by Ellie Monago
The doctor hangs up the phone. She appears at my side and leads me away. She introduces herself, and I forget her name immediately. “. . . so she’ll be in the PICU overnight, at least . . .”
“The PICU?” I say through a fog.
“The pediatric intensive care unit.”
I experience a fresh burst of sobs. “That sounds bad.”
“No, it’s very good. It’s where she’ll get the most attentive care. Right now, she’s getting oxygen, antibiotics, and fluids.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
The doctor glances back at Sadie with something like fondness. I’m glad. I want Sadie to be liked by the people we need to save her life. “We don’t know what’s wrong yet. We need the cultures to come back. She’ll be here at least two or three days, maybe more.”
I need Doug to get here. I’m splintering apart. No, I’m snapping. Just like the note said.
Like the note said.
It was a prophecy, and it’s coming true. Someone made it come true.
“Her temp is 104.1,” a nurse reports. The doctor gives me a big smile.
“That’s a good sign,” she says. “She’s responding to the Tylenol.”
“And her blood pressure?” I ask.
“It’s stabilized for the moment, but we need to keep a close eye. We don’t yet know why it was unstable. But let me ask you something: Has she ever had jaundice? It’s most common in newborns, but it looks like she has some signs of it now.” I shake my head no.
They don’t know what’s wrong, why a child who’s been healthy her whole life suddenly gets jaundice and needs intensive care. But I’m afraid that I do. It looked like no one had been in our house, but someone could have been.
If someone hurt my daughter, it’s all my fault.
Session 80.
“It’s hard for me to come here.”
“We talk about hard things.”
“I mean that it’s hard for me to sit across from you. I’m really mad at you.”
“Let’s unpack that.”
“See? That’s the kind of thing that makes me mad. The way you talk.”
“What else are you angry about?”
“That you call the truth a narrative. That you don’t believe me.”
“I do believe you. I believe that you’re being honest in the way you see things.”
“But you don’t believe the things themselves! Admit it. You think it’s a narrative. You think it’s a lie I tell myself.”
“Your whole life was ripped apart. You had to tape it all back together somehow.”
“I see the way you look at me.”
“How do you think I look at you?”
“It’s not what I think. I know how you look at me. You think I lie to myself. You think I’m in denial.”
“We’ve been cutting too close to the bone lately. You’ve been confronting some uncomfortable truths about what might really have happened and who’s truly responsible. Sometimes it’s easier to get angry than to confront all the pain that’s underneath.”
“You want him to be a monster, but I don’t.”
“That’s not what I want. I want to help you process—”
“Fuck processing. Listen to me. Eight children. That’s what they say. That there had been eight victims, but only two took the stand. What does that tell you?”
“The trial must have been devastating for you.”
“We’re not talking about me; we’re talking about you! About you sitting there judging me.”
“Let’s slow down and figure out where your anger is coming from.”
“I’m an angry person, don’t you get that by now? Besides, aren’t all emotions permissible in this room? Isn’t that what you told me in the very beginning?”
“Is it really me you’re upset with? It’s OK if it is. I just want to make sure.”
“It’s partly you. It’s partly . . . I went to see him. In prison.”
“Oh.”
“That’s it, ‘oh’?”
“I’m surprised.”
“Surprised I went or surprised I didn’t ask your permission first?”
“Just surprised you took that step. What happened?”
“She was my best friend since we were six years old, and she betrayed me.”
“I’m not following you.”
“No, you can’t. No one can.”
“Let me try.”
“You know what? I think I’m good now.”
“Good in what way?”
“I mean, I think I’m done.”
“With therapy?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s just slow down. We need to unpack this—”
“No, we don’t. This decision has nothing to do with you.”
“What does it have to do with?”
“You’ve helped me a lot. But I’m done here.”
“Don’t walk away, Ellen. Not now.”
“I got everything I needed from that prison visit. I know what I have to do.”
