We Might Be Kings
By Christopher James
I heard that in certain hospitals, if you can’t afford to pay for the birth, they’ll hold on to the children until you can. And if you can never settle the bill then they sell the child on, to a nurse, maybe. If you have twins, then they might take one and let you keep the other. I don’t know if they let you choose which to keep and which to sell, or if it’s more of a buyers market. I wonder if the price of a baby only covers the costs of the birth, or if you get a little cash left over. Sometimes this policy of certain hospitals doesn’t seem too bad. If you can’t even afford to pay the hospital bills then can you really afford to look after the child? My wife and I saved up to pay the hospital. We had nine months to prepare – it wasn’t like a big surprise. We had to give up certain things, but we prioritised.
And then the baby died, maybe ten minutes after he was born, and we still had to pay for the delivery, and that didn’t seem fair.
It’s okay, though, because I’m going to ask the doctors if we can have one of the babies that parents can’t afford to pay for. I already know which doctor I’m going to ask – the doctor who drives the nicest car. I’m going to ask for a baby with the softest skin, like my wife. She doesn’t know yet that our son is dead, and I’ve asked them not to tell her, and if I can get a replacement soon enough she’ll never have to know. It must be a boy. I’ve seen the one I want, in the room where they keep the living babies.
Our new son will be strong and intelligent and handsome and popular. I’ll look after him extra-well, and I’ll make sure he has everything growing up. He will be a great man, one day. Maybe president. Or maybe a doctor, saving lives and fighting cancer and driving around in a nice sports car. Perhaps the doctor who is going to sell me the replacement baby was a replacement himself. He has an expensive watch, which is an item I think one would appreciate if one were a replacement child. He shows it to everybody and says ‘Do you like it? It’s from Singapore. My wife made me buy it. Terribly expensive.’ He’s handsome, and everybody seems to like him here. Our son will be just like him.
Except when I ask him about buying a new child he says no. NO? No. He says they don’t do that in this hospital. He says this is a good hospital.
If it’s such a good hospital, I want to know, then why is my son dead?
My dead son makes the doctor uncomfortable, which I think gives me an advantage. I can tell, he’s more at home having conversations where he shows off his watch and talks about Singapore and his wife and says things are terribly expensive. Dead babies are not his cup of tea. Maybe he shouldn’t have become a doctor then, if he can’t discuss such things. I bring up my son’s death again. Soon the doctor will see it from my point of view, that the only appropriate way to compensate us for our loss is to provide a suitable alternative.
If you don’t give me a new son, I say, I’ll take your car. And your watch, too.
And I’ll kill your wife, I add, as an afterthought.
You have to play hardball with these people sometimes; it’s the only language they respond to.
My son might grow up to be a lawyer, or he might be in the army. If he is in the army, then one day he will be a general, and one day he will be in charge of all the army. If you are in charge of all the army then it’s as good as being the president. Better, even, because you don’t have to answer to as many bullshit people.
‘Mister –‘ says the doctor, and then he looks scared, and I can tell he’s forgotten my name, and he’s wondering if that’s a bad thing, if that’s going to make me mad, if that’s going to push me over the edge.
It’s not a big deal, I’ve forgotten his name too.
He’s saying he needs to go now. There are security guards around, from somewhere. They are edging closer. I hear someone whispering to them, ‘lost his...’ They each have one hand on their hips, on their hip-pockets, as if they’re going for a gun. I don’t think they have guns, I think they only have batons, painted black to look like guns.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I put my hands in the air. “I was out of line. It’s been a stressful day. I hope you understand. I didn’t mean to cause any disturbance.”
They will believe me, I know, and make me a cup of tea and hold my hand and say sympathetic things. They will empathise with me because I lost my child and everybody who works in a maternity ward has one day thought about losing a child, how terrible that must be. They’ll recommend someone I can talk to. They’ll ask if I want somebody to talk to my wife for me, and I’ll take a deep breath and nod and shake my head and say no, it’s best if she hears it from me. They’ll agree. And later I can go to the room with the living babies and help myself to that boy with the light skin, the one who will one day be king.
- - -
Christopher James lives in Jakarta, Indonesia and is currently working on a novel.
