Whispers Behind the Glass

The Whisper Behind the Glass

The nurse, a woman with a weary, wind-beaten face and eyes dulled from years of witnessing others suffering, awkwardly shifted Alices clear plastic bag from one calloused hand to the other. The crinkling of the polythene shattered the tomb-like silence of the lift. Inside the bag, mocking her, were the bright spots of baby clothesa tiny pink babygrow with rabbits, a little onesie embroidered with “Mummys Little Joy,” and a pack of nappies in white with blue trim. On the packaging, a bold, taunting number “1” stared backfor newborns, for those just beginning their journey.

The lift creaked as its worn cables lowered them to the ground floor, and with each passing level, Alices heart clenched tighter, folding into a small, helpless lump of pain.

“Itll be alright, love,” the nurse said, her voice hoarse and hopeless, like the squeak of an unoiled door in an empty house. “Youre young, strong. Youll have more. Things will work out They always do.”

She shot Alice a quick, sidelong glance, full of awkward sympathy and a desperate urge for this agonising descent to end.

“Any other children?” she asked, trying to fill the thick, suffocating silence.
“No” Alice exhaled, staring at the flickering floor buttons. Her voice was hollow, lifeless.
“That makes it harder” the nurse murmured. “Whatve you decided? Burial or cremation?”
“Well bury her,” Alice said, pressing her lips until they whitened. Her gaze sank into the lifts grimy, scratched mirror, reflecting a face she no longer recognisedpale, emptied.

The nurse sighed, almost professionally. Shed seen thousands like this. Young, old, broken. Life in these walls was split into “before” and “after.” And for Alice, the “after” had just begun.

She was leaving the hospital alone. No celebratory bundle with pink or blue ribbons. No happy little noises from a carefully tucked blanket. No smiles, congratulations, or bewildered, joyful looks from family. No modest bouquets of carnations, crisp with winter air. Just her husband, Mark, waiting at the foot of the hospital steps, his eyes heavy with guilt, hunched as if carrying an unbearable weight. And inside her, a terrible, icy void that rang in her ears and stole her breath.

Mark hugged her stiffly, awkwardly, like a stranger afraid his touch might hurt her more. His embrace didnt warm her. It was just a formality, a ritual to be endured. No words of comfort, no silly, cherished photos by the exitjust silence as they left the maternity ward. The doors hissed shut behind them, sealing away a chapter of their lives forever.

“Ive already uh” Mark hesitated, starting the car. The engine growled, lifeless. “Been to the funeral home. Those vultures. Everythings set for tomorrow. But you, if you want you can change anything. I picked a white wreath, small, and the coffin its beige, with pink” His voice cracked.

“It doesnt matter,” Alice cut in, staring at the fogged-up window. “I cant I cant talk about this now.”
“Alright. Uh” He cleared his throat, gripping the wheel.

How cruelly bright the December sun shone! Glinting off puddles, blinding her, dancing on passing car windows. It screamed of life where there was none. Where was the wind? The stinging sleet? The wet, miserable snow slapping her face like Gods spit for her sins? That wouldve been fair. That wouldve been honest. They passed the security gate and rolled onto the sunlit street. Alice glanced absently at their cars mud-splattered side.

“God, its filthy”
“Meant to wash it. Three days ago, but then well.”
“Are you ill?” She turned to him.
“No. Why?”
“You keep coughing.”
“Just nerves. My throats tight from nerves.”

They drove on. The world outside hadnt changed. The same city, the same streets littered with cigarette butts, the same skeletal trees against grey council estates. A shamelessly blue sky without a single cloud. A rusted school fence where someone had spray-painted a fresh love confession. Pigeons puffed up on telephone wires. The endless grey ribbon of tarmac leading nowhere. Everything was the same. And it was unbearable.

* * *

At three months pregnant, Alice had fallen ill. First a sore throat, then fever, body aches. Just a cold, she thought. Probably flu. She took medication, worried, but the doctors reassured herthe baby was safe. After recovering, a rash appeared on her lower back. An infectious disease specialist dismissed it as herpes and prescribed strong antivirals. Guilt-ridden, Alice took them. They didnt help. Another doctor, a dermatologist, shruggedallergies, stress! He gave her a harmless cream, and the rash faded. The health scares seemed over. Relieved, Alice focused on the due date, buying baby clothes and setting up the nursery.

On her due date, contractions startedweak, barely therebut remembering the advice, she went to the hospital.

“No dilation,” the midwife said after examining her. “False labour. Well stop it before it progresses.”

Two IV drips later, the contractions didnt stop. They grew stronger, more painful. Alice endured all night. By morning, she was dilating. They broke her waters.

“Are they clear?” Alice asked, forcing steadiness. Shed researched extensively.
“Yes, no meconium. Everythings fine.”

Another dripthis time to speed things up. Hours passed. The pain became unbearable. Six hours in, the monitor showed the babys heartbeat slowing. “Hypoxia,” the midwife whispered. The doctor approached, touching Alices sweaty forehead. “Babys in distress. We recommend a C-section.” Too exhausted to argue, Alice nodded.

The surgery was quick, successful. A girl. She cried, healthy-looking, and they placed her briefly on Alices chesttiny, wrinkled, dark-haired. That was it. Five minutes of joy. The next time Alice saw her daughter was in intensive care a day later, tubes everywhere, a ventilator breathing for her. Blood trickled from the corner of her tiny mouth.

“Pneumonia,” the consultant said, avoiding her eyes. “Likely from infected amniotic fluid. One of the pathogens you had while pregnant. Its hard to treat.”

On the third day, as the baby stabilised and hope flickered, Alice sat in her room, desperately expressing colostrum. She prayed to every saint, every god she knew. Mark, for the first time in years, went to church to light a candle. Later, hed do something superstitiouschange the babys name. A distant relative had whispered that the name might be wrong. Ridiculous, but in moments like this, you clutch at anything. They chose another nameold, strong, from the almanac.

Just as Alice, certain her child would survive, fought for every drop of milk, the consultant entered. He gently stopped her hand.

“Im so sorry, Alice,” he said, staring past her. The medical jargon that followed blurred into one truth: it was over.

* * *

Faces flashed past in car windows. Strangers, indifferent, rushing about their lives. There shouldve been three of them in that car. But it was just two again. Only now, a chasm lay between them.

“Im so sorry”what a stupid, hollow phrase! Alice seethed inside. How do you live when the world has stopped? How do you breathe when everything halts at that breaking point, stretched like a bowstring, ready to snap?

Relatives came, eyes averted. They blamed the doctors, urged lawsuits, justice But Alice, drowning in grief, wanted none of it. Moving, speaking, thinkingeverything took inhuman effort. She decided to return to work after New Years. Staying home, surrounded by baby things she couldnt bear to donate or throw away, was madness.

They spent New Years and Christmas at her parents quiet, snow-covered village. The silence was deafening. On Christmas Eve, they lit the sauna, washing away the city and hospital grime, trying to renew themselves. The men went firstMark and her father. They stayed too long. Alice and her mother didnt go in until past midnight. Alice couldnt steam because of her stitches, but her superstitious mother was afraid to go alone to the dark garden where the sauna stood, so Alice wrapped herself in an old towel robe and followed.

The sauna was warm, fragrant with birch and dry wood. Her mother, already steamed, joined her in the anteroom.

“Tonights when the Christmas divinations start,” her mother said, fanning herself. “We used to gather with the girls, light candles, set up mirrors Wed try to see our future husbands.”

Alice breathed in the hot, healing air. Exhaustion and warmth pulled her toward sleep.

“Did it work?”
“Oh” Her mother hesitated. “Once