CHAPTER 22
ELLEN
It seems hard to believe now, but when I first heard about the new neighbors, I was happy. Nils and Ilsa hadn’t been any picnic, and I love babies. As far as I’m concerned, the block can always use a newborn. I didn’t recognize the name. I mean, there’s more than one Katrina in the world, and when she got married, I’m sure she couldn’t ditch her maiden name fast enough. So she was well camouflaged.
Besides, she’s not Katrina anymore; she’s Kat, like some sassy little sprite. Ha! She looks just the same, though. I’d know her anywhere.
She hasn’t recognized me, which is both an insult and a blessing.
It’s also my life plan. New name, new hair color, cosmetic surgery, some colored contacts, and voilà.
Now I have a new plan: Operation Get Katrina the Hell Out of My Neighborhood. It’s not going to be derailed by her daughter being in the hospital, though I do feel bad about that. No one wants to see a baby suffer. But she’ll recover. The vast majority of us make it to adulthood, scars and all.
Oh, and I have a motto, too: don’t kick Katrina when she’s down; kick her out when she’s down. There’s no better moment, really. Katrina couldn’t be any more vulnerable than she is right now, subject to disorientation and rash decision-making. Sadie will be fine, but she’ll be raised somewhere else, so I don’t have to look at her mother’s face ever again.
It won’t be easy, though. I was lucky enough to never have an emergency situation on my hands with my own child, and seeing Sadie in any kind of pain, seeing all those other kids . . . But the thing is, Katrina’s misery is only fair. There was a time when I was consumed by the idea of vengeance. I let that go, with difficulty, but I still believe in justice.
Word traveled fast about Sadie’s illness. I volunteered to go to the hospital first and find out what the family needs. If we all went together, I said, we’d overwhelm them. Instead, I’d do reconnaissance and return with a full report. They agreed that was the best way.
Now, I just need to make sure I keep Katrina isolated.
The PICU is one large room segmented by curtains, and Sadie’s in quarantine. That means that yellow-and-black hazard tape has been laid down on the floor around her curtained area, and everyone who comes into Sadie’s sphere has to wear latex gloves and a gown over their clothes. There are face masks, too, but when I draw back the curtain, I see that Katrina and Doug aren’t wearing theirs. See, what kind of parents are those? I’ve never trusted Doug. For one thing, he married her. Also, there’s just something sketchy about him. You can tell he’s used to being liked all the time, he needs it like air, and I never trust those people. He can tell I don’t buy his act, and that makes him nervous. Good.
“Hi,” I whisper through my mask. “The neighbors sent me to check on you guys.”
“Hey!” Doug says, too loud. “Thank you for coming!” Like he’s throwing a party. We’re already assuming the weekend barbecue is canceled. Down, dog. Down, Doug.
&
nbsp; His only concern should be Sadie, not pleasing me. He doesn’t have to be a good host by his daughter’s ICU bed.
But Sadie, that poor kid. She’s in what looks like a small Plexiglas box, raised on a platform, wearing a baby-size hospital gown. A tangle of wires, lines, and tubes runs from her to the hissing, beeping machines. A light is taped to her finger, and plastic tips are inserted in each tiny nostril to deliver oxygen. There are round, flesh-colored patches affixed to her chest and upper leg and stents in her hands that are attached to boards; I assume it’s so she won’t remove the IVs, similar to how dogs wear cones around their necks so they won’t pull out stitches. She’s just so restricted. She’s also eerily quiet, motionless. Her skin has a decidedly yellow cast to it.
Katrina follows my eyes. She must like what she sees in them, and she must trust my tears, which are genuine. I never wanted this to happen. Sadie’s so innocent. I want to think she’s dreaming of being somewhere else, sucking from some giant boob in the sky.
“The nurses say it’s good for her to sleep,” Katrina says softly. “Her body’s working so hard to fight the infection.” Her voice is hoarse. I can tell she’s been crying a lot. Doug’s hair is disheveled, but other than that, you wouldn’t be able to guess he has a sick baby.