By Christopher James
I heard that in certain hospitals, if you can’t afford to pay for the birth, they’ll hold on to the children until you can. And if you can never settle the bill then they sell the child on, to a nurse, maybe. If you have twins, then they might take one and let you keep the other. I don’t know if they let you choose which to keep and which to sell, or if it’s more of a buyers market. I wonder if the price of a baby only covers the costs of the birth, or if you get a little cash left over. Sometimes this policy of certain hospitals doesn’t seem too bad. If you can’t even afford to pay the hospital bills then can you really afford to look after the child? My wife and I saved up to pay the hospital. We had nine months to prepare – it wasn’t like a big surprise. We had to give up certain things, but we prioritised.
And then the baby died, maybe ten minutes after he was born, and we still had to pay for the delivery, and that didn’t seem fair.
It’s okay, though, because I’m going to ask the doctors if we can have one of the babies that parents can’t afford to pay for. I already know which doctor I’m going to ask – the doctor who drives the nicest car. I’m going to ask for a baby with the softest skin, like my wife. She doesn’t know yet that our son is dead, and I’ve asked them not to tell her, and if I can get a replacement soon enough she’ll never have to know. It must be a boy. I’ve seen the one I want, in the room where they keep the living babies.
Our new son will be strong and intelligent and handsome and popular. I’ll look after him extra-well, and I’ll make sure he has everything growing up. He will be a great man, one day. Maybe president. Or maybe a doctor, saving lives and fighting cancer and driving around in a nice sports car. Perhaps the doctor who is going to sell me the replacement baby was a replacement himself. He has an expensive watch, which is an item I think one would appreciate if one were a replacement child. He shows it to everybody and says ‘Do you like it? It’s from Singapore. My wife made me buy it. Terribly expensive.’ He’s handsome, and everybody seems to like him here. Our son will be just like him.
Except when I ask him about buying a new child he says no. NO? No. He says they don’t do that in this hospital. He says this is a good hospital.
If it’s such a good hospital, I want to know, then why is my son dead?
My dead son makes the doctor uncomfortable, which I think gives me an advantage. I can tell, he’s more at home having conversations where he shows off his watch and talks about Singapore and his wife and says things are terribly expensive. Dead babies are not his cup of tea. Maybe he shouldn’t have become a doctor then, if he can’t discuss such things. I bring up my son’s death again. Soon the doctor will see it from my point of view, that the only appropriate way to compensate us for our loss is to provide a suitable alternative.
If you don’t give me a new son, I say, I’ll take your car. And your watch, too.
And I’ll kill your wife, I add, as an afterthought.
You have to play hardball with these people sometimes; it’s the only language they respond to.
My son might grow up to be a lawyer, or he might be in the army. If he is in the army, then one day he will be a general, and one day he will be in charge of all the army. If you are in charge of all the army then it’s as good as being the president. Better, even, because you don’t have to answer to as many bullshit people.
‘Mister –‘ says the doctor, and then he looks scared, and I can tell he’s forgotten my name, and he’s wondering if that’s a bad thing, if that’s going to make me mad, if that’s going to push me over the edge.
It’s not a big deal, I’ve forgotten his name too.
He’s saying he needs to go now. There are security guards around, from somewhere. They are edging closer. I hear someone whispering to them, ‘lost his...’ They each have one hand on their hips, on their hip-pockets, as if they’re going for a gun. I don’t think they have guns, I think they only have batons, painted black to look like guns.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I put my hands in the air. “I was out of line. It’s been a stressful day. I hope you understand. I didn’t mean to cause any disturbance.”
They will believe me, I know, and make me a cup of tea and hold my hand and say sympathetic things. They will empathise with me because I lost my child and everybody who works in a maternity ward has one day thought about losing a child, how terrible that must be. They’ll recommend someone I can talk to. They’ll ask if I want somebody to talk to my wife for me, and I’ll take a deep breath and nod and shake my head and say no, it’s best if she hears it from me. They’ll agree. And later I can go to the room with the living babies and help myself to that boy with the light skin, the one who will one day be king.
- - -
Christopher James lives in Jakarta, Indonesia and is currently working on a novel.
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