Whisper Behind the Glass

**Whispers Beyond the Glass**

The nurse, a woman with a weary, windworn face and eyes dulled by years of witnessing others suffering, awkwardly shifted Alices clear plastic bag from one calloused hand to the other. The crinkle of the plastic shattered the tomb-like silence of the lift. Inside the bag, mocking in its brightness, were baby clothesa tiny pink onesie with rabbits, a little gown embroidered “Mummys Joy,” and a pack of nappies, white with blue trim, boldly marked “Size 1″for newborns, for those just beginning their journey.

The lift groaned as its worn cables lowered them to the ground floor, and with each passing level, Alices heart tightened into a small, helpless knot of pain.

“Dont fret, love,” the nurse rasped, her voice like the creak of an unoiled door in an empty house. “Youre young, strong. Youll have more. It’ll all come right Youll see.”

She shot Alice a sidelong glance, full of clumsy sympathy and a desperate wish for the agonising descent to end.

“Any other children?” she asked, filling the thick, suffocating silence.
“No” Alice exhaled, staring at the blinking floor numbers. Her voice was hollow.
“Ah. That makes it harder,” the nurse murmured. “Have you decided? Burial or cremation?”
“Burial,” Alice replied, pressing her lips into a bloodless line. Her gaze sank into the lifts dirty, scratched mirror, reflecting her own unfamiliar facepale, emptied.

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

She left the hospital alone. No lace-trimmed bundle, no happy grunts from beneath a carefully tucked blanket. No smiles, no congratulations, no bewildered, joyful relatives clutching modest winter bouquets. Just her husband, James, waiting at the foot of the steps with guilt-heavy eyes, hunched as if carrying an unbearable weight. And inside her, a terrible, icy void that rang in her ears and stole her breath.

James hugged her stiffly, awkwardly, like a stranger afraid to hurt her further. His embrace didnt warm her. It was a formality, a ritual to be endured. Without a word, without the silly, cherished photos they should have taken by the doors, they left the maternity ward. The automatic doors hissed shut behind them, sealing away a chapter of their lives.

“Ive, uh been to the funeral directors,” James muttered as the car engine coughed to life. “Everythings arranged for tomorrow. But if you want to change anything, you can. I picked a small white wreath. The coffins beige, with pink” His voice cracked.

“It doesnt matter,” Alice interrupted, staring at the fogged window. “I cant I cant talk about this now.”
“Right. Uh” He cleared his throat, gripping the wheel.

The December sun was treacherously bright, glinting off puddles, blinding her, dancing on passing car windows. It screamed of lifelife that was gone. Where was the wind? The stinging sleet? The wet, clinging snow, like Gods spit for all her sins? That would have been fair. That would have been honest. They drove past the hospital gates into the sunlit street. Alice glanced at their mud-splattered car with absurd, belated pity.

“Look how filthy it is”
“I meant to wash it. Three days ago, but then this happened.”
“Are you ill?” She turned to him.
“No. Why?”
“You keep coughing.”
“Nah. Just nerves. Throats tight from nerves.”

They drove on. Outside, nothing had changed. The same city, the same streets littered with cigarette butts, the same skeletal trees against the grey facades of postwar houses. A cloudless, shamelessly blue sky. A rusted school fence freshly graffitied with a love confession. Pigeons puffing 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. Likely flu. Medication was unavoidable. She worried, but the doctors assured her the baby was safe. After recovery, a rash spread on her lower back. An infectious disease specialist dismissed it as herpes, prescribing strong antivirals. Guilt gnawed at her as she took them. They didnt help. Another doctor, a dermatologist, waved it offallergic reaction, stress-related! A harmless cream cleared it. The scare was over. Alice breathed easier, buying baby clothes and preparing the nursery.

On her due date, weak contractions began. Remembering the advice, she went to the hospital.

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

She was given an IV to halt contractions, but they worsened, growing stronger, more painful. Alice endured it all night. By morning, she was in labour. They broke her waters to speed things up.

“Are they clear?” Alice asked, voice steady. Shed done her research.
“Clear, no meconium. All fine.”

Another IV, this time to induce. Hour after hour, the pain became unbearable. Six hours in, the foetal monitor showed the babys heart rate dropping. “Hypoxia,” the midwife whispered. The doctor laid a hand on Alices damp forehead. “The babys struggling. We recommend a Caesarean.” Too exhausted to argue, she nodded.

The surgery was quick, successful. A girl. She looked healthy, cried, was shown to Alicetiny, wrinkled face, dark hairand briefly placed at her breast. That was all. The happiness lasted five minutes. Alice saw her next a day later in intensive care, tethered to machines, a ventilator breathing for her. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.

“Pneumonia,” the consultant said, avoiding her eyes. “Likely from infected amniotic fluid. The pathogen probably from your illness during pregnancy. Its a tough fight.”

On the third day, as the baby stabilised and hope flickered, Alice sat pumping colostrum, praying to every saint, every god she knew. James, for the first time in years, lit a candle in church. Later, he planned to do something superstitiouschange the babys name. A distant relative had whispered that the name might be ill-fated. Foolish, but in despair, you grasp at anything. They chose a new name, strong, ancient.

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. Medical jargon followed, burying the truth: it was over.

* * *

Faces blurred past the car windows. Strangers, indifferent, rushing about their lives. There should have 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 is frozen at that breaking point, stretched taut, ready to snap?

Relatives muttered about suing, blaming the doctors. But Alice, drowning in grief, wanted none of it. Moving, speaking, thinkingeach required inhuman effort. She decided to return to work after the New Year. Staying home, surrounded by baby things she couldnt bear to discard or give away, would have been madness.

They spent New Years and Christmas at her parents cottage in a quiet, snow-dusted village. The silence was deafening. On Christmas Eve, they lit the wood-fired sauna to wash away the hospitals taint. The men went firstJames and her father. They lingered. Alice and her mother didnt go until midnight. With her stitches, Alice couldnt steam, but her superstitious mother feared the dark garden path alone, so Alice followed, wrapped in an old towel robe.

The sauna was warm, smelling of birch and dry wood. Her mother, flushed from the heat, joined her in the anteroom.

“Tonights for divination, you know?” her mother said, fanning herself. “When I was young, wed gathermirrors, candles Wed try to see our future husbands.”

Alice inhaled the steamy air. Exhaustion and warmth dragged her toward sleep.

“Did it ever work?”
“Once” Her mother hesitated. “We set up two mirrors, waited Then I swore something moved in the reflectiona dark shape coming closer! We screamed and scattered. Never tried again.” She smiled. “Fancy a go? We could read tea leaves”
“Not a chance.”

Alice helped her mother wash, then she left.
“You go ahead,” Alice said softly. “Ill stay a bit. Need to be alone.”

Her mother nodded, understanding, and left. Alone, Alice listenedthe creak of old floorboards, the crack