The Life List (33 page)

I lower the bedrail and reposition the cords and tubes connected to her hands and chest. She feels almost weightless as I carefully slide her to one side of the bed. Then, inching my way ever so cautiously, I climb in beside her.

As tenderly as if she were made of crystal, I fold her into my arms. I smell ammonia again, heavier this time. Uremia. Is her body shutting down? Please, God, no! Not now.

I wrap the blankets tighter around her delicate frame. Her entire body trembles, as if she were electrified. I hold her close against my chest, hoping she’ll capture the heat of my body. With my cheek resting on her head, I rock her, and softly sing my favorite lullaby against her ear.

“Somewhere … over the rainbow …”

I hope she doesn’t notice the quiver in my voice, or how I have to stop every few words to dislodge the knot in my throat. Midway through the song, her quaking body settles into stillness. I stop rocking, suddenly seized with panic. But then I hear a voice, so hoarse and faint it’s barely audible.

“Baby.”

I gaze down at her, past a bald patch she’d scratched raw, and force my lips into a smile.

“Just wait until you see her, Sanquita. She’s tiny, not much bigger than my hand, but she has a strong will, just like her mommy. You can see it even now. And she’s got your pretty long fingers.”

A single tear trails down her bloated face. My heart shatters.

I dab her cheek with the cotton sheet. “The nurses are taking great care of her until you get stronger.”

“Won’t … get … stronger,” she whispers.

“Stop!” I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. I
can’t let her know how scared I am. “You’ve got to fight, Sanquita! Your baby is depending on you.”

With what seems to be Herculean strength, she lifts her face to mine. “You. Take … my baby. Please.”

I swallow hard. “I won’t need to. You’re going to get better.”

She glares at me, her eyes wild with desperation. “Please!”

A sob racks my body. I no longer try to hide it from her. She knows her fate. And she needs to know her baby’s.

“I will take your baby,” I tell her, choking on my sobs. “I’ll make sure she has a wonderful life. We’ll talk about you every day.” I cover my mouth and a moan escapes me. “I’ll tell her how smart you were … how hard you worked.”

“Loved … her.”

I close my eyes and nod until I can finally speak again. “I’ll tell her you loved her more than life itself.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

S
anquita’s funeral is a poor reflection of her courageous young life. She’s buried in her gold cap and gown at Oak Woods Cemetery three days after her daughter’s birth, surrounded by her friends from Joshua House, Jean Anderson, two teachers, and Herbert and me. Standing graveside, Jean’s pastor prays over the coffin and gives an impersonal eulogy to the girl he never met. Afterward, the group splinters, Jean rushing back to Joshua House, the teachers back to their jobs. I watch Tanya, Julonia, and the rest of the women walk up the grassy hill toward East 67th Street to catch the bus. Tanya lights a cigarette, takes a long drag, and passes it to Julonia.

That’s it. It’s over. Sanquita Bell’s eighteen years of life are now a memory, a memory that will fade a bit each day. The thought makes me shudder.

Herbert looks over at me. “Are you okay, love?”

“I need to get to the hospital.” I reach for my seat belt, but he grabs my hand.

“You’re running yourself ragged, between work and the hospital. I’ve barely seen you this week.”

“Austin needs me.”

He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it. “Sweetheart, Austin is getting all the care she needs. Take a break today. Let me take you out for a nice dinner.”

He’s right. Austin probably wouldn’t miss me. But the fact is, I’d miss her. I look into his eyes hoping he’ll understand. “I can’t.”

Of course, he does. Without so much as a sigh of frustration, he slides the car into gear and heads to the hospital.

I
rush to Austin’s isolette, expecting to see the blue lights I’ve grown accustomed to. Instead, her blindfolds are off and the blue lights have vanished. She lies curled up on her stomach, her head on its side. Her eyes are open. I squat down and peer in at her.

“Hello, little one,” I say. “You look so pretty.”

Nurse LaDonna comes up beside me. “Her blood levels have normalized. No more bili lights! Would you like to hold her?”

