Dancing on Broken Glass

by Ka Hancock

  I pulled my robe around me to hide that I hadn’t been eating. “Hi, Lil.”

  She pulled a chair over in front of me and sat down. “How you doin’, sweetie?”

  My eyes filled with tears and I reached over and took her hand. There were no words, so we sat there for a few quiet minutes united in our grief.

  Finally she spoke. “Mickey, I don’t know how to do this.”

  “Me neither, Lil.”

  “I’m worried about you. What can I do?”

  “Lily, your heart is broken, same as mine.”

  “That’s true, Mic. But I’m not hiding.” Her voice broke then and I saw how hard she was fighting back tears. “We all lost Lucy,” she rasped. “You can’t stay here in this room forever. You have a daughter.”

  I shut my eyes.

  “Mickey. Come with me to the nursery. You haven’t even seen her.”

  “I can’t.” I let go of her hand and turned back to the window. Lily tried a little longer to talk me into going with her, but after a while, she gave up and walked out. I was hiding. I knew it, but I didn’t know how to do anything else. Gleason had asked me earlier this morning to describe what I was feeling. I had no language besides heaviness—a leaden sorrow that made movement impossible. Lucy was gone, and I did not know how to move my feet without her.

  I wanted to be dead, but I didn’t even have the strength to pull that off. I closed my eyes and pushed it all away.

  I woke to the insistent prodding of bony fingers and the overwhelming scent of Chanel No. 5—Priscilla. The gentle sister had failed to rouse me, so it was time to bring out the big guns. I rolled over and faced the wall, but still she poked. “I’m not leaving until you get up, Mickey.” Her tone was flat, without life, heartbreakingly sad. I kept myself shut off from her for as long as I could, but Priscilla, too, was stubborn. Finally, I pushed myself upright and leaned against the wall. I must have had a scowl on my grizzled, unshaven face because Lucy’s sister slapped me—slapped me hard across the cheek. “Don’t you dare look at me like that.”

  I would have slapped her back, flattened her, if I could have lifted my arm. “Priscilla, go away.”

  “I’m not leaving. And I have nowhere else to be, so I have all day to give you hell.”

  I expected rage to wind itself through me, but even that took too much to muster. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to get your shoes on and walk up to the nursery with me.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Go to hell, Priscilla.”

  “Maybe later. Right now we’re going up to see your daughter.”

  Priscilla sat down on the bed and leaned her face into mine so close we were almost kissing. “Now you listen to me! You don’t get to play the crazy card, Mickey. Not now. Not when the rest of us don’t have that luxury!” Through clenched teeth she said, “I don’t care about your mental health, or even your grief. We all lost Lucy. We all have to deal with it. Even you! Now get up!”

  She pulled on my arm and I surprised myself by not fighting her. Instead, I sat up, dizzy with the ruin that was my life. I dropped my head into my hands. The raw and throbbing sensation of loss was sitting squarely on my chest, making it hard to breathe. Truth be told, I envied Priscilla’s passion, her energy, her ability to channel everything into anger.

  “Get up,” she said again.

  I looked up at her and we stared at each other for a long time—me drowning in pathos, and her glowering with indignation.

  “I can’t move, Priscilla.”

  “Pretend the building is on fire. Get up.”

  “A fire would be an answer to my prayers.”

  “Oh, cry me a river, Mickey.”

  She was goading me, and all I could do was sit there and look pathetic.

  “Stop it. Stop it right now, Mickey. Quit being pitiful.” Then quieter and with a warble in her voice, she said, “Give someone else a turn.”

  I saw it then, pain just like mine, deep and bottomless, only hers was hanging out and mine was trapped inside. Priscilla realized that I’d seen through her smoke screen and dropped her bitchy pretense with a heavy sigh. She slumped down next to me on the bed and stared at the wall. I reached for her hand.

  “I’m so mean, and I’m so damn tired of being mean,” she whimpered.

  “You are mean.”

  Priscilla started to cry, quiet tears she did nothing to hide as she stared at the wall. I watched her for a minute, then I stared at the wall, too.

