by Lia Riley
Children’s hospitals are the worst places on earth.
“Ready for this?” Dad cracks me a smile, pops his knuckles in a way that only intensifies my nerves because it means he’s masking a Stage-Five freak-out. We stand outside the Neo-natal Intensive Care Unit. “When life gives you lemons, Peanut, you and I, we make lemonade.”
I can’t even begin to guess what he’s talking about.
When my sister was in the hospital, during those early weeks when hope seemed possible, Dad spouted off enough optimistic clichés to write a Chicken Soup for When Your Daughter Is On Life Support.
“Can’t wait.” My grin is so toothy I must resemble a rabid hyena.
There are signs posted all over the wall. One reminds us to wash our hands, which Dad and I both do, at the wide, stainless steel sink, for almost two minutes with the small sterile disposable brushes provided. The skin on my knuckles and palms is red, buffed and shined by the end. A nurse checks our identification bracelets.
Dad rings the buzzer to request access onto the unit. There’s an answering click and he pulls open the door. “After you.”
Visitors are limited so Bran cools his heels in the cafeteria. I hate leaving him alone, especially when the hurt from his past is bubbling so near the surface. He’s never spoken of Adie’s pregnancy, of the fact he almost became a father at twenty-two. Bran as a dad. The very notion is so foreign, utterly ludicrous, and yet, I know he’d be amazing. Someday. He wasn’t ready for that much responsibility, and that knowledge clearly cripples him with guilt because at the end of the day, he never had to be. He never had to choose to do the right thing.
I’ll get back to Bran as soon as I can, but first there’s someone I need to meet.
A three-pound, fourteen-ounce baby without a name.
“He’s right over here in Isolette fifteen.” We follow the nurse through a space that is quiet, almost serene.
“Isolette?”
“Incubator,” Dad murmurs. The room is full of them. Each has a tiny body nestled inside. I’m surprised how large it is in here. Classical music plays at a low volume. Two doctors in blue scrubs pass us with a nod and gentle smile. A few parents hover and coo by their little incubators. One mother is holding her baby skin to skin in a glider chair.
Where is number fifteen?
We stop. There, visible through the hard plastic shell, is my brother.
It’s impossible to blink, or swallow. He’s impossibly small. Skinny. He looks like a baby bird fallen from the nest. “Oh my God,” I whisper, trying to register what I’m seeing.
“Isn’t he something?” Dad’s voice is thick with emotion.
“Yeah,” I say, unable to take my eyes off him. “Hey, Sea-Monkey.” His heart rate and breathing patterns are being carefully monitored. A feeding tube runs into his nose. Jessie’s up in her room, pumping, trying to get her milk to come in.
“Oh, you overeager little buddy.” I splay my fingers on the glass. “You’re supposed to cook for another two months.”
Why the big rush?
“Can I touch him?” I whisper.
“Go ahead.” The nurse has kind eyes. “See the holes on the side. Unlatch the panel and put your hand through there. You’ll want to gently lay your hand on him. Don’t pat or stroke. His skin is sensitive. Too much stimulation would hurt, but the pressure will be comforting, remind him of the womb.”
Jesus.
“That’s cool. I’m fine with looking,” I say. I mean, I could hurt him with a brush of my finger? The idea of holding a full-term newborn makes me a little dizzy. A preemie? Maybe I should take another step back, admire at a safer distance.
“Go on,” Dad urges. “Let him know you’re here. Big sister to the rescue.”
I have to do this.
“To the rescue? Hmmmmm. That’s a rather ambitious statement.” I slide my hand through the incubator’s circular opening. His whole hand is smaller than my pinkie finger. My skin hovers against his, featherlight. He twitches. Tiny features contract into a grimace.
“Oh no! I hurt him.”
“Don’t worry, I think that means he likes you,” Dad says thickly.
“Mr. Stolfi?” A woman in scrubs approaches. “I’m Dr. Clement, your son’s neonatologist. Do you have a moment to come up front? I’d like to go over your son’s care plan with you.”
“Sure thing. You good to hold down the fort, Peanut?” Dad starts to walk away, slow though, like it’s an effort not to stay right here, with him.
