The Whisper Beyond the Glass
The nurse, a woman with a weary, wind-beaten face and eyes dulled by years of witnessing others’ suffering, shifted Alice’s clear plastic bag awkwardly from one work-worn hand to the other. The crinkle of the plastic shattered the tomb-like silence of the lift. Inside the bag, mockingly bright, lay tiny baby clothesa pink rabbit-patterned onesie, a little shirt embroidered with “Mummy’s Joy,” and a pristine pack of nappies with a bold, taunting “1” on the packagingfor newborns, for those just beginning their journey.
The lift groaned on old, frayed cables, descending slowly, and with each floor, Alices heart tightened further, collapsing into a small, helpless knot of pain.
“Dont fret, love,” the nurses voice rasped, hopeless as the creak of an unoiled door in an empty house. “Youre young, strong. Youll have more. Itll all come right Itll sort itself out.”
She shot Alice a quick, sidelong glance, brimming with awkward sympathy and a desperate need for this torturous descent to end.
“Got any other little ones?” she asked, desperate to fill the thick, suffocating silence.
“No,” Alice whispered, staring at the blinking floor buttons. Her voice was hollow.
“Ah thats harder,” the nurse sighed. “Whatve you decided? Burial or?”
“Burial,” Alice answered, lips pressed bloodless. Her reflection in the lifts grimy, scratched mirror was a strangerspale, empty.
The nurse exhaled, almost professionally. Shed seen thousands like Alice. Young, old, broken. Life in these walls was divided into “before” and “after.” And for Alice, “after” had just begun.
She left the hospital alone. No ribbon-tied bundle, no happy gurgles from carefully wrapped blankets, no smiles or congratulations, no winter-fresh carnations clutched in gloved hands. Just her husband, James, waiting at the foot of the steps, eyes downcast, shoulders slumped as if bearing an unbearable weight. And inside her, a frozen, hollow ache that rang in her ears and stole her breath.
James hugged her stiffly, like a stranger afraid to hurt her further. His embrace didnt warm her. It was just a ritual, a formality. Without a word, without the silly, cherished photos by the exit, they left. The doors hissed shut behind them, sealing away a chapter forever.
“Ive er been to the funeral directors,” James stammered as the engine coughed to life. “Sorted everything for tomorrow. White wreath, small. The caskets beige, with pink” He choked.
“Doesnt matter,” Alice cut in, staring at the fogged window. “I cant I cant talk about it now.”
“Right. Er” He cleared his throat, gripping the wheel.
The December sun was treacherously bright, glinting off puddles, flashing from passing cars, screaming of life where there was none. Where was the wind? The lashing rain? The wet, spiteful snow slapping her face like Gods rebuke? That wouldve been fair. That wouldve been honest. They passed the checkpoint, rolling onto the sunlit street. Alice stared absently at the cars salt-streaked side.
“Filthy, isnt it?”
“Meant to wash it days ago, but well.”
“Are you ill?” she asked.
“No. Why?”
“You keep coughing.”
“Nerves. Just nerves.”
The world outside hadnt changed. The same streets, same fag ends clinging to kerbs, same skeletal trees against grey council blocks. A ruthlessly blue sky. A rusted school fence, someones fresh graffiti declaring love. Pigeons puffed up on wires. Endless tarmac leading nowhere. It was all the same. And it was unbearable.
* * *
At three months pregnant, Alice had fallen ill. First a sore throat, then fever, body aching. Just flu, she thought. Doctors assured her the baby was safe. After recovery, a rash flared on her backherpes, one said, prescribing harsh antivirals. Another shrugged: allergies, stress. The rash faded.
On her due date, faint contractions began. The midwife dismissed them: false labour. Drips to stop them, but the pain worsened. Hours later, her waters brokeclear, no infection. More drips to speed things up. Six hours in, the monitor faltered. “Hypoxia,” someone murmured. A C-section was rushed.
The baby girl was born crying, healthy. Alice held her for five minutes. The next time she saw her, it was in intensive care, tubes everywhere, blood at her lips.
“Pneumonia,” the consultant said, avoiding her eyes. “From the infection you had. Its hard to fight.”
Three days later, as Alice pumped colostrum, praying, James lit a candle in church. Theyd even renamed the babysuperstition, a last hope. Then the consultant entered, stopping her mid-pump.
“Im so sorry, Alice.”
* * *
Cars passed, strangers inside oblivious. There shouldve been three in their car. Now there were two again. But between them lay an abyss.
Relatives muttered about suing, blaming the doctors. Alice wanted none of it. Moving, thinkingit all took too much effort. Shed return to work after New Years. Staying home, surrounded by untouched baby things, was madness.
They spent Christmas at her parents snowy village. On Christmas Eve, they heated the old outhouse saunato wash away the hospitals taint. Alice, still healing, sat in the anteroom as her mother bathed.
“Tonights for divination,” her mother mused. “Mirrors, candles wed see our future husbands.”
“Did it work?”
“Mmm. Once, I swore I saw a shadow in the glass. We screamed and fled.” She laughed. “Fancy trying?”
“Not for the world.”
Later, alone, Alice drowsed on the warm bench. She dreamed of home, sunlight flooding the nursery. In the crib, something stirred. Her daughteralive, smiling, eyes impossibly blue.
“Mum,” the baby said, voice clear as a bell. “Dont cry. Youll be happy. Youll have a daughter. Name her Emily. Ill always be with you.”
Alice woke gasping, tears hot on her cheeks. The weight on her chest had cracked, leaving only sand to sift through.
* * *
Time healed, grain by grain. Alice stored the baby things at her parents, keeping only a tiny bear rattle. Work, routineit dragged her back. She laughed again, learned to enjoy coffee, sunlight, James arms.
Doctors said wait two years before trying again. She wasnt ready. But fate intervened. A year and a half later, she knewbefore the test, before the antibiotics the GP prescribed. Something stopped her hand as she lifted the pill.
The GP urged terminationthe drugs were dangerous. James, her parents, in-lawsall echoed: “Youll have a disabled child. Dont be selfish.” Torn, she booked the appointment.
The morning of, half-asleep, resignation settled over her. Thena voice, thunderous in her skull:
“DONT YOU DARE!”
She bolted upright. The room was empty. But the voiceher daughtershad been real.
After that, no more talk of termination. Endless scans, tests, disclaimers signed. Judgement from family. Only James stood by her.
Two weeks before birth, another woman shared her hospital room.
“Im Alice.”
“Emily,” the woman smiled.
Alice froze. Emilythe name from the dream.
“Does your name mean anything?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
“Oh yes,” Emily grinned. “It means industrious. But Mum always said its rebirth. Like a phoenix.”
Rebirth. Alices spoon clattered to the floor.
She gave birth easily. A daughterhealthy, screaming. Her Emily. Her rebirth.
They left in March. The sun glared, but Alice didnt flinch. Cradling her daughter, she smiled at the sky.
“Thank you,” she thought. “Thank you, my little guardian. Thank you for the pain, the hope, the miracle. For my Emily, reborn.”
