* * *
Miriam walked her mother to her car and then headed to the NICU, where she found a window at one corner where she could look in. Tucked between cribs and plexiglass boxes, Dayana sat in a chair with her shirt partly unbuttoned and her granddaughter nestled against her skin. The baby had a tube in her nose, but the blanket wrapped around her hid any other medical attachments.
Miriam tapped on the window. It took a couple of tries to get Dayana’s attention. “Five minutes,” Dayana mouthed, holding up one hand, fingers extended, for extra clarity.
When Dayana joined her, she said, “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
“Me too.” Miriam winced. “Sorry.”
Dayana cocked her head, like a shrug. “Well, you came back, and that’s what counts.” She stared at her granddaughter through the window and then said, “Dicey told me she planned to ask you something … important.”
“To be Baby Girl’s godmother.”
Dayana nodded. She looked sad. It had to be hard, giving someone else a piece of your child when the piece you had was already too small. “I need you to tell me something, and I know it’s not my right to ask, but …”
Miriam waited.
“We were so close when she was small, you know. You couldn’t separate us. She’s been out of the house now, so I know what it’s like to live without her right there by me. But even so …” Dayana swallowed. “I need you to tell me what it’s like to lose a daughter. What I need to know.”
Miriam shuddered. “Dayana, you can’t think about that right now.”
“I’ve been thinking about that since the day my girl was diagnosed. It’s not a question of if. It’s just a matter of when. We’ve been on borrowed time for years.”
Miriam cupped her elbows in her palms. What she wanted to say sounded horrible, even in her mind. “Does it make me a terrible person if I say I almost envy you? Having had it in front of you your whole life, reminding you to savor every moment and not waste time looking over your shoulder.”
Dayana fixed a penetrating gaze on Miriam. “If anybody else said that, I’d punch her in the face. But I guess you know what you’re talking about.” The braided bun wasn’t as tight as Miriam had thought; the plaits bounced as she tossed her head. “Yeah, I guess when you got a child sick for years, you got a long time to prepare.”
“But that doesn’t mean you’re ready.” Miriam reached out and tentatively rubbed Dayana’s back. “You’re never ready.” The view blurred. She waited until she could speak. “It’s awful,” she said. “Like a part of you died. Because it did.” Through the window, she watched the nurses move around the cribs, changing a diaper, changing an IV bag. “And there are so many things I wish I’d resolved when I had the chance. Questions I’ll never know the answers to.”
It would be so easy to give in. To wallow. But right now, what mattered was Dicey, her baby, and the impossibly strong woman standing beside her.
She touched Dayana’s elbow. “Thank you for sharing your daughter with me. She’s been a gift to me. Every moment.”
Dayana looked at her and swallowed three times in quick succession. She nodded with a small smile.
The women stood in silence, looking in the nursery window like fellow warriors in a battle no one wanted to fight anymore. At length, Dayana turned to her with a hand outstretched. “I’m gonna need your help, Miriam. I got two of them here. I can’t have Baby Girl’s godmother running away. I want your word.”
Miriam grasped the proffered hand. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said.
44
Tuesday, May 10
Albuquerque, New Mexico
TIME MOVED DIFFERENTLY IN a hospital. Everything took longer than it should. The ebb and flow of crises and the erratic appearances of the doctors stood in contrast to the maddening predictability of nurse check-ins and meds administered at precise intervals. Every moment dragged, yet the clock swallowed two whole days without the passage of time really registering—because nothing in Dicey’s condition changed. She lay sedated, inert, except when a coughing fit took her and the room filled with alarms and ICU staff. No amount of staring at the numbers on the monitor could force them to move upward.
Miriam and Dayana traded off sitting with Baby Girl and Dicey, catching snatches of sleep in the vinyl chair in the corner of the ICU, sending updates by text message and phoning the other in whenever the doctors visited. Dayana embarked on a campaign to have the baby brought to Dicey for skin-to-skin time. Miriam was certain she had zero chance of winning that battle, and she was astonished at the older woman’s nerve. But after watching a couple of interactions, she found herself more astonished the staff hadn’t capitulated on the spot.