  Priscilla did not leave for a long time, and though I would never tell her, I was glad she stayed as long as she did. It was gentle on my pain to be with someone who loved Lucy the way I did. Suddenly I was so hungry for company that even Priscilla was a blessing.

  I sat on the edge of my bed for a long time after she’d gone, until the hospital sounds started to evaporate and the lights were dimmed. I sat there while the unit outside my door grew silent, all the patients having been medicated and sent to bed. Peony poked her head in to check on me. The white of her uniform was neon against the black licorice of her skin.

  “How you doin’, Michael?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I got your p.m. meds here, and a sleeping pill.”

  “Can I take them later?”

  “I guess you could. I’ll come back in an hour.”

  I nodded at her. Peony had not always been as amenable as she was right now. She was usually a barking drill sergeant who could tackle you with one hand tied behind her back. But she’d been completely disarmed by the death of my wife, and neither of us knew how to be with the other. She walked away, and again the night settled on me like a weight. I pulled myself up to standing with great effort, my body a sack of unwieldy cement. I stood there for a minute because I was a little dizzy, probably from my medication, but maybe because I had not eaten anything all day. To get the nurses off my back, I flushed the contents of my tray and hid the apples and oranges that came with every meal in my bottom drawer. I hadn’t eaten for days.

  In the bathroom, I steadied myself against the sink and took some deep breaths, then I brushed my teeth and combed my hair. In the mirror I looked beaten, my eyes sunk deep in their sockets. I needed a shave in the worst way, but I was not allowed my razor, and what was left of my dignity would not permit being babysat as I groomed. I splashed water over my face and felt a little better. Then I walked out of my room.

  At the nurses’ station, I surprised the oncoming shift, and Peony eyed me with concern as her report to the night charge-nurse hung in the air. “You okay, Michael?”

  “I wonder if I could take a walk.”

  “It’s late. Cafeteria’s closed, except for vending machines.”

  “I know.”

  “Let’s just take a look at Dr. Webb’s note. I think you might be on unit restriction.” Peony flipped through my chart and nodded confirmation at me. “Sorry, Michael, maybe tomorrow.”

  “Can I use this phone?” I said, picking it up and keying the numbers I knew by heart.

  “It’s late. If you wake him, it’ll be your hide.”

  I ignored her as Gleason said hello. “Can I go for a walk if I promise not to kill myself?”

  “We’re civilized people, Mickey, we greet each other before we make a request.”

  “Hello, Gleason. Can I go for a walk?”

  “Do I need to worry about where you’re going?”

  “No. I’m okay.”

  “You headed to the fifth floor?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Call me when you get back. Tell me how it went. And let me talk to Peony.”

  “Thanks.” I placed the phone in the nurse’s ready hand.

  Peony buzzed me out of the security door and I headed for the elevator. I meant it when I told Gleason I didn’t know if I was going to the fifth floor. But that’s where I headed. I don’t know why I was so scared, but there it was like a vise around my chest. I got off the elevator but once out, I did not move. The ha
ll was dim and the sign in front of me said NEWBORN ICU and pointed left. I turned left. The shades on the windows of the nursery were drawn, but I didn’t turn back. It was quiet except for two women in scrubs discussing something at the nurses’ station. They paid me no mind. I listened for a baby crying, but I didn’t hear anything. I thought maybe Lily was behind that shade, sitting beside my daughter, but I didn’t have the nerve to find out. I just stood there, my broken heart pounding.

  I don’t know how long I stood there before a doctor, or maybe a nurse, in green scrubs came out of the door marked NBICU. She looked at me as though she knew who I was and walked over to me. “Would you like to come in, Mr. Chandler?”

  Her invitation caused a sudden lump to form in my throat and tears to fill my eyes, and all I could do was shake my head. I stepped away from her like a child refusing a gift just to be obstinate. She laced her hands together.

  “I’m Dr. Sweeny. We met last week.”

  The name was familiar but the face sparked no recognition.

  “I just finished spending some time with your daughter. You sure you don’t want to come in and sit with her?”

  “I don’t think so,” I muttered.

  “Well, maybe later then. Is there anything you’d like to know?”