“No problem, but Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you thought of a name yet? It seems weird not to call him anything.”
He grimaces. “Jessie and I can’t reach an agreement. We thought we still had time to carry out The Great Name Debate.”
Inspiration strikes with lightening clarity. “What about Wyatt?” Dad loves old westerns. He’d force Pippa and me to watch them when we were little, bought us cowgirl hats and sheriff badges.
“Wyatt?” Dad pulls up short. “Huh. Wyatt.” You can tell he’s trying it on.
“Yeah, like the kid’s a crazy fighter, you know?” I pretend to fast draw two finger guns. “The NICU is his O.K. Corral.”
“Wyatt.” His face creases into the first honest smile I’ve seen since we’ve been here. “I like it. We’ll have to run it past Jessie, but something makes me think it’ll stick.”
I offer a mock salute. “Happy to help, sir.”
Dad walks to the nurses’ desk up front where Dr. Clements is waiting. The nurse assigned to us fiddles with another incubator nearby. It’s just me and my brother.
“Hey, Wyatt.” I whisper because I’m not going to start out our relationship calling him bro. “It’s me. Talia, your big sister. Like really big sister. Sorry about that. By the time you’re my age, I’m going to be certifiably ancient. You can help me find my pills, chase kids off my lawn.”
He doesn’t stir, but I get the strange feeling he senses I’m there. He looks impossibly wise, like a miniature Buddha, serene with enlightenment. I wonder if he knows everything has changed. Can he sense he’s not inside Jessie anymore? Does he have any thoughts, or is he like a goldfish, where every second is a fresh slate wiped clean?
“I had a sister. I guess you did, too, although you never met her. In fact, if she was still here, you wouldn’t be here. That’s a head trip, huh?” My floodgates open. Oh boy, cue the waterworks. “All I know is that if I can be half as cool to you as she was to me, we’ll be off to a solid start. Just don’t expect me to kick the soccer ball around or take you rock climbing. I’m really uncoordinated. But I hope you like to read, because you won’t have a choice. We’ll cover all the Dr. Seuss obviously, and once you’re around five I’ll introduce you to Charlotte’s Web and Farmer Boy. You need to hang in there, and, I don’t know, learn to breathe or whatever. And fatten up while you’re at it.” I wipe my nose on my sleeve. “You look like a little alien. I could take a picture of you and sell it to the National Enquirer. You’d probably beat out Bat Boy. Hey, for Halloween you could be Bat Boy. I’ll make you a costume. I mean, you’re going to pretty much have to accept that I’m going to be dressing you up every chance I get.”
“Peanut?” Dad’s beside me. I didn’t hear him walk up.
“Sorry.” I knuckle dry my eyes. Dad’s got enough to carry. His shoulders are broad, no doubt about that, but he’s the kind of guy who’ll volunteer to Sherpa everyone else’s shit until he falls off the mountain. “How are you doing?”
“Fine. Good. Great.”
Which means he’s a catastrophe away from tearing his hair, running in circles, and screaming, We’re all gonna die.
I’m not the only one in this family who fakes it.
“Hey, Dad, it’s cool to be real, you know. I can handle it.”
“What are you talking about?” His chuckle is pure bravado.
“All I’m saying is if you want to break down a little, I won’t freak.”
He smiles, but there
’s no missing the hint of a chin quiver.
“He’s going to be okay, Dad, but it’s normal to be overwhelmed. This was a hell of an ordeal.” I open up my arms, unsure how he’ll react, but I need to make this move. For too long everyone in this family has wandered through shitty situations using meaningless upbeat language to shine the way. Maybe if we all are honest, admit we’re scared but doing the best we can, we’d be a little better for it.
Dad looks at my outstretched arms, clearly hesitating.
“Jesus, it’s a hug. Dad, you just had a baby. You’re a father again. That’s crazy enough. But this little guy was overeager and now we’re in a neonatal intensive care unit.”
“You don’t need to carry my burdens.”
