Faye Kellerman

by Street Dreams

  It was relatively quiet—the lateness of the hour and the luck of the draw. The uniformed guard at the door looked bored. There were about a dozen people milling around the lobby, mostly Hispanic mothers with small children. There was one Asian family— a mother and three little girls—sitting on orange plastic chairs, no one talking, hands folded in their laps.

  I went up to a glass-partitioned counter. A middle-aged intake secretary smiled at me, her eyes enlarged behind magnifying corrective lenses. I pointed to the family. “Have they been helped?”

  “The Parks?”

  “I guess.”

  “Yes, they’ve been helped. They’re waiting for the father to bring over the Medicaid card. He works alone in an all-night liquor store, so he had to lock it up before coming over here.”

  “Is one of the kids sick?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking so many questions?”

  I got out my billfold and showed her my badge. “Just wanted to make sure they were taken care of. Sometimes people are reticent to ask for help when they need it.”

  “That’s true. What can I do for you, Officer?”

  She was suspicious and I didn’t blame her.

  “Two EMTs—Crumack and Hanover—brought in a newborn a little over two hours ago. I was the police officer who found her. I’d like to see her, if possible. Just to see that she’s safe.”

  “Can I see that ID again?”

  Again I pulled out the badge. Even after I showed it to her, she was leery. She told me to wait.

  I waited.

  Finally, a twenty-something pixie named Marnie Sears, R.N., M.N., took over. She asked me to follow her and smiled when she spoke to me. Perhaps she liked me because we both had flaming red hair. But that was where the similarity ended. She was small and slight and cute—everything that I wasn’t. What did I expect having been sired by a six-four, 220-pound-plus father. I had lost weight the past year—a lot of it, and not because I was dieting. The appetite suppressant came in the form of recurring nightmares of renegade cops chasing me off a cliff. My therapist kept telling me that it takes time for the psyche to knit the holes. I was still waiting, but I didn’t expect much.

  If I were honest, I’d say things were looking up. Certainly, my appetite had returned. Not in full force, but I didn’t look gaunt anymore. Frankly, I didn’t mind the underfed model look—pronounced cheekbones, full lips, white teeth, and tight chin—but it bothered my parents something fierce. The couple extra pounds I now carried had softened my face. The main thing was I could digest a cheese sandwich without the sour stomach.

  Marnie and I rode the elevator up to the neonatal unit. She told me that the baby was doing well, that her temperature was back up to normal.

  “That’s very good.”

  “You just want to see her, huh?”

  I nodded. The elevator stopped and the doors opened. We walked the hushed halls of the hospital. The lighting was bright, bordering on harsh.

  “She’s over here.”

  Marnie had stopped in front of a picture window. As I stared through the glass, my heart stopped. Fifteen tiny creatures poked and prodded with tubes and needles. I had eaten steaks that weighed more than the smallest of them. The teeniest looked just over a pound. I could have held her in my palm.

  “She’s third from the right.”

  Sandwiched between two little blips of life hooked up to oxygen masks and IVs, my little girl looked enormous and hearty. No tubes, no oxygen mask, just a lump of pink blanket with a hood on her head. “My goodness, she looks so big.”

  “She’s probably full term.”

  I wanted to pick her up. To rock her and kiss that little forehead. I turned to Marnie. “Is it possible for me to hold her?”

  “The baby?”

  “Yes.”

  Marnie sighed. “I shouldn’t let you … but human contact is very good for her right now. You’ll have to suit up.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Marnie took me into an office and gave me disposable blue scrubs. By the time I had finished, I was covered head to toe—suit, mask, head cap, gloves, even paper casings over my shoes. Finally, she led me into the nursery and picked up Baby Girl Doe—weight six pounds seven ounces, length nineteen inches. She had me sit down and then placed the sleeping infant in my arms.

  Her face looked like a ball of brown butter—tiny lips, onion-skin eyelids, and a nose no bigger than a button. My eyes got moist, but I couldn’t wipe the tears because my hands were housed in latex. I just let them run down my cheek. Marnie stared at me. I shrugged.