  “How is she?”

  “She’s still struggling to breathe, and we’re watching her very closely. That’s the big issue with preemies. They’re lazy, but she’s a bit better than she was yesterday. Would you like me to pull the blind so you can see her?”

  I stared blankly at her, but nodded my tacit appreciation.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, disappearing into the intensive care nursery. In a moment the shade was lifted and a bright and busy room shone through the glass. Ellen Sweeny walked to a bassinet and adjusted a minuscule IV bag. She then moved a monitor just slightly to improve my view. The tiny baby was lying in a clear container that reminded me of an acrylic coffin. I drew back and stared at my daughter. She had a lot of black hair from what I could see, and so many wires were attached to her chest that she looked like a discarded marionette. She was the littlest human being I’d ever seen. Scarily small—certainly too small to live—yet her heartbeat was captured on a screen looming above her bed. It was strong and steady, not at all like mine.

  I’d seen her only once, and that was just before her mother died, when I was rushing back to Lucy’s bedside. Then, this little creature looked like the teeny product of the two people who’d made her. Now, she looked like so much more. Like all that was left of all that mattered in the world. I didn’t know what was happening to me as I stood there, unexpectedly grateful and overwhelmed. She was six days old. Her mother had been dead the entirety of her life. I’d had terrible dreams about loathing this infant and had for weeks feared that these were my true feelings. I’d screamed at Lucy for insisting the baby be spared when I only wanted her. I had begged her to have the abortion, and now I hung my head in shame and wept.

  I was so lost in my despair that I did not see Ellen Sweeny come out of the nursery—wasn’t aware of her presence until she touched me softly on the arm.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Chandler?” she asked in the kindest voice.

  For a moment I sobbed, big, heaving sobs that took some effort to compose. But when I got control of my emotions, I asked her if I could go in and meet my daughter.

  After Dr. Sweeny had shown me where to gown up and wash my hands, she pulled a chair close to the warming bassinet where my baby lay. I peered down at her in sheer wonder. Who could imagine a body this small, with bones and fingernails and eyelashes this minute? She looked so fragile, as though to stroke her would tear away her skin. As if reading my thoughts, Dr. Sweeny told me I could, in fact, touch my baby. Actually, she encouraged me. “And while you’re at it, give her a little talking-to.” She smiled and said, “Don’t be afraid of her. She knows who you are.”

  I looked up at this young woman, this insanely young doctor who’d been so kind to me. “She knows me?”

  “Absolutely. It’s remarkable, but it’s true. Even with so many loved ones praying over them, cheering on their tiny accomplishments, they know their parents from the rest of the crowd. It’s innate, I guess.” Ellen Sweeny smiled as she walked away, leaving me alone with my daughter. The pink card taped to the head of her bed said, CHANDLER, GIRL. BORN AT 2:26 PM, 11/19, APPROXIMATELY 34 WEEKS. WEIGHT—3 POUNDS 9 OUNCES. A red mark was crossed through girl, and in its place was written ABIGAIL.

  Abigail. Abby. I could not take my eyes off her, and it boggled my mind that six days ago she’d been inside my Lucy. Aside from her size, she was perfect. I leaned in to inspect the features of her face. A miniature of her mother’s upturned nose, long eyelashes the same dark color as her hair. The tiniest mouth. Seemingly endless tears blurred the scene before me and I let them fall, unashamed. Lucy would have loved her so much. For as long as I’d known my wife, she had wanted to be a mom. For a while, in the beginning, a family had been the plan. But then Lucy got sick, and I kept getting sick, so we’d agreed that babies would not fit into our equation. But that never took away the want.

  That want had only intensified from the moment she knew about this little one. Forget the plan, forget the reasons we were never going to be parents. God was giving us a baby, who were we to argue? Until later, of course, when God abandoned us. I nearly doubled over with the pain of it. But when I dried my eyes, again my baby took away my breath. I watched her sleep, her thin, little chest quivering as she breathed, or tried to. I wanted to touch her, but I was afraid. Twice my hand hovered over her, but I withdrew it, too anxious, too fearful. But then the unthinkable happened and she became very still. I watched in horror as her chest did not rise. At the same instant, the monitor screeched. Without thinking, I reached in and laid my hand on that fragile, little chest. She startled. Instantly a nurse and Dr. Sweeny were at her side, but the monitor had resumed its tracking.

