Composing Amelia

by Alison Strobel

  Amelia opened her eyes and shook her head at her prayer and muttered to herself, “That was so lame.”

  I want your honesty.

  Amelia twitched, startled by the strong impression that had flashed into her mind. Had that been real, or just her imagination? She took a deep breath to calm her racing heart before the nurses thought she was going into distress. “God?” she whispered. “Was that You?”

  Nothing happened, and Amelia tried to rub away the goosebumps that had risen on her arms. She didn’t know who else it would be, but if it was God, then she had to appreciate the sentiment.

  All right then. In case it was You … I’m mad at You, about the whole bipolar thing, and the baby thing. Really, You thought the timing of all this was good? I don’t see how You could. It sucks, all of it. I do not get Your way of thinking.

  A verse came to mind. My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.

  Okay, so maybe I can’t see the big picture like You can, she prayed further. Was there a big picture? Or just random crap that had no meaning and would never get redeemed somehow? And I don’t just mean the bipolar and the baby, she prayed. I mean all of it—not being the pianist I always wanted to be, not living the life I thought I’d live.

  She looked up at the ceiling, wishing she could see past the roof and the atmosphere and the stars and look God in the eyes. Tell me I’ll be able to look back on all this at the end of my life and see how it all came together for good like Marcus thinks it will.

  The impression that came next was so strong she thought it must have been a memory of something that had already happened. In a millisecond flash Amelia saw herself and Marcus and a young woman she knew was the baby she was carrying now. She was beautiful, with Amelia’s red hair and Marcus’s eyes, and she was playing Mozart on a baby grand in a living room somewhere. It came and went so quickly she had no time to study it, but she was overwhelmed with confidence, with no explanation as to why, that everything really was going to be all right.

  A contraction gripped her, followed quickly by a second and a third. Two nurses ran in, and Amelia sent one after Marcus, knowing in her heart that this was it. The other nurse performed an internal check and said to Amelia, “You’re nearly ten centimeters. Dang, that was fast.”

  “Is the baby all right?”

  “Baby’s at station one—you’re in active labor, Amelia.”

  Marcus came on the heels of the second nurse, who began to convert the room for delivery at the instructions of the first, who was paging the OB. Marcus grabbed her hand. “Are you all right?”

  With the picture of their daughter burned into her memory, Amelia couldn’t help but smile. “I am. You were right. Everything is going to be okay.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Within an hour of Amelia’s vision, Hope Aisling Sheffield was born and taken straight to the NICU. Amelia sent Marcus to be with her and to observe what they did so he could give her a play-by-play later on, but he wished she hadn’t. Seeing his daughter surrounded by wires and hooked up to a ventilator just about killed him.

  “When can we hold her?” he asked Marcela, the NICU nurse who was on shift when Marcus followed Hope down to the ward.

  “Not until she’s off the vent,” she said with a sympathetic smile. “But once we’re sure she’s stable, we’ll start some touch therapy. That’ll be you just stroking her with a finger. Some babies can’t handle much of it, but it’s all just trial and error. We’ll do as much as we can without overstimulating her.”

  Marcus stared through the incubator at Hope’s thin chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the vent. He could see her veins just below the surface of her jaundiced skin. He didn’t want to stare, but he couldn’t help it—she was a miracle.

  When he’d asked every question Amelia had given him, Marcus returned to her room to give her an update. “One pound, twelve ounces; fourteen inches long exactly. She’s on a vent for breathing right now; they said it’ll take a while before they know if there are any complications. So far, though, everything looks good.”

  Amelia reached out to hug him and then burst into tears. He sat beside her on the bed and wrapped his arms around her. “Hey, babe, it’s gonna be okay, remember? God’s got this, He’s totally in control.” He smiled a little. “I guess this means you’re more attached to her than you thought you’d be, hm?”

  She hiccuped a chuckle and nodded against his shoulder. “I didn’t expect this,” she said when she was able to talk. “I didn’t expect to feel so … protective.”

  “Well, you’re a mom now. That’s what happens when you have a kid of your own, I guess.” He grinned. “Hey—we’re parents.”

  “I know.” She sniffed and gave him a quavery smile. “For better or worse, huh?”

  “Definitely better. Better than we both had.” He kissed her, relieved that she was doing as well as she was. He’d been encouraged by her sudden change in mind-set but had worried it would dissipate when they learned of the obstacles Hope would face. For all they knew, worse things were down the road, but for Hope to be this healthy was a true miracle, and the longer Amelia could rest in the belief that all would be well, the better she’d be if things started going downhill.

  He also wondered if that belief was going to translate to their marriage. His heart was already filled to capacity with love for Hope, but he didn’t see how he’d ever be able to raise her and work at the same time. And the thought of not having Amelia there, not just as a mom but as his partner through it all, made that almost-bursting heart want to break.

  He knew it might not be the best time, but he had to know what she was thinking about her life. If he was going to be raising Hope alone, he wanted to know that now, so he could start figuring out exactly how he’d make it work. “Amelia. I need to ask you something.”

  Her face clouded. “Okay.”