For the past two days, while she’s been under the lights, I’ve put my hands inside the isolette to rub her skin, but I’ve not yet held her.

“Uh, sure,” I say. “If it’s okay. I don’t want to hurt her.”

LaDonna chuckles. “You’ll do fine. She’s more resilient than you think, and she needs human touch right now.”

The nurses have been especially kind to me since Sanquita’s death. They know of my plans to adopt Austin, and I’m treated like a new mom now, rather than a visitor. But unlike the bright-eyed, confident new mothers I see around me, I feel clumsy and unprepared. Sanquita trusted me with her only child. The welfare
of this rumpled little alien rests squarely on my shoulders. But what if I fail her, the same way I failed Peter Madison?

LaDonna raises the lid of the isolette and cradles Austin in her hands while adjusting the wires, the nasal feeding tube, and the CPAP mask. She repositions the photo I’ve placed in Austin’s isolette—Sanquita’s high school ID—and grabs a blanket. She wraps Austin into a tight little bundle. “Babies like to be swaddled,” she tells me, and hands me the tiny papoose.

Austin feels almost weightless. She’s lost two ounces since her birth, which LaDonna tells me is normal, but I can’t help but worry. Unlike healthy babies, Austin has no weight to spare. I position her in the crook of my arm and she’s practically lost. Her forehead scrunches, but because of the CPAP covering her mouth and nose, her cry is muted.

“She’s crying.” I hold the bundle out to LaDonna, wishing she’d take Austin back. But she doesn’t. I jostle Austin and hold her closer, but the heartbreaking, silent whimper continues. “What am I doing wrong?”

“She’s been fussy all day.” LaDonna taps her chin with an index finger. “You know what I think?”

“Uh, that I suck at mothering?”

She bats a hand at me and shakes her head. “No! You’ll be a fine mother. I think Austin needs some Kangarooing.”

“Exactly what I thought!” I shake my head at her. “C’mon, LaDonna, you’re talking to a newbie here … and I don’t mean Austin. What the heck is Kangarooing?”

She laughs. “Kangaroo Care is skin-to-skin contact between the mother and the preemie, like a baby kangaroo in its mother’s pouch. These babies need physical contact to bond, but studies also show that holding a preemie against her mother’s chest stabilizes her respiratory and heart rates. It conserves calories so the baby gains more weight, and it even regulates her body temperature. The mother’s body acts as the incubator.”

“Really?”

“Yes. The mother’s breasts actually change temperature in response to the baby’s body temperature. Babies are more content, less apt to have apnea, all sorts of good things. Would you like to try it?”

“But I’m not the mother … the biological mother.”

“All the more reason to strengthen the bond. I’ll pull up some screens so you two can have your privacy. While I get them, you unswaddle Austin. Take everything off her except her diaper. Would you like me to get you a hospital gown, or would you prefer to unbutton your blouse?”

“Um … I’ll just unbutton my blouse, I guess. Are you sure this works if it’s not the real mother? I’d hate to have her catch cold because I wasn’t able to properly Kangaroo.”

LaDonna laughs. “It’ll work.” She cocks her head, serious now. “And Brett, remember how you asked me not to call Austin
Baby Girl
?”

“Yes.”

“Will you please stop saying you’re not the mother?”

I suck in a breath and nod. “Fair enough.”

I
lie in a reclining chair, surrounded by privacy screens. I’ve unbuttoned my blouse and taken off my bra. LaDonna positions Austin on my chest, the mound of my left breast serving as a cushion. Her downy hair tickles my skin, and I flinch. LaDonna settles a blanket over the baby.

“Enjoy,” she says, and disappears behind the screen.

Wait
, I want to call to her.
How long am I supposed to do this? Could you get me a book maybe, or even a magazine?

I let out a sigh. Carefully, I slip my hand under the blanket and land on Austin’s naked back. It’s as soft as butter. I feel the rapid rise and fall of her breathing. Looking down I see her fine black
hair. Her face, in profile, is no longer contorted in her silent wail. Her eyes blink, telling me she’s awake.