  “It’s camp, but it’s true. What a miracle.”

  The redheaded pixie smiled. “Why, Officer, you’re an old softy.”

  “Don’t tell anyone, all right?”

  The symphony of cries was music at its most primal. My eyes swept over all the tiny preemies. All the little lives hanging in the balance … all those worried parents out there. I wondered how people like Marnie worked in a pediatric hospital and kept their sanity.

  Over the high-pitched wails, a disembodied voice announced a name over the PA system. I turned to the nurse. “You’re wanted?”

  “Yes, I am. I can’t leave you up here unsupervised. I’m sure you understand that.”

  “Absolutely. A few more minutes?”

  “Sorry. Duty calls.”

  I sighed, about to place the baby back in the bassinet. Her lips pursed and suckled air, then went slack. I stroked her cheek with a rubber finger. “Good night, little one.”

  “You can hold her if you like.”

  The voice that spoke was deep. I looked up … then up some more.

  He was tall, lean, and high-waisted, with smooth cinnamon skin that stretched over high cheekbones. His face appeared to be long, although it was hard to tell under the mask. The cover-up did serve to showcase magnificent eyes: big and round and pale whiskey in color, set under arched black eyebrows and topped with an awning of long, dark lashes.

  Why did guys have the best lashes?

  He wore blue scrubs, his hair hidden under a paper cap. He was holding a tray of vials, tubes, needles, and slides. Some of the tubes were filled with blood, others empty. I had been so focused on the baby, I hadn’t heard him come in.

  Marnie said, “I just got paged to Four West. She can’t be left unsupervised.”

  “Why not? Is she a felon?”

  “I’m not kidding, Koby. You cannot leave her alone with the baby. When you leave, she leaves.”

  “I will watch her like a marine.”

  Marnie was already walking away. “Your charm’s going to fail you one day, Koby. Then what will you have?”

  “I think I will have my job,” he retorted. “From you it is shown that charm is not necessary for the position.”

  “Ha, ha, ha!” She scurried out of the room, and through the glass window, I saw her racing down the hallway.

  He set the tray down on a metal table and directed his jeweled eyes down to my face. “So you are the one who found treasure in the snake pit?”

  “I’m the one who pulled her out of the Dumpster. How did you know?”

  “The paramedics told me the story.” He checked the clock, then signed a clipboard attached to my baby’s bassinet. “I need to take her blood.”

  “She’s sleeping so soundly.”

  “I have a light touch. Perhaps she will sleep through the entire procedure. If you continue to hold and rock her, it will make it easier.”

  I made a face. “Where do you take the blood from?”

  “From the heel.”

  My eyes crawled upward to his badge. Though Marnie had called him Koby, his name tag revealed him to be YAAKOV KUTIEL—R.N., M.N., M.P.H. CRITICAL CARE NEONATOLOGY. Yaakov was my stepbrother’s legal name, although my dad usually called him Jake or Jacob. Yaakov was a name associated with Jews or Russians. The man didn’t appear to be of either stock. “How is she doing?”

  “Very well, although she did have some drop in temper
ature from exposure.” He took several slides out from their protective wrappers, marking each one with a number on its label. “Not too much of a drop because, the EMT tells me, she was covered up with the garbage bags.”

  “Yes.”

  “She was crying when you found her, no?”

  He enunciated his words in the clipped cadence of those from Africa.

  I told him yes, she was crying.

  “So she had plenty of oxygen in her little lungs.” Out came a blue-capped needle. “She was fresh from the womb, you know.”

  “I know. The cord was still attached.”

  “The EMTs tell me that someone didn’t bother to wipe off the amniotic fluid, just pushed her out and dumped her.”

  “Now that’s not entirely true,” I balked. “I wiped her face with a sterile napkin.”

  “Perhaps they were referring to her body.” He unwrapped a small glass tube. “It is good you found her so soon. Always babies lose weight after birth.”

