by Alana Terry
“What’s your daughter’s name?” the HUC asked with her cute little manicured fingernails poised over her keyboard, and my stomach dropped even more forcefully than it had when the medevac jet landed in Seattle.
“Umm ...” What kind of mom doesn’t even know what to call her own child?
The HUC blushed. I hate it when people get embarrassed on my behalf. “You know what?” Her voice was too chipper, like she was trying to sell me some of those health oils that are all the rage these days, particularly amongst perky secretary types. “If she just got in here, they probably haven’t had time to enter her information into the system yet. It’s probably under your name?” She said the last part like it was a question, so I told her who I was and studied her face when she frowned into the screen. Why was she looking like that? Could something have happened to my child from the time we got off the jet until now? It was only a few hours. And we were at the best medical center in the state. I mean, I can understand a baby dying at the hospital in Orchard Grove. But here in Seattle ... There was no way anything could happen to her here.
The girl must have found whatever it was she was looking for, because suddenly she was all smiles again. Smiles and dimples, and she told me to follow her, but she walked so fast I remember nearly crying because I was in so much pain.
When I was sure I couldn’t take another step without ripping every single one of those new stitches out, she stopped in this little room with an incubator. “Ok, wait right here, and I’ll go find your nurse.”
My nurse. As if I was the one who had stopped breathing. As if I was the one who needed a ventilator tube shoved down my throat just to stay alive.
Before I could ask her anything else, Miss Chipper was gone, and there was a split second where I found myself wondering why she’d left me here in this room with some random child.
You’d think I would have recognized my own baby, right? But I’d only held her for those couple of minutes right after she was born. I was so tired then. Maybe if that epidural had worked half as well as it should have, I could have gotten some sleep or at least some rest before the delivery. I wouldn’t have needed that nap so bad. I would have been awake to notice something was wrong.
Maybe if I were a better person, a better mom, none of this would have happened.
It was my fault that I was here. It was my fault that Natalie had stopped breathing.
It was my fault that I didn’t even realize the child lying in that incubator was my own.
CHAPTER 11
So Jake thinks I haven’t cried, but he didn’t see me that afternoon. You remember I told you about that scream after the delivery when I thought my baby was dead? This was different. This was completely silent. Natalie was in her own room, but there were glass windows all around, and the HUC hadn’t shut us in or anything, and I didn’t have the energy to close the door.
I didn’t even know if I was allowed to close the door. I knew my nurse would be bustling in any minute (have you ever known a hospital nurse who doesn’t bustle?), and I didn’t want her to catch me in the middle of my hysterics.
So I cried, but it was totally soundless. I read this thing online, how some scientist once put tears under a microscope and found that there are like a dozen kinds. I mean, I guess we all know that there’s happy tears and angry tears and squinting-at-the-sun-too-long tears, but this guy actually proved they’re different on a microscopic level. And these tears in the NICU, all I can think to call them is hot tears. I mean, lots of tears are hot, but these were different. Almost burning, which sounds clichéd except it isn’t because they literally did burn.
Well, almost.
That’s the state I was in when the nurse bustled in (I told you she’d be bustling), and she closed this cloth curtain so I had a little privacy and pulled up a chair so I could sit down. I’ll probably bless her for it until the day that I die, but she didn’t even say anything. Didn’t touch me, didn’t pat me on the shoulder and lie about how everything would be ok. She just gave me my space, showed me the button to press if I needed anything, and said she could see all the monitors from her station so I didn’t have to worry about my daughter.
Then she left me alone. Bless her bustling little heart.
So Jake’s wrong about me not crying, but he’s right that I don’t do it very much. What’s the point? It’s not like I felt any better when it was over. I knew there were a ton of things I had to do. Get a room at the Ronald McDonald house. Find a pharmacy to get those iron pills the doctor ordered because I’d lost so much blood on the flight over. Take myself someplace where I could buy underwear and new pants, although with my wallet still in Orchard Grove I had no idea how I was going to manage that one.
So that’s why I called Sandy. And yes, in case you’re wondering, I still had her number in my phone even though I hadn’t talked to her in three years. Yes, I felt horribly guilty for ignoring her for so long only to ring her up when I was in so much trouble. But even though I felt like the biggest brat in the history of foster brats, I knew Sandy wouldn’t see it that way.
And she didn’t.
“Oh, sweetie,” she gushed as soon as I told her who it was, “you have no idea how glad I am to hear from you. God brought you to mind during my morning prayer time, and I just couldn’t get you out of my head all day. I looked you up online. Saw that you’re expecting a precious little baby, and I told Carl there’s no way I’d be able to get a good night sleep until I found a way to get in touch with you. I’ve been praying for you all day. How are you, little darling?”
Sandy’s the only person in the world who could call me little darling without getting a black eye or a whole mouthful of curses.
“I’m ok,” I lied. I didn’t expect it to be so hard to hear that worry in Sandy’s voice. That love. Why hadn’t I stayed in touch after high school?
“Now, I saw you post something about being in the hospital on bed rest. Is that where you’re calling from?”