“Hello, Austin,” I say. “Are you feeling sad today, sweet pea? I’m so sorry your mommy died. We loved her so much, didn’t we?”

She blinks, as if she’s listening to me.

“I’m going to be your mommy now,” I whisper. “I’m new at this, so you’re going to have to cut me some slack, okay?”

Austin stares straight ahead.

“I’m going to make some mistakes, you might as well know that now. But I promise you, I’ll do everything in my power to make your life safe, and sweet, and happy, and good.”

Austin snuggles into my neck. I laugh softly and rub my cheek against her fuzzy head. “I’m so proud that you’re my daughter.”

Her breathing slows and her eyes fall shut. I stare at this amazing gift, and I’m overcome with a love so raw, so instinctual, that it takes my breath away.

In no time, LaDonna peers around the screen. “Visiting hours are almost over,” she whispers.

I glance at the clock on the wall. “Already?”

“You’ve been in here almost three hours.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Austin looks content now … and so do you. How did it go?”

“It was …” I kiss the top of Austin’s head and search for the adjective. “Magical.”

As I lay Austin in her isolette and kiss her good night, I spy Sanquita’s plastic school ID—the only picture Jean could find of her. I prop the photo against Austin’s isolette, directly in her line of vision. I make a mental note to bring another picture tomorrow.

This one of me.

——

T
hough my rational brain knows any warm body would have produced the same results, it’s almost spiritual, watching Austin’s transformation. After only seven days of the skin-to-skin Kangaroo Care, she’s graduated from the CPAP to a nasal tube. I can finally see her pretty bowed lips and nuzzle her without the clunky plastic mask interfering. Since her birth nine days ago, she’s gained back the weight she lost, along with another two ounces, and she’s looking less and less like a little alien.

It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, and I dash through the hospital parking lot, my cell phone at my ear. Every day since Austin’s birth, I wake before dawn, arriving at my office before seven. I work through my lunch hour, and finish my last appointment by two thirty. This allows me four glorious hours to spend with Austin.

“This Kangarooing is a miracle,” I tell Shelley on the telephone. “Austin’s close to breathing on her own. And she’s trying so hard to coordinate her sucking, swallowing, and breathing. She’s almost got it, and then they’ll wean her off the IV and feeding tube. She’s so adorable, Shel. I can’t wait for you to meet her. You’ve gotten the pictures I’ve sent, right?”

Shelley laughs. “Yes. She’s darling. My God, Brett, you really sound like a mom.”

I throw open the hospital door. “Yeah, well, let’s hope I don’t screw up the poor kid with all my fears and insecurities and neuroses.”

“Good point. Here’s hoping.”

We share a laugh. “Listen, I’m here now. Give the kids my love. Tell Jay hello.”

I thrust my phone into my pocket and make my way to the elevators. I smile, wondering what little surprise awaits us today. So far Herbert hasn’t missed a day. Because he’s not allowed to visit, he sends packages to the nurses’ station, addressed to Austin and me. It’s become quite the event, with the nurses, and even
some of the other new mothers, huddled around to watch me unwrap Herbert’s latest offering. I think they look forward to the surprises more than I do. LaDonna adores the silver key fob, hand-engraved with Austin’s birth date. I love it, too, but my favorite was yesterday’s picture of Austin and me. He printed two copies of a photo I’d sent him, and framed each one. My silver frame reads
MOTHER AND CHILD
, and Austin’s pink-and-white frame says
MOMMY AND ME
.

But when I arrive today, it seems that the fifth floor has received a surprise of its own. Up ahead I see a woman, surrounded by LaDonna, Maureen, and a security guard. They’re huddled just outside the locked entrance to the NICU. The woman’s long yellow hair has the texture of late-August hay, and even with the bulk of a faux-fur coat she looks almost skeletal.

“I ain’t going nowhere.” Her words are slurred, and she wobbles on red heels. “I got a right to see my grandbaby.”

Oh, dear, the poor woman must be drunk. How sad for her daughter and her grandbaby. LaDonna catches sight of me and gives me a sharp look of warning. I slow my pace and turn around, but the sounds of the scuffle trail me.