  “Miracles happen.”

  He let out a soft laugh. “Sometimes they happen to you.” He stood close to me, peeling back her little pink blanket and exposing a tiny foot. “Has someone found her mother?”

  “Not yet, but we will … hopefully.”

  The nurse furrowed his brow. “We?”

  “Yes, we … I’m a police officer.”

  A slight raise of his eyebrow, though he said nothing.

  “I see they didn’t tell you the complete story.”

  “No, that is true.”

  “I was riding solo last night. A busboy flagged down my cruiser when he heard the crying,” I said. “I was thinking about doing a door-to-door search for her mother tomorrow morning before I go back on duty.”

  “A dedicated cop.”

  I said, “It’s the way I was made.”

  “Dedication is good.” He examined the heel, swiped it down with some yellow cleansing liquid, then gave it a quick stick, squeezing it with gloved hands to extract droplets of blood. The infant wrinkled her nose and pouted, but after some gentle rocking, she decided that her best option was to stay asleep.

  Silence as the man worked, gathering the blood into a pipette and smearing it onto the slides. When he was done, he placed a bandage on the infant’s heel, then gently tickled the sole of her tiny foot with a gloved hand. She retracted her leg in her sleep, then let it fall loose.

  He chuckled. “Good reflexes.”

  I smiled. “Well, she didn’t wake up.” I finally screwed up the nerve to make eye contact. “You must indeed have a light touch.”

  “I should have been a surgeon.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  I winced as soon as the words came out. His topaz eyes went from the infant to me. There was motion behind the mask. I could tell he was smiling.

  He said, “I speak in metaphors.”

  “Oh …” I felt my face go hot. “That was nosy as well as tactless. Sorry.” I should have kept my mouth shut. Should have known better by now.

  He laughed as I got hotter and hotter. “Are you disappointed in me?”

  “Disapp— I …” Stupid, stupid, stupid. I kept my voice even. “Just making random conversation.”

  His eyes crinkled upward at the corners. “I must take these slides to the lab. You have to put her back now.”

  I looked at the package in my arms and sighed, again stroking her cheek with my gloved hand. I could have held her forever. “Good night, pumpkin.” So soft. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  Reluctantly, I stood up and placed her back in her bassinet. He picked up his tray and walked me to the nurses’ station next to the baby nursery so I could remove my protective shell. Off came the face mask, then the cap. I unpinned my hair, shaking it out with a little more drama than necessary. Then I began to peel off my paper suit. First the shoe coverings, then I rolled down the pants, pulling them off, leg by leg, feeling rather clumsy because I was standing instead of sitting. It also felt a little peculiar, this pseudo-disrobing in front of a stranger. As I attempted to lift the shirt over my head, I realized it was tied in back. I reached around to undo the strings but was having trouble with the knots.

  I glanced at my chaperon and caught heat from his staring eyes. The intensity caught me off guard and I felt myself go warm. Immediately, he looked away, his complexion darkening a shade. He had undone the top ties of his mask, exposing the rest of his face— an aquiline nose, a generous mouth, and a strong jawline ending in a square chin.

  His gaze fell over the top of my head. “Need help?”

  “If you could.”

  He fumbled under my long tresses, his fingertips brushing my back as he undid the knotted strings. I felt an electrical surge. I think I might have shuddered, but he didn’t comment if I did.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I slipped off the shirt, snapped off the gloves from my hands, and picked up the discarded suit. He pressed the pedal of a trash can and I threw the disposable clothes away.

  “Much obliged,” I said.

  His eyes engaged me for a moment. “I will walk you to the elevator.”

  Again I knew I was blushing. “No need.”

  He broke into a slow smile, exposing big white teeth. “But I must escort you. If I don’t, Marnie will disapprove.”

  “Something tells me you can handle Marnie.”

  “You think so?”

  “I have a sixth sense about these things.”

  “How does that work?”

  “It’s an intangible.”

  “Like a woman’s intuition?”

