Bobby
by
Suvi Mahonen
Strands
of light blue
twisted, crossed
over, then sank
into the expanse
of knitted wool
only to emerge
at the next stitch
and repeat the
pattern again.
They ran in parallel
symmetry, converging
up to the pompom
at the top of
the cap. Around
the circumference
of the brim ran
a border of yellow
on which marched
small embossed
elephants, each
holding the tail
of the one before
it with its trunk.
Fine wisps of
dark hair the
same colour as
Nick’s curled
out from beneath
the edge to cling
to its fuzzy surface
in places. When
we’d bought
it eight weeks
ago I’d
thought it was
too small to fit
anyone, but Nick
had correctly
guessed it would
be the right size.
The
skin of Bobby’s
forehead not covered
by the cap was
furrowed as if
caused by a frown.
This accentuated
his eyebrows,
delicate lines
of barely there
hair on the ledge
of his sockets,
inclining medially
upwards to form
an arc at the
top of the bridge
of his nose. His
nose was short,
more like a nubbin,
tilted slightly
upwards at the
end like mine;
its tip was a
little raw, as
if wiped by a
tissue one too
many times.
I
ran my finger
over the smooth
and doughy surface
of his swollen
lips. Velvety
glossed skin a
few centigrade
cooler than mine.
Drooping in loose
repose, colour
not right, a dusky
shade of purple.
He
lay in my arms,
loosely wrapped
in a green flannel
blanket, the back
of his head resting
in the crook of
my left elbow.
His body was both
light and also
strangely heavy.
I held my arms
still though there
was no reason
why. Looking at
him I tried to
align our eyes.
His lids were
parted slightly,
a hint of blue
between moist
lashes. As I sat
there, propped
with three plastic-covered
wipe-down pillows
between my back
and the bed’s
head, I kept wanting,
almost waiting
for those eyes
to blink.
Nick
sat on the edge
of the bed, arm
on my shoulder,
looking at our
Bobby. Afternoon
light angled in
through the window
and cast Venetian-striped
contrasting shadows
on our son’s
already mottled
cheeks. My finger
moved downward
tracing his chin,
then onwards across
his jaw to his
left ear, curving
to avoid an open
patch of sloughed
skin. It wasn’t
the only one.
There were two
on his right cheek
and a large one
on the side of
his neck, the
full extent of
its angry margins
concealed by the
collar of his
Peter Rabbit jumpsuit.
Made of the softest
white cotton,
it was the outfit
I’d planned
for our baby to
wear on his first
trip back to our
home. Across the
garment multiple
little rabbits
sat on their haunches,
cheeks puffed
with chewing,
holding a large
carrot whose tip
was missing. Sewn
into the outside
seam of the left
shoulder was a
tiny blue tag
saying this was
a genuine item.
Matching mitts
and booties were
still in the bag.
I
moved aside a
fold of blanket
so I could see
more of him. His
left arm was angled,
bent at the elbow,
resting on the
front of his chest.
The embroidered
cuff of the suit’s
sleeve was hitched
a short way up
the forearm. Between
the rim of the
cuff and the base
of Bobby’s
closed fist circled
a thick clear
plastic band fastly
secured. In the
pocket of the
band a slip of
paper had words
typed on it in
small letters,
the portion visible
to me saying,
‘Baby of
Alicia Rus …’
The bend over
his wrist’s
bony prominence
obscured the rest.
A vein line of
discolouring more
pronounced than
that of the skin
went up the back
of his hand to
the fourth knuckle
dimple. Lifting
his hand gently
I straightened
his four fingers
and thumb from
their loose clench.
The webbing between
them was puffy
and wrinkled,
like he’d
been soaking in
a tub for too
long. Such small
and frail digits
despite their
also waterlodden
state, the creases
over their joints
swollen to mere
faint lines. On
his distal pads
were enlarged
whorls of print.
Opaque slivers
of flesh were
peeling back from
around the nails.
I closed his fingers
again, covering
his hand with
mine.
We
remained in silence.
Me,
my husband and
our baby.
I
was conscious
of sounds from
outside the room—muffled
voices, the ping
of a call bell
and the diminishing
roll of a trolley.
But these didn’t
enter my reverie.
The only noise
that was real
to me was the
whistle of breath
from my nostrils
and the clicking
of the clock’s
second hand. A
mere moment in
time, yet this
seemed like forever.
‘Would
you like an autopsy
to be performed?’
Dr Taylor had
asked us.
‘Is
it necessary?’
I said.
‘It’s
your choice. But
it may help to
find out exactly
what went wrong.’
‘We’ll
think about it,’
Nick said.
Dr
Taylor stood there
by the side of
my bed. His gaze
kept shifting
between Bobby
and the green
blanket. From
the edge of my
eye I saw his
hands move to
cross each other
and rest at the
front of his belt.
Speckles of blood
soiled the cuffs
of his white shirt.
I wanted him to
leave but also
needed him to
stay. It was as
if I had the delusion
that he was somehow
able to reverse
this. He remained
there for a few
more awkward minutes
then made his
excuses and left
the room with
a final ‘Sorry’.
It
was then that
Nick had put his
arm around my
shoulder, and
we stayed that
way with Bobby
cradled against
my swelled breasts
that were aching
with the need
to lactate.
‘You
haven’t
called my mum
yet, have you?’
I asked Nick as
I held onto Bobby’s
hand.
‘Do
you want me to?’
I
shook my head.
Once our families
knew, it would
be real.
I
stared across
the room at the
wall opposite.
Glints of slatted
sunlight reflected
off the glass
that protected
a framed painting.
A lamb standing
on a hill’s
green slope. Underneath
it against the
wall was an empty
cot on wheels.
It was the one
in which the midwife
had brought Bobby
back in to me
once she had cleaned,
weighed and dressed
him.
I
looked back at
my son and squeezed
his hand gently.
His soft nails
pressed into the
folds of my palm.
I turned to look
into Nick’s
bloodshot eyes.
‘Can
you ask the midwives
if there are any
nail clippers
around?’
‘Why?’
‘I
don’t want
him to be buried
with long nails,’
I said.
I
started to cry.
Bobby copyright
2012 by
Suvi Mahonen
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