“That’s not my call to make,” said the resident on duty the third time she asked.
“Well, whose call is it? Your attending? The unit manager? How about you stop stalling and call him in here? I know you’re all hoping if you just put me off, I’ll go away. But let me tell you, I’m an ICU nurse and the mother of a woman with cystic fibrosis. I’ve spent more time inside an ICU than all of you put together. I’m not going anywhere.”
When the resident retreated, stumbling over his apologies, Dayana turned to Miriam, her eyes crinkling above the paper mask. “Time to talk to the ones with the real power,” she said.
Miriam began to see where the strength of Dicey’s personality had come from. “The unit manager?” she asked.
“Uh-uh. The nurses.”
Tuesday morning, Dicey’s brothers began arriving, one by one, to boisterous claps on the back and loud greetings cloaked in laughter. The family set up camp in the lounge outside the ICU and began rotating in and out, ordering pizza and sandwiches and Danishes, depending on the time of day. It was clearly a well-rehearsed maneuver.
Miriam laughed until she cried to hear the family’s stories—like Dicey, age three, riding the meanest dog in the neighborhood as if it were a horse.
“No change overnight,” said the doctor who came Wednesday morning to deliver the update. “She’s holding steady, but we’d hoped to see more improvement.”
“Maybe you should listen to me, then,” said Dayana. “My baby needs her baby.”
“We’re still working on that permission, Ms. Porter.”
“Well, work harder.”
“You’ve got to understand, it’s hospital policy. Babies in the NICU—”
“Can travel with a NICU team.”
The doctor blew out a breath and put his hands up. “I’ll check.”
“Thank you.”
The team left. The last one out of the room was the social worker who had been their liaison all week. She whispered to Dayana and hurried off after the team.
The lounge felt oppressive, as if all the air had been sucked out of it. Miriam chewed on her lip. The family was uncharacteristically silent.
Then Dicey’s oldest brother, Derrick, leaned over the arm of his chair toward Miriam. “She’s gonna pull through this, you know,” he said softly.
Miriam looked up, surprised. She didn’t see how he could speak with such certainty.
Derrick smiled at her confusion. “I know it all sounds terrible, but Dicey’s been through worse, believe me. We’ve had the funeral home on standby a couple times. And she’s got that baby to live for now.”
Miriam opened her eyes, staring at him with a question on her lips she dared not speak.
“I know,” he said. “It’s gonna get her eventually. But I know my sister, and I’m telling you, she’s not going anywhere when she just had a baby.”
The silence felt a little less oppressive now. Miriam glanced around the room, seeing the way the rest of the family had begun to relax and crack jokes again. He hadn’t delivered that speech for her benefit, but for his siblings’, she realized. She looked up and caught his eye. He winked, and she smiled.
“Speaking of the baby, nobody’s talking about a name,” said Dwight—brother number three, Miriam recalled. �
�What are we gonna name her?”
Miriam waited for Dayana to take the lead—surely Dicey had shared her thoughts with her mother—but no one answered him. “Deandra,” Miriam said at last.
Everyone looked at her.
“That’s what she was thinking when I asked her. Something strong, she said. It means ‘divine protector.’ And it … you know. It keeps the D’s going.”
They regarded her with surprise. “You got her to answer that question without ripping a new hole in your ass?” said Devon, the youngest of the boys.
Everyone laughed. Then silence fell again as the social worker walked back into the lounge.
She was smiling. “They’ve signed off,” she said. “They’re working on a plan to bring the baby up.”
The whole room burst into cheers and a round of backslapping and soft-drink toasts.
“See?” Derrick said, nudging Miriam with his elbow before knocking back his Dr. Pepper like a shot. “Told you. It’s gonna be okay.”
* * *
True to form, it took the hospital until noon on Wednesday to figure out how to bring Baby Deandra to Dicey’s ICU room. Miriam waited in the lounge with Dicey’s brothers for news from Dayana, the only one allowed in the room. It came in the form of a photo of the baby nuzzled against Dicey’s chest.