“You’re not Frodo with the One Ring. Share the load.” Since he’s not moving, I go to him, hug him hard around the waist. My cheek rests against the bottom of his rib cage. Next to the baby, Dad looks like the Jolly Green Giant. For a second, he stiffens at my touch. Shit, this is a bad idea. After my time with Bran in the parking lot, I’ve gotten lulled into a false confidence at the power of touchy feely.
I can’t even talk my Dad off a cliff. He’ll probably have a breakdown, or a heart attack or both and—
“Oh, Peanut.” His sigh is one dredged from that place everyone has, but that he tries to pretend away. A shudder ripples through his body, and he squeezes me a little tighter. “You’re something special, kid.”
Warmth blooms through my chest. “Love you, too, Daddy.”
He plants a kiss on the top of my head.
“Remember, it’s not weak to feel.”
He clears his throat. “I’ll try.” He slings his arm around my shoulder and we stand, quiet, watching the littlest member of our family, the weakest one in body, continue to fight with a strength that somehow manages to carry the rest of us.
When I get back to the hospital waiting room, it’s nearly empty at this early hour. Bran is nowhere in sight.
“Talia?” I jump a mile when he says my name behind me. He holds two coffees.
“Oh, perfect, you read my mind.” I take a sip. The sob comes out of nowhere as I try to swallow. I cough, tears gush down my cheeks for the second time in twenty minutes. “I’m dehydrating myself over here. Soon I’ll be like beef jerky or something.”
“Hey, hey.” Bran removes the cup from my grasp, sets it on the seat, and tucks me into his arms. “I got you, I’m here.”
He doesn’t say shhhhh, which I am grateful for because I don’t want to shush. Maybe my tears will douse the bitterness corroding my stomach. “Why did he have to be in such a hurry to come out? What’s so good about being out here? It’s hard. He should have waited. He’s so little. I could hold him in one hand.”
He lets me cry out all the stress and when I’ve finished, there’s a huge wet stain on the front of his shirt. I dab it with futile hands. “God, sorry. I tried to drown you.”
“Not sorry. I’ve been lazy about laundry. The shirt needed a good wash.”
“More hugs?” I ask.
He holds out his arms. “Always, Captain. Get over here.” He holds me tight, and I settle my head in the gap under his jaw. The fit is perfect. “You were amazing last night. Helping Jessie get through that in the driveway.”
“I don’t know.”
“Fact. Do not argue me on this point.”
“Our family had a baby.” I snuggle closer. Maybe this is the beginning of something new. The fresh start everyone needed. A weird sensation shoots down my back. A light tickle. But Bran’s arms are on my shoulders.
My sister loved to give what she called tickle backs. She’d run her hands up and down my spine while I wiggled and flailed. It was her way to show affection even though it made me squeal. I turn around and the seat behind me is empty.
“What’s up?” Bran asks.
“Looking for a ghost.” He gives me a raised eyebrow and I grin. Sometimes goose bumps aren’t scary. “Don’t worry, I think it was a friendly one.”
I have waited since Pippa died to feel her presence. By this point I’d decided it was never going to happen. As I walk out of the hospital that night, my heart full, Bran holding my hand, I look up at the moon.
Maybe anything is possible.
* * *
After two days, Baby Wyatt—Jessie cosigned on my name suggestion—shows marked improvement on all fronts, from lung function to feeding. Jessie and Dad have a room at the nearby Ronald McDonald House to be on hand round the clock, and Bran and I help out with housesitting duty.
“What’s this cat’s problem?” Bran grumbles. Persimmon, the fat tabby, has crushed the Edward Abbey book Bran’s reading. She settles her paws on his chest and purrs loudly.
I glance up and laugh. “She’s no dummy. You’re the cuddliest.” We’re reading on the bed. The one Bran spent the morning repairing after our Guns N’ Roses jam fest. He sprawls out vertically and I rest horizontally, using his hip as a pillow. I’m reading over my resume. In thirty minutes, I have a phone interview.
Holy shit.
I mean, it’s fantastic, obviously. My dream job might actually become a reality. But even good stress carries with it a level of overwhelming bodily sensations. When Bran suggested a quiet snuggle, I was game. He also fixed me the cup of chamomile tea with extra honey that’s cooling on the nightstand.