  “More like a cop’s intuition.”

  “Being as you are a woman and a cop, does the intuition level double?”

  “On good days, it probably quadruples.” By golly, we were flirting. Silence … but we maintained eye contact for much longer than was socially acceptable. I finally broke it. “It’s late. I should be going.”

  To get to the door, I had to reach around him. I waited a moment, but he made no effort to move.

  “May I ask your name?”

  “My name?”

  “Please.”

  “Cindy.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Cindy.” Again he smiled. This time, I noticed how his big, straight white teeth contrasted with his dark skin. “I am Yaakov.”

  “I know. I read your badge.” Then I realized how that sounded. I wanted to crawl into a hole. It had been eons since I had allowed myself to be alone with a man. I had forgotten what sparks felt like and how to handle them. “I noticed your name because it’s the same name as my stepbrother.”

  His smile gained wattage. “So you are Jewish?”

  “Yes, I am Jewish.”

  He pointed to himself. “Already we have something in common.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “You’re Jewish?”

  “I keep forgetting that Americans find this unusual. In Israel, it is nothing because there are many of us. I’m an Ethiopian Jew. As a matter of fact, I am not only Jewish, but also a qes. That is Kohen in English. Do you know what that is?”

  “Yes. It’s a Jewish priest. My stepfamily is very religious.”

  “Stepfamily?”

  “My father’s family. I don’t want to keep you from your duties. We really should go.”

  “Yes, we should. Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “You’re very forward.”

  “I say curious. Still, you don’t have to answer.”

  I didn’t. He gave me a closed-mouth smile. “I am taking a break as soon as I drop off the tray. Would you like to join me in some hospital cafeteria coffee?”

  It was an innocent enough request. Much easier than an actual date.

  And then I realized how long it had been since I actually had a real date. Trust was a problem for me in general. Trusting men was the impossible dream, but who could blame me after such a horrendous experience. Ironically, because Yaakov was black, it made things easier. All the dudes that I l
oathed and feared had been white. I said, “Depends on how long a break you have.”

  “Usually five to ten minutes.”

  How much trouble could I get into in ten minutes? I shrugged. “Okay.”

  The man’s grin was abundant. Since he was carrying a tray, I opened the door for him. But he used his shoulder to keep it open for me. Standing next to him, he appeared a half foot taller than I was, about six-one or -two.

  “After you,” he insisted.

  I walked out first. “Just being polite or don’t you trust me out of your sight?”

  “I work on my manners.” He let the door close behind us. “Israelis have a reputation of being rude. It is not unfounded, but only because we are too honest.” He smiled. “More like blunt.” He spoke as we ambled down the hallway. “You can call me Koby, by the way … as in Kobe Bryant. Although I spell it with a y and not an e.”

  “You know, you look a little like Kobe Bryant.” I frowned. Jeez, what is wrong with me? I felt as stupid as a schoolgirl. “You’ve probably heard that before.”

  “Yes. But it is strange. People tell me, but only after I mention my name. Especially in L.A., they hear the name Koby, see a tall black man, and automatically make this weird connection. Really, I don’t look like him.”

  His words gave me an opportunity to regard him in earnest. I said, “I think it’s the cheekbones … maybe the nose.”

  “The famous Haile Selassie nose.”

  “You’re both tall, thin, and black. But that’s it. It is bizarre how people make an association to what’s familiar.” I smiled. “Besides, you don’t have that little tuft of chin hair.”

  He laughed. “It is funny you say that. Last year, I got it in my head to grow facial hair. I get about three weeks’ worth of beard, then change my mind and shave it off—too hot under the face mask. But I shave it off in stages and I wind up with a half beard … some chin hair. So one afternoon I get off shift and meet a friend who works in Hem-Onc—oncology is cancer. I usually don’t rotate through that wing, so the kids don’t know my face so good. Plus, I was in my regular clothes and wearing boots with big heels, so especially to the children, I must have appeared very tall. I think I have on sunglasses, too.”

  “Big diamond earring?”