“Calderon?” she says to another nurse who is checking a chart.
This nurse looks up and smiles. “Yes—just in. He’s in the middle incubator over there,” she says, pointing.
My mom’s new best friend walks over and checks a card on the container—incubator, I guess they call it.
“Here he is, Daddy,” she says, then stands back so we can get a good look. God! He’s tiny! How can a person that little stay alive? He’s all scrawny and wrinkly. He’s lying on his back, with only a diaper on. His long skinny legs are drawn up, and he’s got tubes attached to him everywhere. God! What’s wrong with him? My heart is racing. I look over at my mom. She looks calm.
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask in a whisper.
“I don’t know that anything’s wrong with him, except he got here too soon.”
“But look at him! And look at all that stuff he’s hooked up to.”
“He weighs less than four pounds, Jeff. His body isn’t quite ready for the world. The tubes in his nostrils deliver oxygen. His lungs aren’t fully developed yet. The teddy-bear shaped band-aid thing on his chest secures a sensor that sets off the breathing monitor alarm if he stops breathing.”
“What do you mean, stops breathing?”
“It’s very common for preemies to forget to breathe now and then. When the monitor goes off a nurse runs over and pats the baby, or rubs the soles of its feet. Usually that’s all it takes.”
I follow the line from the baby to a machine that’s got constantly changing numbers on a screen that’s big enough to see from across the room.
“What about that thing in his mouth?”
“A feeding tube. It’s probably too hard for him to suck yet. And they want to be sure he’s getting the right amount of food.”
My mom sticks her hand through one of the big holes on the side of the incubator and rubs her finger along his leg.
“Should you touch him?”
“Sure. Preemies need to be touched, just like any other baby.”
“What’s all that other stuff attached to him?”
“Let’s see. He’s got a heart monitor. The tube attached to his belly button is for blood tests, so they don’t need to poke him each time. That’s it. Breathing, feeding, heart and blood.”
We stand together, me and my mom, looking down at the scrawny little baby. I reach my hand through the other opening and run my finger along his arm. After a while my mom tells me she’s going to find Christy’s mom and talk to her about the baby, so she’ll be prepared to see him all hooked up.
I stay, watching the baby. His whole arm is not much longer than my longest finger, and not much bigger around than my thumb. He is an amazing and frightening sight. I run my finger gently along the inside of his arm to the palm of his hand. He closes his fist around my finger. I can’t believe it! He’s got a grip!
I see those tiny fingers holding on to my one, comparatively huge, index finger. I watch his chest rise and fall with each breath, matching his irregular breathing with my own, as if I’m willing him to breathe. Gently, I straighten his little closed fist. There it is—his pinky finger— crooked as a dog’s hind leg.
Something wells up inside me. All of these months of trying to avoid the thought of this baby, of my son, are as far behind me as the Dark Ages. My son. I remember the words I’ve heard so often when Dashan gives his Dramatic Interpretation at debate tournaments. The spirit of Kunta Kinte crosses boundaries of time and culture, reminding me of what is important for fathers to pass on to sons. “He was going to teach this manchild to be a true man, no matter what trials and hazards that might involve . . . For it was the job of a father to be as a giant tree to his manchild.”
I lean my head against the hard plastic incubator. “Okay. You’ve got me,” I whisper to the skin and bones, crooked fingered, pre-person. “Even though I’m not yet a true man myself, I’m trying to be one, and I’ll help you be one too.”
I touch the bottom of his foot, wishing he’d open his eyes, but he doesn’t. He just lies there, breathing, his chest moving up and down, up and down, while everything about him is being recorded on machines that look like something from Star Trek. There is a plastic band attached to his ankle that says C. Calderon on it. I notice a blue three by five card attached to the side of the incubator. It says:
CALDERON
Delivering doctor: Somonion
Birth date: June 24, 1:30 p.m.
Mother: Christina Teresa Calderon
Wt: 1770 grams
Ht: 42 cm.
Pediatrician: Nahvi
I wish I could remember the grams and centimeter stuff from math, but I can’t. I’m pretty sure the nurse said he weighed three pounds fifteen ounces. I don’t know how long he is. I pull my hand out of the incubator and hold my arm lengthwise along the side. He is not quite as long as from my elbow to my knuckles.
The nurse who let us in comes and stands beside me.
“He’s a beautiful little baby,” she says.
I wonder if she’s had her eyes checked lately, but say nothing.
“The grandparents want to see this little guy now, Daddy. We don’t like to have too many people in here at one time. Maybe you could go down to the coffee shop and come back later?”
She says it like a question, but I know it’s an order. I see Mr. and Mrs. Calderon standing at the sink, being told how to wash. I stop.
“Is Christy okay?” I ask.
“The doctor says she is,” Mrs. Calderon says. She looks very tired, and sad. Mr. Calderon doesn’t look at me.
I find my mom in the coffee shop. The minute I walk through the door I realize how hungry I am. I sit down and order a cheeseburger and fries. Mom has the remains of a salad on her plate.
“Did you see Christy?” I ask.
“Yes, for a few minutes.”
“Her mom looked really worried when I saw her just now.”