My throat hurt so bad it felt like I had swallowed a spoonful of glass. I promised myself not to cry and told Sandy, “Yeah, I’m calling from the hospital, except I’m in Seattle now.” I had to stop there or I would have turned into a blubbering mess.
“Uh-oh.” Sandy’s the type of person who can’t hide a single emotion. Maybe that’s why I fell out of touch. I didn’t want to let her down. Didn’t want to hear the disappointment in her voice when she learned how much I was messing up my life. “Do they think the baby’s coming too soon? Is that why they sent you there?”
I never knew until then how your heart could be torn in half like that until your lungs hardly have any room to expand at all. “Actually, she was born this morning. Everything was ok at first, and then something ...”
I couldn’t finish the sentence. Not with my child right there with all those breathing tubes and an IV the flight nurses had to put in her forehead because the veins in her arms were so stinking small. And without asking any other questions, Sandy began to pray for me. Right there on the phone.
I wish I had it recorded or written out so I could remember exactly what she said. What I do remember is the peace, this big tidal wave of warmth that swelled over me. Of course, it vanished as soon as she said amen, but I wasn’t surprised. I knew enough about church things by then to realize that’s the way it always works. Like how I felt so alive, so loved and cherished and wanted at that youth retreat when I knelt in front of the entire St. Margaret’s youth group like some kind of deranged martyr. That feeling stayed with me a day and a half. Exactly. I remember because that altar experience was on a Saturday night, and by Monday at lunch Lincoln Grant and I were making out in his dad’s truck in the parking lot at school, and once fifth period started I realized the feeling was gone for good.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
Just like that song from Top Gun.
Woah, woah, woah.
Still, I was glad when Sandy prayed for me, and she called me every day after that to keep in touch, except it wasn
’t the sort of smothering attention like Patricia gives. It was nice. Sometimes if I was busy, I’d let it go to voicemail, and she’d just say something sweet like, “Hey, honey. It’s me, just calling to see how everything’s going. I wanted you to know I’m praying for you. Call me any time.”
That’s the kind of person Sandy is, and if you don’t have someone like her in your life — even if it’s way in the past like mine — I truly hope you find someone like that soon.
CHAPTER 12
“So, this brain bleed thing, it happened while she was being born?”
I rolled my eyes. I’d been telling Jake the same thing for five days, but it wasn’t until he got to Seattle that he started to process any of it. He wanted to come right away, he told me, but he had to wait until he got his paycheck, and then he needed to wait until his buddy Marcos was driving out that way because Jake didn’t trust his beat-up lemon of a Pontiac to make it all the way over the North Cascades. I tried not to show how surprised I was just to see him at all. But I couldn’t hide how annoyed I was at all his questions. “Go to the NICU and talk to the nurses. Or go in the morning so you can catch the doctors doing their rounds. Ask them all the questions you want.”
But he wanted to hear it from me. Jake’s sort of fragile that way. It makes sense when you think about how stinking sheltered he was his entire life. I mean, his mom didn’t even let him watch The Little Mermaid growing up. I still don’t know if it’s because of the sea witch or because of that teeny seashell thing Ariel had going on, but seriously. I was watching slasher flicks with one of my foster dads when I was still missing my two front teeth. I’m the first to admit the system screwed me over at least a hundred times before I’d even started my period, but at least I’m not afraid of the truth. At least I don’t need to drive two hundred and fifty miles to hear the bad news from my girlfriend because I can’t pick up a stinking phone and ask to talk to some NICU docs.
Well, that’s Jake for you. I don’t want to complain. I sometimes wonder if I could have handled that time in Seattle if I were all by myself. I mean, Sandy came for a few days, stayed with me when Natalie was having her surgery, and that was huge. But it’s not like Sandy could drop her entire life out there in Boston and live with me indefinitely. They’re not doing foster care anymore, but she and Carl just adopted a little boy from South Korea. The kid’s a handful from what I could gather. Sandy’s not the kind of mom who would complain, so I’m sure I don’t know the half of it, but it’s not like I could have just expected her to live with me there in Seattle while I got things sorted.
So yeah, I guess I’m glad Jake showed up. I mean, we got married, right? That’s got to tell you something.
A hundred stinking stress points in one ten-minute ceremony. Maybe that’s why my back is aching in this hard pew. I glance over at his hand, wonder what kind of ring I’d get him if we had the money. Because of course, that’s the down side of him coming out to Seattle. Five weeks off work. I never expected him to stay there with me the whole time. It’s not like the Ronald McDonald House is the most sought-after honeymoon destination, know what I mean?
For a minute, I let my mind wander to another reality. A reality in which we sue the OB and get a huge settlement. Jake and I have all the money in the world and can go anywhere we want. I’ve never been out of the country, even to Canada. Not as if I’d know what to do once I got there. Eat maple syrup and watch a hockey game?
I think if I could choose anywhere to honeymoon, I’d pick something like Hawaii but out of the country, just so I can say I left the States. The Bahamas might be nice. I’m not sure. Do you need a passport to get there, or is it one of those things like Puerto Rico or whatever?
Man, I’m so stupid. Here I am thinking of a big fancy honeymoon, and Jake and I are so poor we couldn’t even buy passport photos.