  “Listen. I know we had an arrangement all worked out. But … You seem more at peace with things now than you were when we last talked about it. And that’s raising my hopes, but if there really isn’t any hope I don’t want to—”

  “Marcus, you’re not making sense.”

  He took a deep breath and said in a rush, “Are you still thinking you might leave us?”

  She blinked. “Ah.” She licked her lips, her eyes trained on something beyond his shoulder. He tried not to read anything into how long it was taking her to respond. “Um—”

  Marcus waved a hand and mentally cursed his impatience. “I shouldn’t have brought this up now. I’m sorry. I just—when you said everything was going to be okay I thought maybe—”

  “No, it’s all right, I understand.” She held his hand and smiled, though her eyes looked weary. “I … I want to say that I’ll stay.”

  “You want to?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you can’t.”

  She bit her lip, then said, “I think I need to figure out first how I can make sure I can follow through with it.”

  His hopes went up another notch. “Okay, okay. We can figure that out. Like—therapy, together? God knows—literally—that I would benefit from it.”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes … That might help.”

  “And time alone to keep up with your music? Although …” He stopped, not sure if he should say what had just become clear to him.

  “Although what?”

  “Well … Hear me out here, and don’t read anything in to what I’m saying, okay? Take my words at face value.”

  She rolled her eyes. “All right, what is it already?”

  Marcus mulled a few more seconds, then began slowly as he tried to figure out the best way to say it. “Since you’ve been here—and I know a lot of that time was spent depressed, so maybe that skews things—piano has gone to the back burner for you. And the more I think about it, it seems like maybe your dreams about piano and touring and your career weren’t so much because you’re so in love with music and performing, but because of what you were trying to p
rove.” His pace picked up as his idea found sure footing in his mind. “Like me and pastoring—I didn’t start down that road because I had some revelation from God when I was a kid that I was born to preach, or even because I had a passion for sharing Christ. I did it because I wanted my dad to love me. Everything I did was because of him and what I was trying to get from him. Maybe—maybe piano has been the same for you. You needed to prove to yourself that you weren’t your mom, that you weren’t going to waste your life and squander your talents and make your family miserable. You thought music could save you from becoming her. But now that you’ve been diagnosed, and you’re getting healthy, you don’t have to worry about that anymore. You don’t need piano to justify or save you anymore.” He stopped, afraid he’d already gone too far. “Does that make sense?”

  Amelia looked dumbstruck. Her gaze slid away from him and she said nothing for a long time, and Marcus fought the compulsion to fill the silence with more blathering and armchair psychology. When she spoke it was so quiet he couldn’t understand her. “What, babe?”

  “By George, I think he’s got it.”

  He smiled. “Really?”

  She sniffed, brushing away the tears that had come to her eyes. “I—I’m afraid to admit it, but I think so.” Her eyes went wide. “But if I’m not a career pianist, I don’t know what I am.”

  He chuckled and pulled her into his arms. “I know the feeling.” He leaned back, looked her full in the face. “But I can tell you this much. You’re still a pianist—an incredibly talented one. And you’re a wife—a really, really wonderful wife. And you’re a mom. And even though I haven’t had a chance to see you in action, I think you’re going to be a fine one.”

  She smiled through her tears. “Well, when you put it that way.” She leaned into him again, her head on his chest, then said the words that made him cry with her. “All right then. I’ll stay.”

  Amelia reached a hand into the incubator and let a single finger rest on Hope’s belly. Nurse Marcela stood beside her, monitoring Hope’s vitals. “Holding steady,” she said. “That’s a great sign.”

  Amelia stared at her daughter, taking in the complication of wires and hoses and tape that had turned her into some human-machine hybrid. Her pink knit cap was baggy on her head, and the diaper looked like it was intended for a toddler. She was only a week old, but she’d already endured a litany of tests to determine the extent of her challenges from being born a trimester early. And to the doctors’ amazement, every single one had come back clear. “Truly a miracle,” they’d said. Amelia was beginning to believe them.

  Which begged the question: A miracle worked by whom?

  They continued the touch therapy until Hope’s vitals began to waver, then Amelia withdrew her hand and stood. “I’m going to get some tea,” she told the nurse once she’d ensured Hope was stable. “Can I get you something?”

  “You’re a doll. No thanks, though.”

  Amelia headed for the cafeteria on autopilot, having walked this route dozens of times over the last week. She’d been released two days after the birth, but showed up every morning after breakfast to sit beside Hope until dinner. The first couple of days she’d brought things to keep herself busy—a few books to read, stationery to write letters—but she soon stopped, unable to concentrate on them. Her prior feelings of resentment and ambivalence toward the baby had been erased in those minutes after Hope’s birth and then replaced by fierce mama-bear instincts that left her tormented at seeing her daughter laid out like a science experiment in the isolette. She had no patience for things that might steal her attention from her baby. Instead, she sat and stared. And when the stress of seeing Hope that way became too much, she walked. And thought.

