Baby Sue, We Love You! by Marthayn Pelegrimas
An award-winning poet and playwright, Marthayn Pelegrimas is a native Chicagoan who employs crisp images and dialogue to create short fiction that nails you with its immediacy. "Baby Sue..." is a clever, wrenching investigation of pain and how terribly it may not only affect, but actually shape our lives. Marthayn has had several horror scripts produced for Public Radio, and is the driving force behind Audio Oddities, Inc., an audio publisher of a continuing tape/anthology entitled Thirteen Doors. Although she's had many stories published in the Small Press, the following gem is her first appearance in a major anthology. It won't be her last.
To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.
—Emily Dickinson
"Turn on the TV; it's nearly time for my shows."
Georgie ran into the livingroom.
"And stop running or I'll have to spank."
"Sorry."
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Oprah's theme song came up slow, tender. She was doing a heart-felt show this morning, the kind saturated with unrehearsed tears.
"Today our guest is Rosita Lewis, the thirty-year-old mother of Baby Sue. By now you've all read accounts in the papers, seen reports about the fifteen ounce premie, fighting for her life at Children's Hospital." Oprah paused, the camera shifted, emotions were momentarily put on hold for a close-up. "Rosita, tell us how you and your husband...?"
"Ted."
"Yes, thank you. Tell us how you and Ted are holding up."
The distraught mother knit her hands together. "Okay, I guess."
"It must be awful for you. Just awful."
"We've spent every night and day at the hospital. The nurses are becoming almost like family. Ted and I are scared though; we just don't know what we're going to do. His insurance is running out; we've both been forced to take leaves from our jobs since they transferred Susan to Dr. Stevens, here in Chicago."
"Dr. Thomas Stevens? The specialist?"
"Yes." Rosita tugged at her too-tight sundress. "How long has she been here?"
"Susan Marie was born twelve days ago. She's been at Children's for a week now. Each night they try preparing us. They say she probably won't make it till morning. And each morning—there she is. I know she smiles at me sometimes." She gulped down a whimper. "But my poor baby's so tiny, so fragile."
A woman in the fifth row cried out loud.
"Vince, can we run the tape?" The talk show host handed her guest a Kleenex. "If you'll all look at your monitors, we'll show some footage shot by Channel Seven News." Studio lights dimmed and images traveled over national airwaves.
Stuffed animals and dolls sat propped in corners. Acrylic walls partitioned incubators from one another. Nurses clothed in rubber and gauze stopped only to wave for the camera. White, the predominant color, or lack of, coated the walls, the ceiling, like milk.
A rocking chair was positioned beside each baby, pictures of absent siblings stuck to glass. "We try to give parents every opportunity to bond with their child," a concerned voice narrated. "Here in the neo natal intensive care unit at Children's Hospital, we encourage recordings of family member's voices be played. It's comforting... reassuring." A music box rendition of Rock-a-bye Baby accompanied squeaky little boy tones.
Then a zoom shot singled out a tiny patient. She was encased in an incubator. Tubes fed into a bruised arm, another ran down her throat. A piece of surgical tape covered over the crusted umbilical stub; all the time her fists batted the air. Opalescent eyelids squeezed out pain and bright lights. The audience groaned sympathy and the unrelenting camera's eye continued scanning until it stopped to focus on a crayola colored banner. Appearing almost obscene, it proclaimed: BABY SUE, WE LOVE YOU!!
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"Watch the TV."
"I can't. Don't want to."
"Why must you always pout? You're not being punished. You're my darling boy."
"I know, but it hurts."
"Well, stop wiggling then. Watch the baby."
"But I..."
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Oprah returned from a short commercial message. "I believe I read you have other children at home?"
Rosita nodded. "Two. Back in Ohio. Melinda and William."
"Did you carry them full term?"
"Yes. Not one single problem. They're both fine, healthy children. William's eight and Melinda's five. Hi Mellie! Hi William!" Rosita waved at her children somewhere out in televisionland. "Is it okay to say hi?"
"Sure, don't worry."
"They're always asking when Baby Sister will be coming home."
