The Whisper Beyond the Glass
The nurse, a woman with a weary face and eyes dulled from years of witnessing others suffering, awkwardly shifted Alices transparent bag from one calloused hand to the other. The plastic crinkled, shattering the tomb-like silence of the lift. Inside the bag, like a cruel joke, lay a scattering of baby clothesa tiny pink jumpsuit with bunnies, a onesie embroidered with “Mummys Little Joy,” and a pristine white pack of nappies edged in blue. The packaging boasted a bold, mocking number: “1”for newborns. For those just beginning their journey.
The lift groaned on worn cables, descending slowly, and with each floor, Alices heart clenched tighter, collapsing into a small, helpless knot of pain.
“Dont worry, love,” the nurse rasped, her voice like the creak of an unoiled hinge in an empty house. “Youre young, strong. Youll have more. Thingsll work out everything sorts itself in the end.”
She shot Alice a fleeting, sidelong glance, brimming with awkward pity and a desperate hope for the ordeal to be over.
“Got other children?” she asked, filling the suffocating silence.
“No” Alice exhaled, staring at the blinking floor buttons. Her voice was hollow.
“Thats harder” the nurse murmured. “Whatve you decided? Burial or cremation?”
“Burial,” Alice replied, lips pressed white as she turned away. Her reflection in the scratched lift mirror was unfamiliarpale, empty.
The nurse sighed, almost professionally. Shed seen thousands like thisyoung, old, broken. Life in these walls was cleaved into “before” and “after.” For Alice, “after” had just begun.
She was leaving the hospital alone. No gift-wrapped bundle with pink or blue ribbons. No contented gurgles from a carefully swaddled corner. No smiles, congratulations, or bewildered, joyful relatives clutching modest winter bouquets. Only Michael, her husband, waiting at the foot of the hospital steps with guilt-heavy eyes, hunched as though carrying an unbearable weight. And the icy, ringing void inside her, stealing her breath.
Michael hugged her stiffly, like a stranger afraid his touch might deepen the wound. His arms offered no warmthjust a hollow ritual. Without fanfare, without the silly, cherished photos at the entrance, they left in silence. The automatic doors hissed shut behind them, sealing away a chapter forever.
“Ive already been erm” Michael cleared his throat as the engine coughed to life. “To the funeral directors. Everythings arranged for tomorrow. But if you want to change anything I picked a small white wreath. And the coffins beige. With pink” His voice cracked.
“It doesnt matter,” Alice cut in, staring at the fogged window. “I cant talk about this now.”
“Right. Erm” He coughed again, gripping the wheel.
How treacherously bright the December sun shone! Glinting off puddles, blinding her, dancing on passing car windows. It screamed of life where there was none. Where was the wind, the lashing rain, the wet, clinging snow slapping her face like Gods reproach? That wouldve been fair. That wouldve been honest.
They passed the checkpoint, merging onto the sunlit street. Alices gaze lingered absently on their mud-splattered car.
“Filthy, isnt it”
“Forgot to wash it. Meant to days ago, but then this happened.”
“Are you ill?” She turned to him.
“No. Why?”
“You keep coughing.”
“Nah. Just nerves. Throats tight from nerves.”
The world outside hadnt changed. The same city, same streets littered with cigarette butts, same skeletal trees against grey council flats. A cloudless, shameless blue sky. A rusted school fence graffitied with fresh declarations of love. Pigeons puffed up on telephone wires. The endless grey road leading nowhere. It was all the same. And it was unbearable.
* * *
At three months pregnant, Alice had fallen ill. A sore throat became fever, then body aches. Just a cold, shed thought. Probably flu. Treatment followedpills, worry. The doctors reassured her: the baby was safe. After recovery, a rash bloomed on her back. The specialist glancedherpes, he declared, scribbling strong antivirals. Guilt-ridden, she took them. They didnt work. Another doctor dismissed it: allergies, stress-related. A harmless cream later, it vanished.
On her due date, faint contractions began. At the hospital, the midwife declared false labour. Drips stalled the contractions, but they returned, fiercer. After a night of agony, her waters were broken. The CTG monitor later flagged distressthe babys heartbeat faltering. “Hypoxia,” the midwife whispered. The doctor offered a C-section. Too exhausted to protest, Alice nodded.
The operation was swift. A girlhealthy, cryingwas placed briefly in Alices arms. Five minutes of bliss. The next time she saw her daughter was in intensive care, tethered to machines, blood trickling from her tiny mouth.
“Pneumonia,” the consultant muttered, avoiding her eyes. “Likely from infected fluid. One of the pathogens you had while pregnant. Its aggressive.”
On day three, as hope flickered, Alice sat pumping colostrum, praying desperately. Michael, for the first time in years, lit a church candle. Later, superstitiously, they renamed the babyan old name, strong.
Then the consultant entered. He gently stilled her hand.
“Im so sorry, Alice.”
The rest blurred into medical jargon, but the meaning was clear: it was over.
* * *
Faces flashed past in car windowsstrangers, indifferent. There shouldve been three of them in that car. Now they were two again. Only this time, a chasm lay between them.
“Im so sorry”what a hollow, worthless phrase! How was she meant to breathe when the world had stopped?
Relatives muttered about negligence, lawsuits. But Alice, drowning in grief, wanted none of it. Movement, speech, thoughtall demanded Herculean effort. She resolved to return to work after New Years. Staying home surrounded by untouched baby clothes was madness.
They spent Christmas at her parents snowy village. The silence was deafening. On Christmas Eve, they heated the saunato wash away the hospitals taint. The men went first. Alice joined her mother later, sitting in the warmth as drowsiness took her.
In a dream, she stood in her sunlit flat, approaching the crib theyd so lovingly chosen. A rustleher daughter, alive, smiling up at her with wise blue eyes.
“Mummy,” the baby said, clear as crystal. “Dont cry. Youll be happy. Youll have a daughter. Call her Emily. Ill always be with you.”
Alice woke gasping, tears hot on her cheeks. The weight on her shoulders had fracturedinto sand, still there, but bearable.
* * *
Time healed, grain by grain. Alice packed the baby things away, keeping only a tiny pink rattle. Routine swallowed her, until one day, she laughed againwithout guilt.
Doctors warned against pregnancy for two years. But fate intervenedshe conceived in eighteen months. When antibiotics were prescribed, something stopped her hand. A click inside, wordless but certain. The GP urged terminationthe drugs risked severe defects. Pressure mounted from all sides: “Youll have a disabled child! Youre being reckless!” Torn, she booked the appointment.
The morning of, drowsiness pulled her under. As resignation solidified”Its done. No choice”a voice thundered in her skull:
“DONT YOU DARE!”
She jolted awake. The room was empty. But the cry lingered.
No more talk of termination followed. Ultrasounds, tests, disclaimersshe signed them all. Parents shook their heads; in-laws called her mad. Only Michael stood firm. They waited, prayed.
Two weeks before the birth, a new woman joined her hospital room.
“Im Alice,” she said.
“Im Emily,” the woman smiled.
Alice froze. That was the namethe one from her dream.
“Emily what does it mean?” she asked, barely steady.
“Oh, I know mine! Mum always said it means industrious. But some say strength.”
Strength. A shiver ran down Alices spine. The spoon slipped from her fingers.
The next day, she gave birthfast, easy. A healthy girl, screaming fiercely. Her Emily. Her strength.
They left in March. The sun glared, bold and springlike. But now, it didnt hurt. Alice shielded the babys face, smiling up at the sky. Her heart sang.
Thank you, little guardian. Thank you for my Emily.