Guess we’ll be staying local after all.
My daydream dies away like a cheap Fourth of July sparkler, and I realize that Grandma Lucy is still going at it. I wonder if that woman ever gets laryngitis.
“Jesus took the little child up in his lap,” she’s telling us, and I can see now that other people are fidgeting. Part of me wants to just tell Jake come on, let’s get out of here, but part of me wants to hear more. Because even though I still think she’s crazy, there’s something deep inside that’s telling me to listen. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking. Maybe I’m just hoping for some kind of heavenly message in a bottle.
That would be nice. A direct word from God telling me Natalie’s going to be just fine. Or the other way around, a message saying she’s going to die and I don’t need to feel guilty about that stupid DNR. A message that none of this was my fault, even though I might not even believe God himself on that point.
Grandma Lucy’s got this Holy Spirit sway going on in her hips, which makes me wonder if she was a dancer when she was young. I’m surprised when I find she’s still harping on those thick-skulled disciples, but she says, “And he told the twelve, ‘The kingdom of heaven belongs to the children.’” As soon as she says the words, I can see it. You’re going to think I’m the one who’s batty now, but I couldn’t make this up even if I wanted to.
Even if I needed to just to prove my own sanity.
I see him. God. Jesus. Whatever you want to call him. I know the real historical person didn’t look like those illustrations in children’s story-book Bibles, except now he does. In my mind. The glowing robe, the brown beard, everything. He’s white as a singer in a boy band, too, but he’s got her on his lap. Not some nameless child like Grandma Lucy seems to think.
No, her. My Natalie. My baby girl.
Except she’s not a baby, she’s ... I don’t know. Five? Six? The age you’d be around the time you’d start losing your first tooth. Because she’s missing her two front ones. I can tell because her entire face is lit up in a smile. And when I say lit up, I’m not using a figure of speech. I mean her face is literally glowing, but when I get a better look, I realize the light’s actually coming from him. He’s got his arms around her, and he’s gazing at her. He’s not even looking down at her. He’s holding her there on his lap, but she’s right at eye level with him. If I were to tell you about his eyes, you won’t even believe me. I mean, I know there are movie stars or whatnot and everyone’s like man, they’ve got such gorgeous eyes. Well this is totally different. Those eyes, his eyes — it’s like they could gaze at her forever and never lose a single ounce of love. Admiration. Then it hits me.
He’s proud of my daughter. God. Jesus, whoever this shiny guy I’m seeing is, he’s actually proud of Natalie. I mean, I’m not surprised that he loves her so much, but that affection ... so tender.
And then she looks at me, those almond eyes. Her skin is dark like mine, but her black hair is soft and silky like her grandmother’s. If any of this is real, if I remember any of this after I’m done wigging out, I know that my stomach is going to drop those few inches every single time I think about the way she looks at me.
I can’t figure out why I’m crying, why the tears are streaming down my cheeks. They’re hot, too. Like streams of lava. Except it doesn’t hurt. Not physically. What gets me is the emotional pain. That fist-in-your-gut kind of whoosh that knocks the wind right out of you. I feel that now. I feel that when she looks at me. Because she loves me so much. I can see that. This little girl who’s never once smiled at me, who’s never once given any indication that she has a clue who I am, she’s there on his lap just beaming at me. Like I’m her favorite person in the world.
And she’s so gorgeous. So. Stinking. Gorgeous. Just beautiful, and I don’t mean the kind of girl who would wear a five-hundred-dollar dress and twirl a baton in front of a panel of judges to get a trophy. This is far more real. Far more lasting. She’s got joy and innocence and youthful energy just gushing out of her, and that’s what makes her so perfect.
I adore her. It hits me like a wall of heat when you open up the oven to pull out your mother-in-law’s golden-topped c
asserole. I adore this child. So much so that it’s like the feeling is being squeezed out of my chest by someone’s fist, like they’re wringing my heart out and I’m pretty sure I’m going to die but that’s ok because now I’ve seen who she really is.
Except that’s not right either, because even though I’m spun out on Holy-Ghost hallucinogens, I’m still sober enough to know that I have a sick little baby at home who doesn’t smile, doesn’t acknowledge me, doesn’t even like to be cuddled by anyone, deity or not. Then that wall of heat I just mentioned turns into something more akin to a steam roller, and I realize she must be dead.
That’s what this vision means. Natalie died while we were wasting time at church, so now she’s in heaven, where apparently she’s destined to live out the rest of eternity as a perpetual kindergartner. That’s what the verse Granny Lady quoted meant. Refusing to be comforted because her children are no more.
No more. My heart repeats the phrase with each beat. No more. No more.
My daughter is no more.
What other explanation could there be? Now it’s a different kind of tear rolling down my cheeks. The grieving kind. I know because I feel one splash onto my forearm, and it’s only the mourning tears that ever splash. So I go back to wishing I were dead. Except now it’s because my heart is dripping with so much despair, not love, and there’s nothing left for me here on earth but to go and join my daughter — now perfect — in heaven, if God will even accept me there after all that I’ve done.