Miracle

by Kimberly Shursen

  MIRACLE

  A paranormal thriller

  Kimberly Shursen

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  The scanning, upload, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property.

  Copyright © 2018 by Kimberly Shursen

  Cover design created by 99Designs

  Cover copyright 2018 © by Kimberly Shursen

  Editor; Jerilyn Dufresne

  Structural Editors: Jerilyn Dufresne and Scott Alexander Jones

  Proofreaders: Pete Boysen and Renee Acard

  Dedicated to Lukas Anthony Damrow

  who played, sang, and babbled beside me as I wrote Miracle

  .

  PREFACE

  Omaha, Nebraska

  1991

  THIS WAS IT.

  Charlie’s husband Clint was beside her, holding her hand. The lower half of her body was numb from the spinal block. A white cloth hung from the ceiling to her waist, blocking her view.

  Whispers… Nurses darting around the hospital room… Her obstetrician shouting orders.

  Twenty-year-old Charlene Abbott hadn’t slept for weeks, knowing the Cesarean was coming up soon.

  “Mr. Abbott,” Dr. Branson said from behind the curtain. “The girls are ready to make their entrance into the world.”

  Charlie and Clint’s eyes locked.

  He squeezed her hand and quickly disappeared so he could watch their babies being born.

  When she heard a soft cry, Charlie’s heart skipped a beat. “Is that my baby?” She raised her head off the pillow.

  “Charlie.” The nurse at the head of the bed put a hand on Charlie’s forehead and gently pushed her head down. “You have to lie very still, remember?”

  A few seconds later, Charlie heard a second wail, their warbled cries musical. “Let me see them.” All she wanted to do was to see her babies, if only for a minute.

  “Sweet Jesus.” She heard Clint murmur something, his voice breaking.

  Light-headed, she rolled her head to the side, searching for him. “Clint?”

  When Charlie saw the Plexiglas crib whisked out the door, she cried, “Stop! I want to see my babies.” But all she heard were more whispers.

  Her vision blurred by tears, Charlie found Clint leaning back against the wall next to the door. His head was bowed and his large hands covered his face.

  “What’s going on?” Charlie asked tearfully, but still no response. Panicked, she shouted, “Will somebody please tell me what’s happening?”

  A few seconds later, Charlie looked up into Clint’s face. He pulled the surgical mask off, and kissed her cheek gently. Stroking her perspiration-soaked hair, he soothed, “Everything’s okay, honey. You need to get some rest.”

  “The girls?” Charlie asked. “Are they okay?”

  He nodded, avoiding her eyes. “They’re fine.”

  Her six-foot, four-inch, two-hundred-and-thirty-pound husband, lovingly wiped Charlie’s eyes with a tissue. His complexion was pale, his eyes rimmed in red. Even though they’d been warned, the shock of seeing the twins for the first time had been overwhelming.

  Early in the pregnancy, Charlie and Clint were told the twins were conjoined: Craniopagus twins, the obstetrician had told them, joined at the head. They’d been devastated. And although Charlie and Clint combed the small town library searching for any information about conjoined twins, how could any parent be prepared to see two tiny beings fused together? They’d been given the option to abort, but the choice was never discussed. God had given them this challenge for a reason.

  Charlie hadn’t been comfortable putting her trust in the only D.O. in the small town of Sheffield, Iowa, and opted to see an obstetrician in Omaha 90 miles west of their hometown.

  Living on a farm on the outskirts of a small community with a population of a little under two thousand, the news that the Abbotts were giving birth to twins that were joined at the head would travel quickly. There was no way Charlie would expose their family to gossip.

  When Dr. Frank Branson finally appeared from behind the curtain, his concerned look went from Charlie to Clint and then back to Charlie. “When the spinal wears off,” he began, “someone will take you to see your baby.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I mean your babies. They are being transported to the neonatal intensive care unit.”