“Well, no one looks great right after surgery. Christy looks pale, and she’s hooked up to various monitors, too. She may be a bit depressed, but that’s not unusual. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”
The cheeseburger tastes like sawdust. I add about a ton of catsup, so now it tastes like sawdust with catsup. Oh, well. Maybe I’m not as hungry as I thought.
“Are you going home soon, or should I call Steve and see if he can come get me?” Mom asks. “I’m scheduled to be at work at midnight, and I need a few hours sleep in between.”
“What time is it?”
“Six-thirty. I’d take the night off, but one nurse is out sick and another’s on vacation. I should go in if I possibly can.”
“I’ll take you home,” I say. “But maybe I’ll see Christy first. Should I?”
“I think that’s a good idea. Seeing you might cheer her up.”
“Or it might make her feel worse. What do you think?”
“I think you’re parents now, and you’ve got to figure out how to get along.”
“Like you and dad?” I say.
We both laugh. It’s the first laugh I’ve had all day, and it feels good.
“But Jeff, your father and I do manage to speak, and to be civil to each other, especially in matters concerning you. It’s not ideal, but life seldom is.”
“I can see that,” I say.
I give Mom the keys to my car so she can wait for me there, and she tells me how to find Christy. There are three other girls, women, whatever, in the room with Christy. It’s another one of those intensive care, Star Wars kind of places. I pull a chair up next to Christy’s bed. She is very pale. I wonder how it is that a person with dark skin can look so light.
“Christy?”
She opens her eyes and looks at me. I can see she’s been crying.
“How are you doing?”
“Okay,” she sighs.
“I saw the baby,” I tell her.
Her eyes fill with tears. “He’s ugly. He looks like a rat,” she says, breaking into full-fledged sobbing.
I think of his little chest, rising and falling with each laborious breath. “He’s working hard to live,” I say. She doesn’t answer, just keeps crying. “But I thought this was what you wanted.”
“I thought so, too, but I made a mistake,” she says, turning her face away from me. “I didn’t know he would look like a rat.”
A nurse comes in to check her blood pressure and I leave, feeling helpless. I’m walking to the car when I remember what Mrs. Gould told me about getting my name on the birth certificate. The baby’s band and the card on his incubator only have Christy’s name on them. Christina Calderon, who can’t say anything about him except he looks like a rat. I don’t even exist as far as any hospital records are concerned. I run back to the neonatal unit and find the nurse my mom and I had talked with earlier.
“I want to be sure my name is on the birth certificate,” I say.
The nurse picks up a phone and punches in some numbers.
“I have a father down here who wants to know if his name got on the baby’s birth certificate—Calderon, Christina, is the mother’s name.” There is a long pause, then she hangs up.
“Medical Records says they’re waiting until tomorrow morning to fill out the birth certificate. They like to get the baby’s name on it, and apparently Christina isn’t ready to name the baby.”
A name. I haven’t even thought about a name.
“Can’t I at least get my name on it now?”
“No. It’s not ready. Christina is rather upset. Morning will be a better time. The birth clerk will probably be taking a birth certificate information form to Christina’s room around ten in the morning. You can come back then.”
I go out to the car. My mom is curled up in the passenger seat, sound asleep. I get in and start the engine but she doesn’t stir.
“Mom?” I poke her gently on the arm. “Mom?”
“Uh,” she says, not moving.
“Buckle up.”
She fumbles around with the seat belt, not opening her eyes, and finally gets it fastened. I drive the forty-five minutes home, lost in thought. I am surprised to find myself turning into our driveway. I have no memory of getting from the hospital to our house.
Mom stumbles through the door and into her bedroom, then calls to me. I walk down the hall.
“What?”
“You should probably phone some people and tell them about the baby.”
“Like who?”
“Like Steve, and your grandma, and your father too, I guess.”
I look at my mom, flopped across her bed, still in her clothes, big bags under her eyes. I know I’ve caused her plenty of worry and disappointment these past few months. And, except for rare moments of shock or anger, she’s accepted me for who I am. I walk over and sit on the edge of her bed.
“Thanks, Mom, for going with me today. It really helped to have you there.”
‘You’re welcome, Jeffie. I love you,” she says, taking my hand and kissing it.
“I love you, too, Mom,” I say, kissing her forehead.
I go back to the kitchen to make phone calls. It’s strange. Everyone in my family, including me, thought Christy’s pregnancy was a major disaster. But now, when I call Steve, then my grandma, and tell them about the baby, it’s like they already love him. In spite of Christy’s talk, there’s a lot of love going out to my little son.
After I call Steve and Grandma I dial my dad’s number. I really don’t feel like talking to old HANK40 tonight, but I may as well get it over with.
“Let me get this straight. Your ex-girlfriend just had a baby?” he says.
“Right. A boy.”
“That’s about the most stupid thing you’ve ever done,” he says. “Don’t sign anything. She can’t prove anything. Take my word for it, you don’t want to be paying support on this kid for the next eighteen years.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I say, and hang up.
I go to my room, put a Duke Ellington CD on the stereo, put on my headphones and crank it up. I lie stretched out on my bed, looking at the airline ticket envelope still sitting on top of my dresser. It seems like about five years have passed since early this morning, when I thought I was on my way to New Orleans.