Oprah looked for an encouraging sign. "We all want Susan home: strong and healthy." Sporadic applause grew into a unified roar.
Rosita dabbed at tears, embarrassed, overcome.
"We'd like to do something special—to help you. So a fund's been set up. Please..." she turned brown eyes to camera three, "...please send donations to: Baby Sue, in care of the Oprah Winfrey Show, Post Office Box 623, Chicago, Illinois, 60606."
"Bless you. God bless all of you."
"Just take care of that sweet baby. And we'll be sending our financial support as well as lots of prayers."
Credits rolled, the audience cheered, and a local anchorman interrupted.
"Catch an update of the Baby Sue story Live at Five."
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Georgie rocked back and forth, hugging scarred legs tightly to his chest. The floorboards beat against his bare bottom, sounding like the paddleball game from last birthday. The catheter stung, hot, with each sideward jerk.
She picked up the remote control. "Georgie Porgie. Puddin' 'n Pie. Kiss your mom and make her cry." She bent to smooch his cheek. "You're my sugar-coated angel. Know that?"
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"You're watching Live at Five, Chicagoland's fast breaking news station. Sitting in for Ron Duncan is Pauline Sanders."
"Thank you and good evening. Tonight's top story features Susan Marie Lewis, the premature baby weighing in at a record fifteen ounces. Struggling for almost two weeks against incredible odds, this little girl has endeared herself to families from coast to coast. Doctors continue to marvel at the tiny baby's stamina. Leading pediatrician, Dr. Thomas Stevens, was quoted as saying, 'We're doing everything we can for this incredible fighter. The willpower she's demonstrating is amazing.'"
Pauline agreed, "Amazing. We're all praying for you, Susie."
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"See? The whole city wants Baby Sue to get better. That's love."
Georgie hummed; his left ear hurt a little. He'd flinched. She'd only been trying to make him clean.
"Dinner time! Your favorites! Look. Chocolate pudding, in your red Muppet bowl, and a big glass of Pepsi."
She tried so hard. He could feel how desperately she tried.
"I'll feed you after we get this set up." A wisp of long hairs spidered into her eyes. Twisting them around two fingers, she jerked out strands by dark roots. "Where's a good vein? Show me a nice, fat vein, and afterwards, I'll feed you yummy pudding." The I.V. bottle clanked against its metal support.
"I can feed myself. I'm big now. Five years old, I can..."
"Don't argue," her voice raised. "I have to do this. I need to do this for you."
The needle burned as she jammed it into his baby fat. Two warmblooded spots spattered his nose.
Georgie giggled.
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"This is Nightline with Ted Koppel. Tonight we'll be discussing compassion versus technology. Is it our moral obligation to sustain a premature infant, in spite of the increasing possibility of brain damage—heart, liver, kidney failure? Is it ethically correct to allow, not only infinite suffering of the child, but of all family members as well?
"We have with us, via satellite, Dr. Theodore Sadonick. Dr. Sadonick is the author of last year's best seller: 'At What Cost Life?' Also joining us is Professor of Ethics at Yale University, Daniel Rosen.
"Professor Rosen, welcome. Dr. Sadonick, glad you could be with us."
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"Thank you, Ted," the men replied in unison.
"We'll start with the Professor. Is it ethically sound to prolong a new life, no matter the consequences?"
The professor stroked his smooth chin. "Ethically, the medical profession, as a whole, is committed to saving and prolonging life at any cost..."
Dr. Sadonick interrupted, "Life, yes, but we're talking survival for its own sake. What does a premature baby, weighing in under one pound, have? The trauma suffered during those months of struggle, long-range effects of large doses of medication, therapy required. Not to mention the pain. Studies are just now being conducted to measure pain factors. What once was thought sufficient sedation for these infants, is now known to be inadequate. Is this technology or sophisticated methods of torture?"
"If I might interject," Koppel said, "outside our studio, here in New York, are twenty to thirty demonstrators demanding Baby Sue be kept alive.
"I understand Mr. and Mrs. Lewis issued a statement this afternoon instructing doctors that treatment not include extraordinary methods. I can surely understand their concern for Susan's suffering. With a baby of this abnormal size, the unmeasurable pain factor you spoke of, are we doing a disservice keeping her alive?"