Miriam tried not to expect a miracle, but Dayana’s unshakable conviction about the benefits of mother–baby togetherness made realism hard.
But evening rounds brought better news: for the first time, the team was “cautiously optimistic.” Miriam had been hoping for something slightly more dramatic, but the family assured her that starting to wean Dicey from sedation was a big deal. And the news on Baby Deandra was much better. Her heart rate, breathing rate, and body temperature were all more stable than they had been before.
Miriam and Derrick had the three-to-six AM shift into Thursday morning. Miriam sat silently, watching the numbers on the monitor as Derrick whispered in his sister’s ear. The numbers were definitely better than yesterday. Not an instantaneous healing, but still—motherhood was a miraculous thing. A mother who wasn’t even awake and a baby who couldn’t hear her mother’s voice. Both healing just by having snuggled together.
Miriam sat in stillness, listening to the sound of the hospital, the rumble in the walls, the hiss of air, and the muted blips and beeps that had grown so familiar they echoed in her dreams as well as her waking hours.
She woke when her phone buzzed. She pulled it out. “Brad?” she asked blankly.
“Hi. Mom says you’re in Albuquerque?”
“Yes.” Miriam hadn’t updated the app because she’d had neither the energy nor the desire. Besides, the only stories she could tell weren’t hers to tell. She rubbed her eyes and looked at Derrick, who was passed out in the chair on the opposite side of the bed. “Brad,” she said again.
“Yeah?”
“This is the second time you’ve called me at five in the morning your time.”
“Um, yeah. Sorry about that.”
“I’m not worried about me. I’m up. But this is not like you.”
“Yeah, I know. I … what’s up with this guy who’s been commenting on your social media posts? The film composer guy.”
Miriam stilled. “Gus has been commenting?”
“You haven’t seen it?”
“I haven’t been checking my feeds.”
“He’s kind of obsessed with Blaise’s music. And he’s … weirdly personal.” His tone changed then as he backpedaled hastily. “Never mind, just forget it, I shouldn’t have called. It’s not important right now.”
But it was important. It was the last piece of unfinished business.
Miriam sat up and rubbed her itching eyes. “What’s he saying?”
Brad cleared his throat. “Well, for the past couple days, he’s been talking about Blaise’s music and asking you to call him. Here. He says, “I woke up with Blaise’s music in my head. I could hear the whole thing for one glorious moment, but I need the original if I am going to do it justice. Please contact me. I’m so sorry. Please believe me.”
Miriam shook her head, sighing.
“There are more like that,” Brad said. “But today, it’s just … weird. It’s just one word. I don’t even know how to pronounce it. I guess it’s a name. Pia … P-i-a-z-z—”
“Piazzolla,” Miriam said, and sagged back in her chair.
Gus knew.
“Who’s Piazzolla?” Brad asked.
“A composer.” Which explained nothing. She tried again. “That was what I played the night he finally noticed me.”
The connection went silent for a long moment. “Is he the kids’ father?”
Miriam gaped. “How did—?”
“He looks like Blaise.” Something rustled in the background. “I, um … he was weirding me out, so I went and looked him up. It took a while to place. And then I remembered. You mentioned him once, when I called you on your birthday. You wouldn’t say anything about him, but I could tell it was important to you. And then you just went radio silent, and next thing I know, you’re married to your best friend that you claimed not to think of like that.”
The knowledge of how fragile her secret was made her feel slightly queasy. “Does everyone know?”
“No. I didn’t even know for sure until just now.” A hesitation. “Are you gonna tell him?”
“I’ve been trying to decide ever since he first contacted me,” she said. “But now I think I have to. I mean, he’s in San Francisco. I have no excuse not to …”
“I’ll drive up to be with you.”
The tears in her eyes had nothing to do with grief. “Thanks, Brad,” she said softly, “but you have your own life. I have to do this myself.”
