The Whisper Through the Glass
The orderly, a woman with a weary, wind-beaten face and eyes dulled by years of witnessing others’ suffering, shifted Alices clear plastic bag awkwardly from one calloused hand to the other. The rustle of the plastic shattered the tomb-like silence of the lift. Inside the bag, like a cruel joke, were the babys thingsa tiny pink onesie with bunnies, a little gown embroidered with “Mummys Joy,” and a pack of nappies, white with blue trim, marked with a bold, mocking “1”for newborns. For those just beginning their journey.
The lift creaked as it descended, its frayed cables groaning, and with every floor, Alices heart clenched tighter, collapsing into a small, helpless knot of pain.
“Itll be alright, love,” the orderly said, her voice rough and hopeless, like the creak of an unoiled door in an empty house. “Youre young, strong. Youll have more. Thingsll work out They always do.”
She threw Alice a quick, sidelong glance, full of awkward sympathy and a desperate wish for the lift ride to end.
“Any other little ones?” she asked, desperate to fill the thick, suffocating silence.
“No” Alice exhaled, staring at the blinking floor buttons. Her voice was empty. Lifeless.
“Thats harder” the orderly murmured. “Whatve you decided? Burial or cremation?”
“Well bury her,” Alice said, pressing her lips until they whitened. Her reflection in the lifts grimy, scratched mirror showed a strangerpale, hollow.
The orderly sighed, almost professionally. Shed seen thousands like Alice. Young, old, broken. Life in these walls was divided into “before” and “after.” And Alice had just crossed into the “after.”
She was leaving the maternity ward alone. No swaddled bundle with pink or blue ribbons. No happy gurgles from beneath a carefully tucked blanket. No smiles, no congratulations, no bewildered, joyful relatives clutching modest bouquets of carnations. Just her husband, James, standing at the foot of the hospital steps with guilt-heavy eyes, hunched like he carried an unbearable weight. And the terrible, ice-cold emptiness, ringing in her ears, stealing her breath.
James hugged her stiffly, hesitantly, like a stranger afraid his touch would hurt her more. His arms didnt comfort. They were just a formality, a ritual. Without a word, without the silly, cherished photos by the exit, they walked away from the hospital. The doors hissed shut behind them, sealing off a chapter of their lives forever.
“Ive already er” James cleared his throat as the car engine coughed to life. “Been to the funeral directors. The vultures. Everythings booked for tomorrow. But if you if you want to change anything. The wreaths white, small. The coffins its beige, with pink” His voice cracked.
“It doesnt matter,” Alice cut in, staring at the fogged-up window. “I cant I cant talk about this now.”
“Right. Er” He coughed again, gripping the wheel.
How cruelly bright the December sun shone! It glared off puddles, off car windscreens, shouting about life where there was none. Where was the wind? The lashing rain? The wet, miserable snow sticking to her face like Gods spit for her sins? That wouldve been fair. That wouldve been honest.
They drove past the hospital gates into the sun-drenched street. Alice glanced at their filthy car, streaked with salt and grime.
“Look at the state of it”
“Meant to get it washed. Three days ago. Then well.”
“Are you ill?” She turned to him.
“No. Why?”
“You keep coughing.”
“Nah, just nerves. Throats tight.”
The world outside hadnt changed. The same city, the same streets, the same bare trees against grey council flats. The skybluer than it had any right to be. A rusty school fence, someones fresh graffiti declaring love. Pigeons puffed up on telephone wires. The endless grey road leading nowhere. It was all the same. And it was unbearable.
* * *
Alice had fallen ill three months into her pregnancyfirst a sore throat, then fever, body aches. The flu, she assumed. Doctors reassured herthe baby was safe, protected. But after recovery, a rash bloomed on her lower back. A specialist dismissed it as herpes, prescribed heavy antivirals. Alice took them, guilt gnawing at her. They didnt help. Another doctor waved it offjust stress, just allergies. The rash faded, and life resumed.
On her due date, contractions startedweak, barely there. But Alice went in.
“No dilation,” the midwife said after examining her. “False labour. Well stop it.”
Two IV drips later, the contractions only worsened. By morning, she was in active labour. They broke her watersclear, no issues. Then came the induction drip. Six hours in, the monitor blaredthe babys heart rate was dropping. “Hypoxia,” the midwife whispered. The doctor leaned in”We need to do a C-section.”
Alice nodded, exhausted.
The surgery was quick, smooth. A girl. Healthy, crying. They placed her on Alices chesttiny, wrinkled, dark-hairedfor five perfect minutes. Then she was gone.
Alice saw her next in intensive care, wired to machines, a ventilator breathing for her. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.
“Pneumonia,” the consultant said, avoiding her eyes. “Likely from infected amniotic fluid. The same bug you had.”
For three days, hope flickered. Alice pumped milk, praying. James lit a candle in church. Thenhe was changing the babys name. A superstitious whisper from relativesmaybe the name was unlucky. Stupid, but desperation clings to anything. They picked a new onestrong, old.
And thenthe consultant entered her room.
“Im so sorry, Alice.”
* * *
Through the car window, strangers rushed past, indifferent. There shouldve been three of them in that car. Now there were two. And between thema chasm.
Relatives muttered about suing, about negligence. Alice wanted none of it. Moving took effort. Breathing took effort. She decided to return to work after New Yearsstaying home, surrounded by baby clothes she couldnt bear to throw away, was madness.
They spent Christmas at her parentsa quiet, snow-covered village. On Christmas Eve, they heated the old sauna, hoping to wash away the hospital stink. The men went firstJames and her father. Alice and her mother followed after midnight.
Her mother, restless, spoke as they sat in the steamy warmth.
“You know, tonights for divination. Mirror-gazing, candlelight seeing your future love.”
Alice, drowsy, shook her head. “No thanks.”
Later, alone in the sauna, she dozed off.
She dreamed of home. Sunlight streaming into the nursery. The cribwhite, carved. A rustle. A sound.
Her daughter lay there, alive. Smiling.
“Mummy,” she saidclear, bright, not a babys voice.
Alice froze. The girl spoke againfull sentences, wisdom beyond her days.
“Dont cry, Mummy. Youll be happy. Youll have a daughter. Name her Sophie. Ill always be with you.”
Alice woke gasping, tears hot on her cheeks. The weight on her chestlessened, just a little.
* * *
Time healed, as it does. Slowly. Alice packed the baby things away, keeping only a tiny pink rattle. She returned to work. Laughed again. Learned to enjoy coffee, sunshine, Jamess hugs.
Doctors warnedno pregnancy for two years. She wasnt planning to. But fate intervened. A year and a half later, she knewbefore the test, before the missed period.
She fell ill again. The doctor prescribed strong antibiotics. Standing at the sink, pill in hand, something stopped hera click in her gut, a silent “no.”
The antibiotics were dangerous. The GP urged termination.
“No,” Alice said. “Im keeping her.”
Kidney infection followed. Stronger drugs. Pressure mountedJames, her parents, his parents. “Youll have a disabled child! Youre being reckless!”
The night before her abortion appointment, half-asleep, resignation settled in.
Thena voice. Her daughters voice, thunderous in her skull.
“DONT YOU DARE!”
She shot upright. The room was empty. But the command lingered.
No more talk of termination. Countless scans, tests, signed disclaimers. Relatives called her mad. Only James stood by her.
Two weeks before birth, she was admitted. A new roommate arrivedround, cheerful.
“Im Alice,” she said.
“Sophie,” the woman smiled.
Alice froze. Sophiethe name from
