Lifesaving for Beginners

her hand as if he’s not her granddad. As if he’s just an old man she happened to meet one day.
    He says, ‘It was so lovely to meet you, Faith. To finally meet you.’
    Janet says, ‘Yes. It was.’
    Leonard says, ‘I’ll give Kat your phone number. I’m sure she will . . .’ Janet puts her hand on his arm and he stops talking, right in the middle of his sentence.
    She turns to Faith and she says, so quietly I can barely hear her, ‘I’m so sorry, Faith.’
    Faith nods, and I slip my hand inside hers, only because she looks like she could do with warming up. And it’s true: her hand is freezing. I hold it as we walk out through the door and down the eight steps to the driveway. It’d be nice to jump them. I bet it would feel almost like flying, jumping from the top of those steps.
    When we get to the end of the driveway, I turn round. Janet and the grandfather are still at the door and they wave so I wave back, but Faith doesn’t turn round. She just keeps on walking.

 
    May 1987
    The nurse says, ‘Bend your knees . . . that’s it . . . Shuffle your feet up. Right up, towards your bottom . . . that’s right . . . As far up as you can . . . OK, now let your knees fall apart . . . that’s right. Good girl.’
    The nurse’s head disappears between my legs. I feel something cold.
    ‘Relax, relax now, like a good girl.’ When she stands up, she peels a pair of latex gloves off her hands. I see blood on the fingers.
    She says, ‘All done,’ like the woman in Arnott’s when she’s fitting me for a new school tunic. ‘That episiotomy is healing nicely.’
    I don’t know what an episiotomy is. I don’t care. The nurse walks around the cubicle, pulling the curtain behind her until I’m in plain view again. I pull the sheet up to my chin.
    She says, ‘How are you feeling?’
    ‘Fine.’
    She writes something on a piece of paper stuck to a clipboard. ‘Let me know if you want to talk to someone. There are people here you can talk to.’
    ‘When can I go home?’
    ‘The doctor will talk to you later.’
    Three days.
    That’s how long I have to stay.
    Three days.
    Nobody comes. Nobody except Mum and Dad.
    I say, ‘Where’s Ed?’
    Mum says, ‘He can’t come. He won’t understand.’
    Dad says, ‘You’ll see him when you get home, love.’
    I say, ‘When can I go home?’
    Three days.
    That’s how long I have to stay.
    Three days.
    I’m in a room on my own. It smells funny. Like dinner. It smells like dinner. I don’t go out of the room, because when you go out of the room all you can hear are babies crying. It’s like all the babies in the world are here. In this hospital. And they’re all crying. Every single one of them.
    I don’t know where my clothes are. There’s a wardrobe but it’s empty. I’m wearing a nightdress that’s not mine. It’s too big for me. I don’t know where it came from. It’s not Mum’s either. It would swim on her too.
    I think about Ed. And Minnie.
    Ed will wonder where I am. He cries when I’m not there. He cries like a baby, even though he’s ten. He’s too old for that kind of crying.
    Minnie will say I’m lucky. Because I don’t have to do the Inter. Cert. But I’d prefer to be doing the exams. Maths. I’d prefer to be doing the maths exam in the Inter., which is really saying something. Everyone knows I’m thick at maths and I’d fail the exam if I did it. I’d prefer that. What’s the big deal anyway? It just means you get to do Lower Level for your Leaving Cert. and that’s fine by me. Lower Level maths. It’s no skin off my nose.
    The nurse says, ‘Have you been to the toilet yet?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I mean, have you moved your bowels?’
    My face is so hot, it’s scorching. I shake my head. The nurse draws the curtains around the bed, pulls a clean pair of gloves on.
    She says, ‘This won’t hurt.’
    She says, ‘You won’t feel a thing.’
    She says, ‘Try to relax.’
    She explains that it’s a laxative. It’ll make my bowels move. I nod and push my nightdress down over my knees when she’s done. She snaps off the gloves.
    I get under the sheet. ‘When can I go home?’
    ‘As soon as your bowels move.’
    I sit on the toilet. There’s a bath in here. The nurse said I should take a bath. At least once a day. With lots of salt in it. She leaves a box of salt beside my bed. I don’t get in the bath. There are stains along the bottom. They’re brown, like rust. Who’d sit in a rusty bath?
    I say, ‘My bowels