave him with her. They need each other now.”
She bit her lip and turned away, knowing he was right. She leaned her forehead against the wall that divided her from Maia and wept. Razeen’s arms folded around her and his warm body pressed against her back. He pressed his head against hers and murmured Arabic words of comfort that were incomprehensible but reassuring nevertheless. He continued to hold her and her sobs slowly calmed. Only then did he turned her around and press her head to his chest.
A doctor emerged and spoke briefly to Razeen. She saw from the relief on the doctor’s face and Razeen’s response that the worst was passed. “She’s going to be OK, isn’t she?”
“She’s going to be fine. But she’ll need some time to recuperate to regain her strength.”
“Can I see her?”
“The doctors prefer you to wait. She needs rest at the moment.” A nurse appeared behind him carrying a bundle. “Mohammed wants to stay with Maia and has asked if you could look after the baby.”
Lucy stepped away, shaking her head. She couldn’t do it. How could she possibly take responsibility for a baby? But the busy nurse didn’t have time to talk and pushed the bundle into Lucy’s arms. Lucy froze, holding the tiny bundle as if it were a time bomb. And it was, in a way. Because it ignited memories that had long been suppressed: of Lucy, barely more than a child herself, holding a small baby in her arms.