The Night I Was Saved

Chapter Four

When Mercy and I enter the maternity unit, Mercy lets her supervisor know we're here. The older woman greets me and then walks me to the room where the mother of the baby, Josephine, lies in.

"Maybe I should take her," the woman says when we are standing in front of the closed door. She doesn't acknowledge me at all, let alone ask me how the baby is doing, and it pisses me off. "She's been fighting everyone that came in there. I don't want to upset her even more."

For a moment I hesitate as I hear how Josephine is doing, but then do what my heart tells me to do and I shake my head. "I'll manage. She'll recognize me. I was there when she gave birth, and she asked me to keep an eye on her baby."

I can see the hesitation in her eyes, but after a short moment of consideration, she reluctantly nods her head. "You best leave the door open."

I nod once again, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. When Mercy's supervisor has given me a curt nod and has walked away, I take a deep breath before opening the door.

The room is dark, the only light coming from a small lamp that's on the bedside table. I spot her immediately, and my heart breaks at the sight.

She's sitting with her back against the pillows, her legs pulled up. Her head rests on her knees, her arms wrapped around her legs. She is on top of the sheet, and still in the blue gown that she seemingly wore to surgery.

She looks so small in that bed, it almost swallows her. From my place by the door, I can see her sobbing; her shoulders shake every once in a while, and I'm pretty sure she is crying as well.

Her knuckles are white, her hands under constant pressure as they are folded. She looks stressed, even though I didn't see her face yet. She looks like a bundle of misery, and knowing where she came from, I'm sure that's exactly how she feels.

"Josephine," I whisper, trying not to scare her. Nevertheless, her head snaps up in shock, and one look at her face breaks me a little more.

Her eyes are red and hollow, the dark circles around her eyes tell me she is exhausted. Her cheekbones are very pronounced which is something that I hadn't notices before. She looks well underweight, and nothing like a woman who just gave birth. Her skin is still pale, but in this light, it's almost ashen. Her trembling lips seem a little blue.

Her eyes scan my face and slowly move down to the bundle in my arms. Immediately, her eyes widen as she unfolds herself. "Oh God," she whimpers while she tries to get off the bed.

I see that she is too weak immediately, and therefore take the few steps across the room. "No, stay put. I'll bring her to you."

She holds out her arms, silent tears falling from her eyes down her cheeks. The moment I place the baby in her arms, a heavy, relieved sob leaves her throat before she cradles the baby against her, her nose against the baby's head.

The sight in front of me brings me to tears instantly. It's heartbreaking yet one of the most beautiful moments I've ever witnessed. I can feel her pain somehow, and also her relief of finally having her baby in her arms again.

For minutes, Josephine stays silent. She rocks her baby slowly, her head bowed and face in contact with her baby's head. She moves her fingers over the baby's cheek, nose, ears, hands, and feet, almost as if she's checking that it's real and she is in whole.

I feel lost. I know I should tell her goodbye now. I should walk out that door, wish her good luck and wave one more time, and then forget about it. I should check it off, go home, and then tomorrow start a new shift as if nothing has happened.

But I can't.

I can't walk away without knowing the whole story. I can't walk away without the reassurance that Josephine and this little girl will be okay and safe. I thought that once I'd brought the baby back to Josephine safely, my sense of responsibility would be gone, but it's the opposite. It's ten times stronger now, and I feel it for both of them, not just for the little girl.