Dr. Sadonick shook his head. "I believe the suffering should be of prime consideration. Since verbal communication is impossible, we can only estimate doses for a patient of this weight. I do fear her pain must be unbearable at times."
"Possibly. But it is our obligation as a civilized, compassionate society, to preserve life as long as possible." Professor Rosen smiled, pleased to deliver the last word.
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"Pain's good for you. You always hurt the one you love, there's a song about it. And Mama loves Georgie better than anyone in the whole wide world."
"Is Uncle Billy coming over tonight?" Georgie hoped the question would distract. He wanted to lay down with his blanket. Today had been so busy.
"I don't know. Why?" Warm water filled the enema bag, spilling over, running down her arm.
"I miss him."
"When I was a little girl," a smile of memory licked her lips, "your Uncle Billy carried me around on his shoulders. And he always protected me. There was this kid, I think his name was Fred Hubbard.
"One day Fred said something mean, made me cry. Well, your Uncle Billy came running after Fred and knocked him down—smack on his back. Then Billy sat on Fred's stomach and hit him, right in the face, with his Speller. Got him good. He was the best brother. Maybe we should call him. I'll even let you dial."
Georgie clapped. "Goodie!"
The doctors were still on TV; it was boring. He didn't understand what they got so excited about. He understood hurting though... real good.
"Uncle Billy?" Mama held the phone. "I would really, really, really like for you to come see me." The number of "reallys" were their secret code.
"I'll be right there, pal. You okay?"
"Yeah, but hurry. I love you, Uncle Billy."
"Love you too, Georgie."
She held the receiver to her ear, anxious to add a good-bye. The connection broke, and still she listened, entranced by the void.
"Mom?" Georgie was excited now. "He says he's coming over."
"We'd better finish up. Have to get my Puddin' all clean for company." She snaked the rubber tube deep inside him, stroking his thigh.
His legs wobbled every time she bent him over the bathtub, offered gifts of warm water and love.
"I can't hold it. I'm gonna pooh."
"Now, now. You can make it. Don't want to hurt my feelings, do you?"
"Nooooo," he wailed. "I gotta make number two."
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"All of us at Nightline send best wishes for a long and healthy life to Susan Marie Lewis. Baby Sue, we love you, too.
"This is Ted Koppel saying good-night."
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Impatient, he accelerated into the passing lane. Georgie had called, adding three "reallys." Angry, he floored the pedal. Poor kid. Overweight, fatherless. Billy's guilt overrode reason when it came to Georgie.
Hadn't it been his urgings that moved them, one van and a carload, to a strange town? Hadn't he promised they'd be a whole family? He owed them some time, attention, support... his life. But Georgie could be a handful. Those temper tantrums screamed at the right moment rewarded the boy immediate gratification. He probably needed a swat now and then, maybe the belt. Hell, it never hurt me, he thought. And Sis tries being a good mother. I try being there when they need something. And Georgie tries—at least as much as a five year old can.
Billy pounded the steering wheel. A blue-haired driver crept out of a parking space. "Hurry up, you old bat!" Ashamed instantly when words hit the air, he blasted the horn. "Come on! Move it!"
Her front door stood cracked open an inch; a TV blared throughout the livingroom. Not again. Christ Almighty, can't you help me? I can't do this again.
"Georgie? It's Uncle Billy. You there?"
"We're in here," she answered.
All the carpet had been torn up since his last visit. Germs, he remembered she told him, multiplied deep down inside the nasty pile. They made Georgie sick. He should have taken the child for tests—to make sure. Laura was busy with her causes: pro-life marches, saving some endangered species, always involved elsewhere. Georgie and Sis were his responsibilities, his family... his burden.
Windows hid behind white sheets. A couch, overstuffed and unraveling at the seams, was the only piece of furniture. And the TV vibrated on.
He raced down the hallway.
"Uncle Billy!"
"Oh my God."