  Terrified of what Branson was going say next Charlie found Clint’s hand.

  “Intensive care?” Clint asked.

  Branson nodded. “Yes.”

  “But what’s wrong with—”

  “One of the babies is small,” Branson interrupted. “We had to stimulate her to start breathing.”

  “But she’s going to be all right?” Charlie clutched Clint’s callused hand tighter.

  “We just want to keep an eye on them.” Branson turned and started for the door. “We’ll chat later today.”

  Why was he being so vague? Charlie looked up at Clint. “I don’t like this.”

  “I’m sure it’s just a precaution.” He took off the surgical hat, his dark hair falling over his forehead. “Try not to worry. They’ll be okay.”

  After the nurses cleaned her up, and changed Charlie into a clean gown, she asked Clint, “You saw them, right?”

  When he didn’t answer, she felt her blood pressure rise. “Damn it, will you please talk to me?”

  “Yes, I saw them,” He answered flatly, again, avoiding her eyes.

  “Did you cut the cords?”

  “I didn’t feel comfortable.”

  She wanted to ask him why he didn’t do what he’d promised, but held her tongue. “Do they look alike? Are they—”

  “I didn’t see much.” Clint cut her off. “Like the doctor said, one of the babies is bigger than the other one.”

  Charlie’s heart sank. Clint had always been a quiet man, but today his silence cut her to the core. She’d failed her best friend, and wasn’t able to give him the perfect children they both wanted. This should be one of the happiest days in their lives, and yet the tension was almost too much to bear.

  After Charlie settled in, and was given a pain pill and ice chips, she and Clint were left alone.

  The small room had a hospital bed, small couch, and overstuffed lounge chair that Clint had pulled up next to Charlie’s bed. The blinds were closed over a window that overlooked the parking lot.

  She started to get up, but Clint put a hand on her shoulder. “Supposed to lay flat for a few more hours.” He shook his head. “No cheating.”

  “Can you bring me my purse?” She glanced at the built-in drawers along one wall. “I need my lip balm. My lips are so dry.”

  Clint found her purse in the bottom drawer and pulled out the tube of emollient.

  “Thanks. Oh, and I need my compact.”

  “Compact?”

  “Round. Shiny. I want to see myself.”

  “Why?”

  “Clint, please.”

  After Clint found it, he handed it to Charlie.

  “Oh, God.” Her hazel eyes were puffy and swollen and her cheeks blotchy. She moved the mirror up to the top of her head and saw her long hair was a mass of tangles. “I’m a train wreck.”

  Clint grabbed the compact from her, and dropped it back into her purse. “You’re beautiful.” He leaned over Charlie and brushed his lips over hers. “Always.”

  She wanted to ask him more about the girls, but didn’t want to push him. As Clint caressed her cheek, despite Charlie trying to fight the effects of the pain pill, she drifted off.

  When Charlie blinked open her eyes, the room was dark, and it took a few seconds before she remembered where she was. Her lo
wer back felt like a thousand pin pricks going through it, but there was no way she was taking any more pills until she saw her girls. After she glanced at the white-faced clock on the wall and saw it was almost eight. “Clint?” she asked, but there was no answer.

  The babies were born a little after three. She’d waited long enough, patted the mattress on either side of her, found the remote, and pressed the call button.

  “Yes, Mrs. Abbott, can I get you something?” a sweet voice asked through the speaker.

  “I want to see my babies.”

  “Let me check with your doctor,” the nurse replied.

  “With, or without, your help,” Charlie responded adamantly, “I’m going to see my babies now.”

  “Charlie?” She heard, gasped and slapped a hand over her chest. As Clint walked closer to the bed, she let out her breath. “You scared me to death.”

  “Why don’t you wait until you’re a little stronger before you see them?” Clint took off his baseball cap, ran a hand over his hair and put the hat back on. The nervous habit was something he’d done for as far back as Charlie could remember.