  Today’s musings had gravitated toward New Hope. The name made her smile now. So did the lengths the congregation was going to for the Sheffields. They’d provided dinner every day since Marcus and Amelia had been home. Cards and flowers arrived daily to their home or the hospital, making Hope’s corner of the NICU the most decorated on the ward and their apartment smell like a flower shop. And offers of help in every imaginable form came from people Amelia had no memory of even meeting on the few Sundays she’d attended.

  She hadn’t expected to receive so much support from people she hardly knew, especially given how absent she’d been from the church in the months since she’d arrived. She’d assumed she’d have to prove to them that she was worthy of so much encouragement. And while she knew Marcus was their pastor, she was surprised they were as caring as they were, given the hassle so many of them had given him when he’d started. She had no choice now but to own up to the fact that she’d misjudged them, that she’d never really given them a fair chance in her heart or mind.

  Granted, none of them, besides Ed, knew why she’d been hospitalized. Would they be so caring now if they did? Or if they knew she wasn’t even sure God was real?

  You’re jumping to conclusions again, she thought to herself. Why was she so sure the congregation would eventually turn on her? Why couldn’t she give them the benefit of the doubt? Besides, you’re becoming a lot more sure about God now than you were before.

  She sat by a window in the cafeteria, sipping her tea and mulling over this thought. It was true. Had she not had Hope early and seen for herself the way God—or Someone—was taking care of her, she wouldn’t have had any reason to question her doubt. But hearing one doctor after another use the word miracle had forced her to rethink her incredulity.

  So had her promise to Marcus to stay with him and Hope and not return to LA. If she was going to make good on it, she had to figure out how to be a pastor’s wife. And she didn’t think she could be a decent one without at least believing in God.

  She was jumpy to get back to the NICU, but forced herself to remain still for a few more minutes, reminding herself that they’d page her if anything happened. And when she was there, she couldn’t concentrate on anything but Hope. If she was going to figure any of this God stuff out, she had to take some time alone to do it.

  Amelia stared out at the world beyond the windows, taking in the colors and the complexity of the natural landscape: green fields polka-dotted with dandelions and clover, strands of trees that lined the bank of a small creek that ran past the hospital, a sky the same blue as Hope’s eyes. That thought brought her back to her daughter, to the miracle of birth, no matter how early or late a baby was, and the intricacy of the human body and all its inner workings. She’d been raised with the theory of evolution, but it had never sat well with her. To think there was a Creator behind it all made more sense.

  But the belief in a Creator was a jumping-off point for lots of religions—could she just hop onto the Christianity train without considering the others? She didn’t know much about any other faiths; she’d been raised without any religious leanings and the tidbits she’d learned over the years were picked up from the media and comments by friends, none of whom had been very religious themselves. But did any of those religions get it right?

  I suppose I could ask that Creator for a little guidance.

  She smiled faintly at the thought, but then considered it seriously. Why not? Why not ask for a little help in figuring it all out? If there really was a God, then chances were He wanted people to know Him, and if someone flat-out asked, what reason would He have to not respond?

  Amelia wrapped her hands around her tea and stared into the dark liquid. She stole a glance at her watch and took a deep breath, trying to keep her thoughts focused and promising herself she’d head back to the NICU in two minutes. All right then, she prayed. God—or whoever You are—I want to know You’re there. I want to know which religion to fall in with. I guess I’m kind of hoping it’s Christianity, because that’s going to make my marriage a lot easier. But if it’s not, I want to know that, too. I don’t want to live a lie, that’s all. I don’t want to call myself anything—a Christian, a Buddhist, whatever—without knowing as well as I can that it’s true. So … have at it. I’m
ready and willing. Lay it on me.

  She sat back and braced herself, not really expecting to be zapped in the head with a giant body of knowledge, but hopeful that she’d feel at least a little something or once again hear the voice that had asked for her honesty in the moments before Hope’s birth—the voice that might have been a fluke of her own imagination. The allotted two minutes passed without any glimpses of truth or dazzling epiphanies, and as soon as her time was up, she took her tea back to the NICU.

  When she got there, the pulmonologist from Hope’s medical team was standing at her incubator. Amelia’s heart dropped to her feet, seeing him there when rounds were already over. “Oh God—what’s wrong?”

  He turned, and when she saw his face, her heart beat again. He was smiling.

  “Nurse Marcela called me down,” he said. “Hope was breathing over her vent.”

  “What does that mean?”

  His smile got wider. “It means she’s breathing on her own. It means she may not need the vent.” He chuckled, scratching his chin. “For a micropreemie to be off the vent this quickly—well, most of them born at this age spend at least a few weeks, sometimes months. It’s pretty miraculous for them to come off after just seven days.”

  Amelia clapped a hand to her mouth, afraid she’d let out either a scream or a sob. The doctor detailed the process of weaning Hope off the respirator, then left, leaving her to stare once more at her miracle baby. She sank into the rocking chair beside the incubator and gazed at the tiny body sleeping inside, blinking away tears so she could see her better. “Marcus!” she gasped, then pulled out her cell and texted him, knowing he wouldn’t want to wait until he came after lunch to hear the news. H coming off vent soon!!! Dr says total miracle.

  Within a few minutes her phone chirped with his response. Thank U Jesus!!!