The bathroom was speckled in browns and red. Georgie stood naked, a rubber hose dragging from his butt like a scrawny kangaroo tail. His platinum hair, uneven, had been ripped out in raw patches on top. An I.V. tube connected his arm to the bottle suspended from a coat hanger. The room smelled of rancid meat.
"Sweet Jesus, what are you doing?" William sprinted into the room, twisting Sis' anemic wrists.
"William, let me go, you silly. We'll be finished in a minute and then a movie? That's a good idea. Isn't it, Georgie?"
"I gotta pooh," he held onto the sink, fighting weakness.
"Stop it. Can't you see you're killing the kid? You've done enough damage." William shoved her, repelled.
"Damage?" she screeched. "I'm the best mother in this building—this whole godless town. Ask anyone." Her bloodshot eyes burned with rage.
William tugged the enema tail loose, setting Georgie down on the toilet. "Best mother? You're sick. I had no idea how sick. What'll I do? You can't continue tormenting this baby. I can't stand it. When did you get all this equipment? It's inhuman. All these things. What do you use... no... I don't want to know. Goddamn inhuman."
"Professor Rosen, from Yale University, said we should take care of..."
"I don't want to hear!" William stormed into the living room, jerking Baby Sister's cassette from the VCR. "You can't do this anymore. This tape's ancient history, Susan."
"So what? I'm not. Millions and millions of people sent dollar bills, William. They sent me toys and cards. Everyone prayed for Baby Sue to live. And those prayers were answered."
He tried calming her, maybe the act would soothe himself as well. "We all wanted you to live. And we do love you—very much."
But the guilt amplified his thoughts. Inside his head he shouted: and I wanted you to get well more than anyone. I wanted a normal sister, not a professional martyr. You thrived on the attention. You drained away my childhood—stole it.
She pinched tracks up her arm. "Everyone loves me. All the doctors and nurses. Everyday they gave me shots and medicine. They always told me how sorry they were when I hurt. Love's just like that," she shrugged.
"No. Love's gentle... kind." At least it's supposed to be, he reassured himself. At least in some fantasy where everyone's beautiful and healthy, love's supposed to come guilt-free. "You were just very sick."
William checked over
his shoulder. Georgie stood, trying to wipe his bruised bottom clean.
"Watch. You'll see how they all wanted me to come home, be with you, Mellie, Mom and Dad," she grabbed for the cassette. "Look, you'll remember."
He smashed the video, bringing down his work boot again, and again. "I don't have to watch. I was there, this is my life too, and I can't stand to look at it anymore. You aren't Baby Sue now. Understand?"
"I passed all their tests. I was a good girl. I'll always be Baby Sue... I deserve to be."
"Well, Georgie deserves better. I'm taking him away, just 'til we figure out what to do."
"I can't let you. I have to care for him—only me." Anxious now, she needed her shot.
"Georgie, bring your mom's medicine," he shouted.
"Pick me up, William, like you used to," she lifted her arms. "Carry me on your shoulders. Up high. Stop being so mean. Sing to me. You always used to sing me that lullaby song."
William led her to the couch. "You're too big for me to carry... all grown up now. Please," he pleaded, crying into her shoulder. "Help me. I can't take care of you and Georgie if you won't help. I can't make everything better."
Georgie held a finger over the I.V. hole punched in his arm. His baby teeth clenching the syringe as he painfully walked to his uncle.
Baby Sue struck her child open-handed. "I don't want to be sleepy. Get that thing away from me!" The needle stuck her palm like a dart in a bullseye.
"Give me your hand," William tried retrieving the syringe but she pounded, ripping at get-well cards papering the wall. She pounded and screamed until the needle punctured through. The silver point glistened between her knuckles.
Then she confided, "I knew you loved me. I knew it. Everyone loves Baby Sue."
And her madness purged the guilt. There was nothing left but to save Georgie.
William scooped his nephew up, "He's coming with me. I told you. You're going back to the hospital." Removing his flannel shirt, William draped it around Georgie's body. "I'll send someone back for you. Don't leave."
She stood, dazed, reading a card from the Henderson family of Seattle. They wished many years of continued good health.
"It'll be alright now. Auntie and I'll take real good care of you," panic and the narrow stairway sapped his breath.
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