  Clint looked as if he’d been on a three-day binge with the dark stubble of whiskers on his cheeks and chin, and dark circles underneath his blue eyes. He was going through hell, and holding pain inside.

  “I’m going to see my girls. I’ve waited almost nine months to meet them.”

  Clint was quiet as the nurse helped Charlie into a wheel chair, pushed her out the door, and down the hallway.

  Charlie’s mom wanted to be here when her first grandchildren were born, but Charlie had convinced her that she’d need her more when they came home.

  The pictures of conjoined twins Charlie found in the library had made her queasy. No one needed to pity her babies. They’d only have to wait a few months before the twins were separated.

  With Clint following, they took the elevator up to the fourth floor. Every corner they turned, every person and ward they passed, Charlie’s anxiety increased. It seemed hours, not minutes, before they stopped in front of the ward with “NICU” above the doors.

  The nurse leaned close to the intercom on the wall. “The Abbotts are here.” A short buzz went off and the double doors slowly began to part.

  Her stomach tied into knots, Charlie glanced into rooms and saw parents cradling their newborns and nurses wearing blue or pink smocks scurried past carrying bottles, diapers, or blankets. A physician stood outside a room whispering to a couple.

  When they reached the U-shaped nurses’ station, a pretty young woman stood and flashed Charlie and Clint a smile.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Abbott?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Charlie answered.

  “My name is Tracy, and I’m taking care of your twins today.” She came toward them holding two thick pink rubber bands. “You’ll need to wear these on your wrists so we know you belong here.” She handed a wristlet to Charlie and then Clint. “I’ll take you to see your sweet girls.” The nurse went behind Charlie’s wheelchair.

  Suddenly everything started to spin. Charlie had thought she was prepared for this day, but a part of her wasn’t ready to face reality.

  It felt as if time stood still until they reached the last room on the right. By the time the nurse turned into a dimly lit room, Charlie was sick toher stomach.

  When she turned toward the crib, all she could make out, however, were four tiny, intertwined feet. “Could you push me closer?”

  When Tracy pushed her up to the incubator, Charlie felt like she couldn’t breathe. Just like in the pictures she’d seen, their miniature heads were joined. They looked like one baby with two heads and four arms. The top of the smaller child’s head was nestled into her sister’s neck.

  It only took a few seconds before her fear was replaced by an overwhelming feeling of love. These babies were the product of Charlie and Clint’s love for each other. Charlie covered her mouth to stifle her cries of joy as tears trickled down her cheeks.

  Her eyes moved slowly over her children. One of the twins had a mass of thick, dark hair like Clint’s and both had Charlie’s stubby toes.

  Just like Dr. Branson had told them, one of the babies was larger, her complexion milky white. The smaller child’s skin looked thin and transparent and her sunken chest rose and fell twice as fast as her sister’s as if struggling to breathe. Mesmerized, she watched as one baby moved in slow motion as the other infant shifted with her.

  God, they were so precious and so helpless. Charlie’s heart was breaking. Why? Why were her children cursed with being conjoined? She’d asked herself this question a million times, but had to believe that there was a reason.

  When she felt Clint’s strong hand on her shoulder, Charlie covered his hand with hers.

  “How long do you think they’ll be here?” Clint asked the nurse. “In the hospital?”

  “It’s up to your girls." Tracy smiled. "Your little one needs to put on more weight, and her lungs need to get stronger.”

  “Is she still having difficulty breathing?” Charlie asked.

  “I read on the chart she needed a little help when she arrived,” Tracy responded. “We just want to make sure she’s healthy when you take her home.”

  “But why are they both on oxygen?” Charlie asked.

  “Twins are unique in that they sometimes feel what the other one is experiencing. We just didn’t want them both to have problems breathing.” When the high pitch of a beeper went off, Tracy reached into her pocket, quickly turned it off, and stood. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I thought identical twins would be the same weight,” Charlie said before Tracy left.