“Have I told you I love you today?”
He smiles at me over the mountain of cat. “I thought your feelings were bigger than plain old love.” He’s got the relaxed, teasing tone he’s been using more and more since the day Jessie had the baby last week. The day he faced one of his own personal nightmares.
“My brain is scrambling through all possible interview questions. ‘I love you’ has to suffice for the moment. It’s like the little black dress of big feelings. Perfect for any occasion.”
“Do your brains need more scrambling?” He rocks his pelvis against me.
“That would be a negative. I’m trying to be a grown-up.”
“Grown-ups don’t get ravaged by love slave boyfriends?”
“If you have your wicked way with me, not only will I be unable to answer questions with anything approaching logic, I won’t be able to make a sound above a smug giggle.”
“I’d hire you on the sole basis of that giggle.”
“Some people might want me for my brain instead of my body.”
“I’m an equal-opportunity Talia wanter.”
“Aw, and you pretend to be anti-romance.” The cat flicks me in the face with her tail. I catch a wad of hair in the mouth. “Gah! Careful, Persimmon.”
“Cat loves me. She’s my minion.”
Persimmon narrows her yellow eyes at me with a clear challenge for me to bring it.
“Okay, ask me a question.” I sit and tuck my hair behind my ears. “Do your worst with a sample interview question.”
He frowns, thinking. “If you were stuck on a desert island and could only bring three things, what would they be and why?”
“Shut up, they wouldn’t ask me that.” I bring my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around. “Oh, God, what if they ask me that?” I bury my face in my jeans. I am shit at uncertainty. Any interview question could be lobbed with a Surprise! and explode all over me.
“Relax, Captain, I’m messing with you.”
“But they could, right?”
“Sure.” His grin is a trifle wicked. “They could also ask if you have a creative use for scissors.”
“I do, actually. They’re useful for stabbing smartass boyfriends in the heart.”
He grabs my hand and pulls me from my pretzel contortion. “Stop trying to make me laugh! I am wallowing over here. Let me be a depressed hippo.” I ignore the death stare Persimmon gives me.
Sorry, cat. He’s mine. Get your own Australian.
“You’ll do great, just be yourself.”
“Ugh. That’s quite possibly the worst advice I’ve ever received.”
“Why do you want
the job?” He rubs my back.
“Because I need external validation at all times?”
“Okay, there’s a start. Go deeper.” He slides his hand in my back pocket.
“Not so fast, mister.” I summon my best inner schoolmarm.
“I’m resting my hand, it’s tired.”
I lift my head. “On my ass?”
“As good a place as any.” He leans back in a lazy stretch. A glimpse of tan skin peeks beneath his ancient Star Wars T-shirt. Not a movie original. A silkscreen of Chewbacca beneath a palm tree. There’s a hint of that V-line muscle, the one that makes smart girls stupid.
“Hoo, boy, you are so smooth.” Hmmmmm. Maybe a quickie would relax me.
He brushes my mouth with a light kiss. “I haven’t thanked you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You don’t know what for.”
“Existing isn’t enough?” I creep walk my fingers up his hip toward the sensitive side along his lower abdomen.
“Cheeky.” He doubles over.
“I try.” My tickle strike is sudden. I love to see him laugh almost as much as I love those dimples.
“Thank you for being cool,” he says when I relent. He half sits and wipes his eyes. “When Jessie was in labor, well, I’m not proud of how I reacted. Your understanding meant a lot.”
“Have you ever thought about getting in touch with Adie? To check in or whatever?”
“She e-mailed last week.” He says it simply. As if this fact isn’t a thing.
“Out of the blue?” Um, that is a thing. It’s like the thing of things.
He grimaces. “She saw the Eco Warriors clip like the rest of the fucking planet.”
“What did she say?”
“Not much, just that she thought of me. Wanted an update, to know how I was. When the show would be on.”
“What did you say back?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, you know you have to, right?”
His sigh is begrudging. “I guess.”
“Here’s the deal. We face our fears, you and me. Whenever there is something we are nervous about, we must confront it. Support each other. Face the darkness.”