  “What did I tell you?” Ellen Sweeny said. “She’s lazy. Breathing is hard and she doesn’t know she can’t just take a break.” She smiled at me. “You’re a natural.”

  “What?”

  “That’s just what we do,” the nurse said, typing out a notation on the computer. “Just reach in and shake her a little, kick-start her motor.”

  I sighed, certain my thudding heart could be seen through my shirt. My hands were now clenched in my lap, as if they had done a bad thing. I couldn’t quite believe that instinct—a father’s instinct—had led me to respond in exactly the right way.

  “You did good, Dad,” the nurse said as she walked away.

  Dr. Sweeny patted my shoulder. “We’re right over there if you need us.”

  “Thanks,” I said, looking back at my baby. I couldn’t believe she had actually responded to my touch. My gaze floated between the monitor that kept track of her oxygen—not unlike the one that had been in her mother’s room—and her perfect face. I stroked her so-soft cheek with the back of my finger and let it travel down the twig of her outstretched arm to a hand that was no bigger than the button on my suit coat.

  I bent near her. “So, Abby, you need a talking-to, huh? You think you don’t have to work, huh? Well, little one, you better breathe because you’re staying right here with me. No more straddling the space between me and mom.” I heard these words roll out of my mouth in a voice I hardly recognized as my own, and I could not believe the feelings that were swimming through me. This was my daughter, and the only thing that kept her in this world was vigilant overseers who made sure she inhaled. The instant I absorbed that fact, she became utterly essential to me, precious beyond all imagining. If I ever feared I would reject this baby, I had been wrong. My nightmare of not being able to love her vanished in the time it took for my heart to beat one time. But a new sadness quickly filled its place. This premature baby, this born-too-early life, was completely dependent. Because I was agonizingly the most unreliable human being God ever created, Ron and Lily would be her p
arents. The thought stabbed me. But this was the plan. The decision was made. I would not be Abby’s father, I did not have the requisite capabilities. And Lucy knew it. I’d been telling her as much for weeks. But then why this terrible pain?

  “Lucy,” I whispered, “I need you. You can’t leave me here alone.”

  From somewhere deep in my broken heart, I heard Lucy’s voice, clear and familiar, strong and substantial. “You are not alone, my darling.”

  At that moment, I felt a tiny hand wrap itself around the tip of my finger, and my heart stopped. Three pounds of tenuous life clinging to the likes of me. I was a goner from that moment on, and nothing, not even the prospect of losing my wife, had ever frightened me more.

  It’s hard to explain what happened to me after that first night with my daughter. I walked away adoring her, but I knew I didn’t deserve her. To imagine an attachment to Abigail was a fantasy. Nothing had changed. I would live in the house on Chestnut where she could visit but not live. Ron would be her father because he was better qualified to take care of her. These thoughts made me cave in on myself. For days, I refused to see anyone—anyone but the baby. But the night I had found her alone was a fluke—every time since, Lily had been with her, and I could not bring myself to go in. I love Lily, but I just could not bear to see her with my daughter. Acceptance would come with time, but for now I needed space. Gleason shook his head and said things like “You get what you settle for, Michael.”

  I told him I would do what I had done my whole life. I would try like hell to stay on my meds. I would not hide in denial when I was off base. I would try even harder for my daughter, but the truth was I had always tried hard for her mother because I wanted to be my best self for her. Lucy had been my safety net whenever I tripped, and under no circumstances could I ask that of my daughter. So Lily and Ron would be Abby’s parents. That is what I could do for her. That is how much I loved her.

  After days of inner turmoil, the rational part of me acquiesced and fell into a deeper despair. Lucy was gone; the baby was out of my reach. I went to bed and stayed there. I was as depressed as I had ever been. I wanted to die, but I would not kill myself because my daughter would know what I’d done, and that shamed me into clinging to life.