Whispers Behind the Glass

**The Whisper Beyond the Glass**

The nurse, a woman with a weary, wind-worn face and eyes dulled from years of witnessing strangers’ suffering, awkwardly shifted Alices plastic bag from one chapped hand to the other. The crinkling of the polythene shattered the tomb-like silence of the lift. Inside the bag, mocking in its brightness, lay tiny baby clothesa pale pink jumpsuit with embroidered rabbits, a onesie stitched with *”Mummys Happiness”*, and a pack of nappies, white with blue trim. The packaging boasted a bold, taunting number: *”1″*for newborns. For those just beginning their journey.

The lift groaned, its frayed cables protesting as it carried them slowly downward, and with each floor, Alices heart twisted tighter, collapsing into a small, helpless knot of pain.

“Itll be alright, love,” the nurse rasped, her voice like the creak of an unoiled hinge in an empty house. “Youre young, strong. Youll have another. Thingsll sort themselves out”

She cast Alice a sidelong glance, full of clumsy pity and a desperate need for this excruciating descent to end.

“You got other kids?” she asked, filling the thick, suffocating silence.
“No” Alice exhaled, staring at the blinking floor buttons. Her voice was hollow.
“Thats harder,” the nurse muttered. “Whatve you decided? Burial or cremation?”
“Well bury her,” Alice whispered, pressing her lips into a bloodless line. Her reflection in the lifts scratched mirror was unfamiliarpale, hollow.

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

She left the maternity ward alone. No bundle swaddled in pink or blue ribbons. No sleepy newborn grunts beneath a carefully tucked blanket. No smiles, no congratulations, no bewildered, joyful relatives clutching wintry bouquets of carnations. Just her husband, Mark, slumped at the foot of the hospital steps, his eyes heavy with guilt, shoulders bowed as if bearing an unbearable weight. And the icy, ringing emptiness inside her, so vast it stole her breath.

Mark hugged her stiffly, like a stranger, afraid his touch might deepen the wound. His embrace didnt warm her. It was a formality, a ritual to be endured. Without fanfare, without the silly, cherished photos by the exit, they left in silence. The automatic doors hissed shut behind them, sealing away a chapter of their lives.

“Ive already uh” Mark cleared his throat as the engine coughed to life. “Been to the funeral directors. The vultures. Everythings set for tomorrow. But if you want to change anything. The wreaths white, small. The coffinsits sort of beige, with pink” He swallowed hard.

“Doesnt matter,” Alice cut in, staring at the fogged-up window. “I cant I cant talk about this now.”
“Right. Uh” He coughed again, gripping the wheel.

How cruelly bright the December sun shone! It glinted off puddles, glared through windscreens, danced on passing cars. It screamed of lifethe life that was gone. Where was the wind? The lashing, freezing rain? The wet, clinging snow, slapping her face like Gods spit for her sins? That wouldve been fair. That wouldve been honest. They passed the hospital gates, rolling onto a sun-drenched street. Alice, absurdly, pitied the grimy, salt-streaked side of their car.

“God, its filthy”
“Meant to wash it. Three days ago. Then well.”
“You ill?” Alice glanced at him.
“No. Why?”
“You keep coughing.”
“Nah. Just nerves. Throats tight.”

The world outside hadnt changed. The same city, the same streets with fag ends stuck to the kerbs, the same skeletal trees against drab postwar housing. The skyblue, shamelessly blue, without a single cloud. The rusted fence of the school, freshly graffitied with a declaration of love. 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 aching like shed been trampled. Flu, shed thought. The doctors reassured herthe baby was safe, protected. But after recovering, a rash bloomed on her back. One specialist dismissed it as herpes, prescribed harsh antivirals. They didnt help. Another doctor shruggedjust stress, an allergic reaction! A harmless cream cleared it up.

Then, on her due date, contractions beganweak, barely there. False labour, the midwife declared. Drips stalled them, but the pain only grew. By morning, her cervix was dilating. They broke her watersclear, no infection. More drips, stronger now. Six hours in, the monitors beeping slowed. *Fetal distress. Hypoxia.* The doctor leaned in: *”We need to operate.”*

The C-section was quick. A girl. Healthy. She cried. They placed her on Alices chesttiny, wrinkled, dark hair plastered to her scalp. Five minutes of bliss. Then, a day later, Alice saw her againin ICU, tangled in wires, a ventilator breathing for her. Blood oozed from her lips.

*”Pneumonia,”* the consultant muttered. *”From infected fluid. Likely the same bug you had. Its aggressive.”*

On the third day, as Alice pumped colostrum, praying, Mark lit a candle in church. A superstitious aunt whispered*change the babys name.* They picked a new one, ancient, strong. And in that moment of blind hope, the consultant walked in.

*”Im so sorry, Alice.”*

***

Faces flashed past the car windowsstrangers, indifferent, rushing. There shouldve been three of them. Now there were two. And between them, a chasm.

New Years Eve passed in her parents snow-drowned village. The silence was deafening. On Christmas Eve, they lit the saunato wash away the hospitals stench. Alice sat in the steamy anteroom, half-asleep, when she heard it.

*”Mum.”*

In the dream, she was home. Sunlight spilled into the nursery. The cribwhite, carvedheld her daughter. Alive. The baby turned, smiled with toothless innocence.

*”Dont cry. Youll be happy. Youll have a daughter. Name her Natalie. Ill always be with you.”*

Alice woke gasping, tears hot on her cheeks. The weightthe crushing, endless weighthad cracked.

***

Time mended her, grain by grain. She returned to work, kept only a single rattlea pink teddyas a token. Doctors warned: *two years* before trying again. But fate had other plans. A year and a half later, she was pregnant.

The pressure was immense. *”Youll birth a disabled child!”* they hissed. *”Terminate!”*

Then, the morning of the abortion appointment, as doubt choked her, the voice roared

*”DONT YOU DARE!”*

She froze. The room was empty. But the command rang in her bones.

She endured scans, signed disclaimers, bore the judgement. Only Mark stood firm. Then, two weeks before birth, she shared a ward with another woman.

*”Im Alice.”*
*”Im Natalie.”*

Alices heart lurched. *Natalie*the name from the dream.

*”Do you know what it means?”* she asked, steadying her voice.
*”Of course!”* Natalie grinned. *”My mum always said it means rebirth. Like rising again.”*

Alices spoon clattered to the floor.

The next day, she gave birthfast, easy. A girl. Screaming, healthy. *Natalie.* Her reborn.

March sunlight bathed them as they left the hospital. Alice shielded the babys face, then smiled at the sky.

*”Thank you,”* she thought. *”For the pain, the hope, the miracle. For my Nataliemy risen girl.”*