The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [114]
I used to wonder how each day could be so much better than the last. If I was apart from Christina for more than a few hours I always missed her. If the firm sent me out of town on business for a night I would phone her two, three, perhaps four times, and if it was for more than a night then she came with me. I remember you once describing your love for my mother and wondering at the time if I could ever hope to achieve such happiness.
We began to make plans for the birth of our child. William, if it was a boy—her choice; Deborah, if it was a girl—mine. I painted the spare room pink, assuming I had already won.
Christina had to stop me buying too many baby clothes, but I warned her that it didn’t matter as we were going to have a dozen more children. Jews, I reminded her, believed in dynasties.
She attended her exercise classes regularly dieted carefully, rested sensibly. I told her she was doing far more than was required of a mother, even the mother of my daughter. I asked if I could be present when our child was born and her gynecologist seemed reluctant at first, but then agreed. By the time the ninth month came, the hospital must have thought from the amount of fuss I was making they were preparing for the birth of a royal prince.
I drove Christina into Women’s College Hospital on the way to work last Tuesday. Although I went on to the office I found it impossible to concentrate. The hospital called in the afternoon to say they thought the child would be born early that evening: Obviously Deborah did not wish to disrupt the working hours of Graham, Douglas & Wilkins. However, I still arrived at the hospital far too early. I sat on the end of Christina’s bed until her contractions started coming every minute, and then to my surprise they asked me to leave. They needed to rupture her membranes, a nurse explained. I asked her to remind the midwife that I wanted to be present to witness the birth.
I went out into the corridor and began pacing up and down, the way expectant fathers do in B-movies. Christina’s gynecologist arrived about half an hour later and gave me a huge smile. I noticed a cigar in his top pocket, obviously reserved for expectant fathers. “It’s about to happen,” was all he said.
A second doctor whom I had never seen before arrived a few minutes later and went quickly into her room. He only gave me a nod. I felt like a man in the dock waiting to hear the jury’s verdict.
It must have been at least another fifteen minutes before I saw the unit being rushed down the corridor by a team of three young interns. They didn’t give me so much as a glance as they disappeared into Christina’s room.
I heard the screams that suddenly gave way to the plaintive cry of a newborn child. I thanked my God and hers. When the doctor came out of her room I remember noticing that the cigar had disappeared.
“It’s a girl,” he said quietly. I was overjoyed. “No need to repaint the bedroom immediately” flashed through my mind.
“Can I see Christina now?” I asked.
He took me by the arm and led me across the corridor and into his office.
“Would you like to sit down?” he asked. “I’m afraid I have some sad news.”
“Is she all right?”
“I am sorry, so very sorry, to tell you that your wife is dead.”
At, first I didn’t believe him, I refused to believe him. Why? Why? I wanted to scream.
“We did warn her,” he added.
“Warn her? Warn her of what?”
“That her blood pressure might not stand up to it a second time.”
Christina had never told me what the doctor went on to explain—that the birth of our first child had been complicated, and that the doctors had advised her against becoming pregnant again.
“Why didn’t she tell me?” I demanded. Then I realized why. She had risked everything for me—foolish, selfish, thoughtless me