“I’m sure she’s a fighter,” I say. Katrina gives me a sharp look, while Doug smiles, like he appreciates my intent.
As if he has any idea of my intent.
Katrina starts to speak in this weird spacey voice. “Sometimes I think about who has a better prognosis, the screamer or the sleeper. Do you hear her?” I shake my head. “There’s this little baby even younger than Sadie who’s been crying the whole time we’ve been here.”
“She’s not crying now,” I say.
“Oh. She’s not?” Katrina looks confused.
She’s cracking up so easily. I thought that’s what I wanted, but it’s hard to see anyone go through this.
“I’m hoping both babies will be OK,” she says, “but I worry there’s a quota. Like, a certain number of people in here have to die to make room for others.”
I look to Doug. It seems like he isn’t even listening to her. There’s no outward acknowledgment of how peculiar she sounds. Maybe he’s heard it before and he’s just tuning her out at this point. I can’t exactly tell what’s transpiring between them.
“Like there’s a quota from God. A big cosmic ledger. I don’t want Sadie to be pitted against the others like that. I don’t want to compete with the other parents to see who can pray the hardest.”
You can’t compete with other parents, Katrina. With what you’ve done, they’ll win. In a great big gladiatorial arena, with God pointing his scepter to decide who lives and who dies, Sadie’s a goner.
But I hope not. She’s just a little baby. She doesn’t deserve to pay for the sins of her mother. The problem is, it doesn’t work that way. The innocent feel the pain, and evil walks free all the time.
There are only two chairs. One is hard-backed, and the other is the upholstered type that converts into a bed, albeit a pretty uncomfortable one. Doug jumps up from the hard-backed chair, realizing that he’s forgotten his manners, but there’s something phony in his gentlemanly gesture.
“Why don’t you sit down?” he says to me. “Stay awhile, since you came all the way down.”
“It’s not far.”
“Well, it was really nice of you anyway.”
“I’m supposed to report back,” I say. “Tell the others what you need, so we can organize. How long is she going to be here, do you know?”
Katrina shakes her head sorrowfully.
“Could we start bringing some meals?” I offer.
“We don’t need anything.” Her voice has gone cold. It’s unnerving, how she flits between spacey and penetrating. I’m not sure if it’s that she doesn’t trust me, specifically, or that she doesn’t trust an emissary of the AV. I can understand that. The notes have gotten a little more menacing. At this point, I have to speed things up. I can’t take this much longer. That’s why I had to come here.
“Some food would be nice,” Doug says. Katrina turns to glare at him. “Well, you need to eat, and I need to eat.” Doug’s tone is defensive. Something’s going on between them, clearly. They haven’t really looked at each other the whole time I’ve been here.
“I don’t want anyone coming here.” Her tone is absolute.
“Kat—” Doug begins.
“I said no.”
Now they’re looking at each other, all right. I’m curious to see which one of them will back down, and when it’s Doug, I have the strangest reaction. I actually think, Good girl, Katrina. Like I’m rooting for her. How insane is that?
“Just think about it,” I say. “After I leave, you can text me. I’ll make myself available every day.”
“That’s really kind of you,” Doug says.
Katrina says nothing. She’s looking at Sadie, her eyes brimming with tears.
“I’ll leave you two alone.” Doug is on the balls of his feet, all nervous energy. “I need a walk anyway.” Turning his head—but not his eyes—in Katrina’s direction, he says, “Remember, my parents will be here soon.” There’s a strange warning in it. Then he slips out.
“You said you don’t want anyone here,” I say. “I totally respect that. Should I clear out?” I need to get her permission. That’s critical. She needs to think my presence is, on some level, her idea.
It’s kind of handy, wearing the mask and gown. I won’t have to do that much acting. Plus, it makes it much less likely that she’ll (finally) recognize me.
“Do you want me to go?” I ask again.
CHAPTER 23
KAT
I can’t believe I’m hesitating. She really should go. I can’t trust her; I can’t trust any of them.