  “It’s more common for them to not be the same weight. Even though identical genetically, each baby has an amniotic sack and develop at their own rate,” Tracy answered standing in the open door. “One baby is usually in a better position in the womb to receive nourishment. I’ll be right back to answer any more questions. Not to worry, however. Your children are in good hands.”

  Charlie’s eyes went to the monitors on a shelf above the incubator flashing green and red lights. The tubes from the oxygen tanks led into the button noses. The tiny needles that were inserted into the crooks of their matchstick-like arms led to a bag of clear liquid and were attached to tall poles.

  When an arm rolled out to the side, a palm slowly opened that was no bigger than a quarter. Sweet babies, Charlie thought as warm tears followed one right after another down her face. Sweet, innocent, precious babies.

  “Clint?” Charlie turned her head and found him sitting on the couch looking down at his clasped hands. “You okay with calling them Miracle and Faith like we talked about?”

  Clint nodded. “Yes.”

  She couldn’t take her eyes off them. She watched as the smaller baby opened her rosebud mouth, her face wrinkling up into a tight ball as if she wanted to tell Charlie something.

  “Everything’s going to be okay, sweetheart,” she leaned close to the crib and whispered. “Mommy’s here.”

  The next morning, Charlie moved her things into the NICU. Clint needed to get back to the farm. For the next two days and nights, she never left Miracle and Faith. The vitals were good, Charlie was told, and they were progressing.

  On the third night she was so exhausted that she could hardly keep her eyes open. Knowing that a suite was available for parents who were staying at the hospital from out of town Charlie told the nurse she was going to catch some sleep and be back in a couple of hours.

  “You take as much time as you need,” the middle-aged nurse with kind eyes told her. “I’ll take good care of them.”

  Hesitant to leave, she knew if she didn’t get some rest, she wouldn’t be any good to anyone. The couch in the room was uncomfortable, the hallways noisy all night, and her stitches were starting to itch, driving her crazy.

  Two floors up, she stumbled into a suite with a bed, shower, and television that sat on top of a dresser. After a quick warm shower, she changed into a
nightgown and slid under a clean white sheet.

  When the phone rang, it jolted her out of a deep sleep. “Hello?” Her mind was fuzzy and she couldn't think.

  “Mrs. Abbott?”

  Recognizing the nurse’s voice, she yanked the covers off and sat up. “Yes.” She glanced at the red numbers on the alarm clock and saw that it was a little after two in the morning. Something was wrong. “Are the twins okay?”

  “There’s been a complication.”

  Trembling, Charlie slammed her bare feet down on the carpet and switched on the lamp on the bedside table. “What kind of complication?”

  “The doctor would like to speak with you.”

  “I’ll be right there.” She hung up, pulled her nightgown over her head, and pulled on jeans and a t-shirt. What was going on?

  Her heart was racing when she threw open the door and somehow caught her balance before stumbling over the threshold. The girls had been fine when she left them.

  Sprinting down the hallway to the elevator, she pressed the button. “Come on, come on!”

  Noticing the exit sign, Charlie flew down the stairwell, not feeling her tennis shoes touch the stairs.

  When she reached the NICU, she slammed a hand over the intercom button. “It’s Charlie Abbott.”

  The doors started to part, but didn’t move fast enough so Charlie wedged herself through the opening. She ran down the hall and came to an abrupt halt at the nurses’ station. “What’s going on?” she asked, out of breath.

  “I’ll call the surgeon,” the nurse told her and picked up the phone, her concerned expression telling Charlie that the complication was serious.

  Her heart pounding, what did she mean surgeon? She started to jog down the hallway toward the babies’ room.

  “They’re not there.” Charlie heard.

  Panicked, she whirled around. “Where are they? Where did you take my babies?”

  “Shhh,” the nurse said, raising an eyebrow. Walking to Charlie, she said, “They’re being prepped for surgery. The doctor will be here soon.”