Her brother blew out a breath through his nose. “Just let me know, Mira.”
“I will.”
She disconnected and let her hand drop … and realized she was looking into Dicey’s eyes.
She scrambled to her feet, rushing to the head of the bed. “Dicey?”
Dicey’s voice sounded far away, indistinct and muffled by the BiPAP. She moved her arm, her slim finger pointing. Miriam looked all over, trying to figure out what she was pointing at. Then Dicey nudged her hand—the hand that held her phone.
“I’m sorry it woke you,” she said softly, stealing a glance at Derrick, wondering if she should wake him.
Dicey nudged the phone again.
“You want your phone?”
Another nudge. Miriam extended the phone to her. Dicey swirled her hand. Miriam took a wild guess and unlocked it. Dicey mimed typing.
“Oh!” She opened her note app, and Dicey began to type, slowly.
Sorry
“Sorry for what?”
Didn’t tell you
“You don’t need to apologize.” It was the socially acceptable response, but not the most honest one. Miriam winced and shrugged. “Still. Thank you.”
Dicey’s eyes crinkled, a telltale sign of a smile Miriam couldn’t see. She typed again.
Everyone treats you different bc your family is dead. That’s like cf.
She looked at Miriam, her eyes craving understanding.
Miriam nodded. “That’s why you didn’t tell me.” She hesitated, then pulled up the picture Dayana had sent last night: a tiny body, kangarooed in the hollow of Dicey’s throat. “Did you know Deandra came to see you?”
Tears welled up and overflowed. Dicey shook her head.
“She’s perfect. Derrick said you’d hang around for her sake. I guess he was right, huh?” Miriam glanced over at the tall man, legs splayed, mouth open. “Should I wake him?”
Dicey shook her head and typed again: Who phoned
Miriam shook her head. Truly, Dicey was a wonder. “My brother. Don’t worry about it.”
About Gus?
Miriam gave a half laugh through her nose. “Does nothing get by you? You were sedated, girl!” She raised her shoulders. “Yes, it’s about Gus. He figured it
out.”
Course he did
You gotta go
Miriam shook her head. “Eventually. Not now. Right now you’re more important.” Even the BiPAP couldn’t hide Dicey’s scowl. “Okay,” Miriam said. “Let me be frank. I promised your mom I wouldn’t go anywhere. And call me chicken, but I’d rather stay on your mom’s good side.”
Dicey’s eyes crinkled, but she tapped on the phone again. I handle mom.
Miriam laughed. “I have no doubt, but …”
Dicey shook off her grasp, typing again.
I’ll be here when you get back.
promise
Miriam smiled, her insides relaxing. She drew her lips between her teeth, her jaw trembling, because that, after all, was the only reason she wasn’t already on her way to the car.
Twelve more hours. She’d give it twelve hours, to make sure Dicey was really and truly on the mend. Then, she’d go.
“Okay,” she said.
Dicey closed her eyes briefly and then typed one last word.
Sing
Miriam stared at her. “Now?”
Dicey nodded. Her eyes were already drooping.
“All right,” she said softly. She breathed deep, let her throat relax, and began softly. “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound …”
She could swear Dicey was trying to sing too, but it was something more felt than heard. She clasped Dicey’s hand as she finished the first verse and began the second.
Suddenly, she wasn’t singing alone. Derrick’s voice joined hers, his rich baritone adding a layer of harmony. Tears sprang to her eyes. How long had it been since she’d really paid attention to the richness of singing with another person?
Derrick gripped her hand. Human contact—simple, profound. A warm hand, a shared love. Everything there was to live for. The thing she had withheld from Gus.
From the moment Blaise had reached out to him, this moment had been inevitable. Dicey had realized it days ago. Gus could hardly help recognizing himself in the young man he’d fathered. This was what he’d been instinctively reacting to these past weeks. What he needed now—what he craved—what kept him unnaturally invested in her life at the expense of his own—was a sense of completion, of clarity, of understanding.
A Song for the Road Page 28
