Forgive Me by Kateri Stanley (love letters to the dead txt) 📗

Oh God, miscarriage, she thought.

“Help me,” the woman whispered, her eyes rolled back into her head and she fell to the ground.

Mary acted on instinct and called the crash team. She rushed from behind the desk kneeling by her side. She tried her best to keep her conscious, talking to her, pillowing her hands beneath her head, making sure she wasn’t lying on her belly. The woman opened her eyes; they were bright blue like a precious jewel flickering.

“H-Help me,” she whispered again.

“A doctor’s on the way, hunnie,” Mary replied calmly.

The crash team arrived and she told them everything. She hoped and prayed that the woman and her baby would be okay. As they lifted her off the floor and onto the stretcher, the woman reached out touching Mary’s arm. It was the lightest caress; her fingers stroking the edge of her hand. Mary heard the woman whisper something but it was so faint, whatever she’d said was unsalvageable.

Mary watched the team whisk the woman to the surgical ward and she wobbled back to her desk. She considered herself to be a pretty unshockable person. Working in the ER had taught her well enough but this experience left her knocked and she had to gather her thoughts before the next patient arrived.

On her break, she tried to gather more information about the pregnant woman. Why had she arrived at the hospital in a horrendous condition? What had happened to her?

Her heart broke when she heard the news.

“She died while they were doing a caesarean,” one of the nurses said. “It seemed like she just gave up, her body was too exhausted. Her baby’s okay, poor thing. You should see him, he’s gorgeous.”

Mary took a stroll and visited the nursery. It didn’t take very long to find the mystery baby. He was tiny with a crown of dark hair inherited from his mother. Cherie was right, he is a beauty.

Mary whispered a prayer for him and his mother, finishing with the sign of the cross. She was about to head back to her station when she realised she wasn't alone.

A man was staring at the mystery baby. It was everybody’s duty in the hospital to safeguard all patients and her nurse persona took hold. “Can I help you, Sir?”

“I’m looking at my son,” he said briefly, not taking his gaze off the baby.

Is he the father? He’s kinda old. Why the Hell didn’t he take better care of her?

Mary gestured to the nurse on duty who nodded back, giving her the signal that the man wasn’t a threat. She couldn’t do anything.

The man was tall in a pristine black suit. Maybe, he was a businessman or heck, even a doctor. He was handsome, in his own way - with a roman nose, dark gelled blonde hair and green eyes sitting behind a pair of glasses.

“Your son is very beautiful,” Mary said softly.

A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “He is. Exactly like his momma.”

I don’t trust you. She couldn't pinpoint her aversion, maybe it was the atmosphere he gave off, but there was something, just something niggling about this man she wasn’t growing accustomed to. His son had lost his mother only an hour or so before and he didn’t seem sad. At all.

Mary had seen plenty of bereaved families when a loved one had passed on. There were normally tears, anxiety tremors, despair filling the room. But not in this man, he kept smiling and grinning with pride.

She could’ve been overthinking it. A bad vibe, pure alarming negativity radiated off him like sunshine, but she couldn’t form her thoughts into viable reasons why she was making judgements about this particular person. It wasn’t the correct method in the healthcare system, she had to treat everyone equally and with respect. Mary had been feeling like it all day, ever since she walked into the nursery on her break.

She stared at the man in the suit standing by the reception desk, he was the source for her inward agony. He was filling out discharge papers, waiting by his feet wrapped up in blankets was her mystery baby. He was tucked up in the carrier, the tuffs of dark hair peeking out from his knitted hat. He was sleeping soundlessly.

Something pulled at Mary’s chest. She wanted to protest, to wipe that sickeningly smug smile off his face as he flirted with her ditzy colleague. He’s not your son. Miranda might think you’re some catch, but I know you’re hiding something.

The man in the suit turned, looking over his shoulder, staring straight at her. Mary’s fists balled up by her side. His mother is lying dead on a morgue slab, the baby’s identical. The pale skin, dark hair and ice blue eyes. There’s nothing of you in him.

He glared at Mary and picked up the mysterious beautiful boy. He knows I don’t trust him. The man walked to the exit; the baby opened his eyes staring at her one last time.

Mary decided to go to the nursery for sentimental reasons. The harmonies of The Flamingos were playing. Probably not the most appropriate but the babies seem to enjoy it. They liked some Aretha Franklin, Billie Holiday and Nina Simone the other day. Mary was cleaning up an empty cot and singing to Pascal, the newest slugger who’d been brought into this world. He was a cutie, staring up at her as he chewed his fingers. Mary’s thoughts shifted as she realised what she was cleaning. The cot had previously belonged to her mystery baby boy. She’d never got to say goodbye and the blanket they wrapped him up in had been forgotten about. Mary bundled it to her chest, nobody would care if she didn’t take it to the laundry room. They wouldn’t notice anyway, there were hundreds of other blankets.

Chapter Thirty

Summer 2017

Your fingers splay across the red legs of the strings as you speak. Your gaze is unmoved and