But I can see that she’s really hurting for Sadie. And I’m just so fucking alone here.
Crisis supposedly brings some couples together. That’s not how it is for Doug and me. We’re sitting together behind the hospital curtain with no privacy, so I can’t ask him why he’s acting this way. So distant. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he blames me for Sadie’s illness.
I blame myself. I should have gotten her to a doctor sooner. I should have known she was sick. More time could have made a difference.
They don’t even know what the infection is. They’re still waiting for more cultures to come back, and while it could ostensibly be good news that the ones so far have been negative, it means we’re currently in the unknown. She’s had vomiting and diarrhea, symptoms of jaundice and anemia, but they can’t treat the source. They can just make her more comfortable and give her fluids.
The rule is that only one parent can sleep by her side, and since I’m pumping milk, I’m the obvious choice. Doug slept in the waiting room last night. I was left alone here with Sadie and the industrial-strength pump that takes half the time. I couldn’t even hear it over all the other hospital machines. I cried the whole time. She’s not drinking it. The bottles are going in the floor refrigerator while fluids enter her little body intravenously.
I haven’t mustered an answer yet when a new doctor comes by. He’s short, wiry, and hairy. He could be my savior, Sadie’s savior, so I pump his hand and tell him just how happy I am to see him.
“My husband just stepped out,” I say. “I can get him back really quickly. Can you wait? Or can you come back?”
“This will only take a minute,” he responds. It’s true, his physical exam is incredibly brief, and Sadie sleeps right through it. I can hardly watch. It’s like she’s unconscious, like she’s dead.
Please, please, let us be on the right side of the ledger.
The doctor smiles and says, “She’s looking better.” I don’t see what he sees, though I wish I could. He tells me that her last blood pressure reading was normal, and her fever is well controlled. “All good signs.” He looks like he wants to wrap this up quickly, like he wishes he were doing wi
nd sprints rather than practicing medicine.
That’s when I remember that she’s still here, that I didn’t tell her to leave. She’s hearing everything. I don’t want her knowing my business, reporting it back to anyone. But how can I kick her out now, in front of the doctor? He’d think I’m nuts.
“What about the jaundice?” I say.
“That’s about the same.”
“And the anemia?”
“The anemia is mild. It might have even been present before the illness and went undetected.”
“So you’re not treating her for it?”
“Not at present, no.” He looks like he really wants to bolt. I was just supposed to take his “all good signs” at face value and let him get on with his day. “We’re monitoring her symptoms very closely. We don’t want to overtreat.”
“Or undertreat?” she pipes up, and I can’t help it, I look at her gratefully. It’s like she’s on my team, more than Doug has seemed. He’s too busy sucking up to the doctors to pin them down on specifics. He just trusts way too easily.
“But what’s wrong?” I ask. “Do you know if it’s viral or bacterial yet?”
“Not just yet. Some of the cultures will be ready tomorrow. She’s already getting fluids and antibiotics. We’re controlling her fever. Believe me, she’s getting the best care.” He pats my arm. “We’ve got this, Mom. Don’t you worry.”
As he leaves, I feel deflated. I fall into the chair, and again, I can’t help it, I’m glad she’s here. I’m just glad not to be alone.
“That was good news, right?” she says. “About her blood pressure and temperature?”
“No one was in here for more than an hour. No nurse and no doctor. I think that means she’s doing better, but maybe it means they’re giving up on her.”
“I don’t think it works that way.”
I don’t know why, but I’m talking. I’m telling her the theory I just came up with, just since being here, about the circles of luck, which are also the circles of hell.
“In the outer circle,” I tell her, “there are all the people with healthy children. Their kids get common colds, but they never need to visit the ER. That’s most people. That was me, until now. And then one circle in, it’s Doug, Sadie, and me. The ones who are lucky because they have health insurance and access to good medical care, and when they realize something’s wrong, they can bring her to a place like this. It could be worse, I know that.”