Chapter
18
It’s six in the morning and I’m wide awake, wondering how the baby is doing. And Christy. God, what’s with her, anyway? I’ll go to the hospital in time to check out the birth certificate stuff. Steve wants to go with me and I’ll be glad for company. In the meantime, though, I can’t just lie in bed with my brain buzzing.
I put on sweats and running shoes and drive to the Fitness Club. The first person I see is Faye, pumping iron at ten pounds a weight.
“Hey, Faye,” I greet her on my way to the Stairmaster. She stops, mid-lift. “Hey yourself, Browning. I thought you were in New Orleans wowing people with your highly polished dramatic skills.”
“Something came up,” I say.
“Tell your old Granny Faye,” she says, patting the bench beside her.
“Well . . . It’s kind of a long story. Come see me on the Stairmaster before you leave,” I say. “I want to grab one before they’re all taken.”
Joe notices me from across the room. “I thought we weren’t going to see you for a while.”
“It’s a long story,” Faye says.
“I’m sure you’ll know every detail before you leave today,” Joe says to Faye, laughing. “Are you keeping the same work schedule we’ve got you signed up for next weekend, Jeff?”
“Yes. Except if you need someone before then, I can fill in.”
I climb onto the Stairmaster and start my routine. A name, I think. What will Christy want to name the baby? What would be a good name? Something short and modern—not nerdy like Elmer or Horace. Maybe Damian, or Shawn. What goes good with Browning? I don’t want him to be named after anyone because I want him to be his own person.
My shirt is wet, sticking to my back, and sweat is rolling down my face when Faye scoots into the space between the machines. She still walks with a limp, but she no longer needs a cane—pretty amazing. She taps me on the arm and says, “Talk!”
“I just had a baby last night,” I tell her.
“And already exercising this morning! Talk about the miracles of modern science,” she says, cackling.
“He was premature—not quite four pounds,” I say.
Her smile fades. “Is he all right?”
I tell her all I know. Then she says, “Why didn’t I know you were going to be a father? I thought we were sweethearts—or were you just leading me on?”
“I didn’t want to talk about it, or think about it. It wasn’t my idea.”
“And the mother? Is she the one who used to be hanging around all the time when I first started coming here? She made me so jealous, that cute little Mexicali Rose did.”
“Christina,” I say. Old people can be really racist sometimes without even knowing it.
“One thing I know about you, Jeff, is you’ll do the right thing,” Faye says.
“I’m not going to marry her, if that’s what you mean.”
She cackles again. “Of course that’s not what I mean. I’m a modern girl, don’t you know? I’m quite aware that getting married just because you got someone pregnant went out during the Proterozoic era . . . I only mean I can’t see you running away from your paternal responsibilities.”
“I know,” I say. “I guess I can’t see me doing that either.”
Steve and I go directly to the N.I.C.U. section. We scrub and put on hospital gowns and a nurse buzzes us through the doors. I’m shocked to see that in addition to all the other stuff they’ve got on the baby, he’s now wearing some kind of blinder things.
“What’s this?” I ask one of the nurses.
She walks over to where we’re standing. “The eye patches?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with his eyes?” I think how I haven’t even seen his eyes yet. Maybe he doesn’t have any e
yes.
“He has to be under special lights for a while. The eye patches are simply for protection.”
I see now that there is a bright light shining down on him.
“Why does he need the lights?” Steve asks.
“He’s becoming a bit jaundiced. See how his skin has a yellowish tinge? It’s very common in newborns, and especially in preemies. It takes a while for their liver to start doing all it needs to do. It’s usually not serious.”
The nurse turns the light out, reaches in through the opening and takes the blinders off. “The lights don’t have to be on him constantly. You can reach through the portholes and touch him, introduce yourselves, talk to him. These tiny ones need plenty of touching and talking to, just like the bigger ones do . . . What’s his name?” she asks, checking the blue card.
“I don’t know yet,” I say.
“He needs a name soon,” the nurse says. ‘You’d be surprised how quickly these babies learn to respond to their names.”
A few minutes before ten I leave Steve talking to the baby, telling him what a wonderful great-uncle he has, and I go upstairs to Christy’s room. The woman from medical records is already there, writing information on a form attached to a clipboard. Christy’s mom and dad are there, too. “Hi,” I say.
They all look up, but only the woman with the clipboard, the birth certificate clerk, says hello. Then she turns her attention back to Christy and starts reading from the form.
“Mother: Christina Teresa Calderon. Right?”
Christy nods.
“Date and time of birth, doctor’s name . . .” She reads off a list of things, then asks “Father’s name?”
I wait for Christy to answer, but she doesn’t.
“Jeffrey Dean Browning,” I say.
“Is that correct?” the clerk asks.
No one answers.
“You can always put ‘unknown’ in this space if you’re not sure who the father is,” the clerk says.
“I’m the father,” I say. “Jeffrey Dean Browning. That’s the name that goes in that space!”
“Christina?” the clerk asks.
Too Soon for Jeff Page 15