The Nine Month Plan

by Wendy Markham

  What about yesterday morning? She was up at dawn to start the baking . . . but did she take her blood pressure then?

  It’s all so fuzzy.

  “You know what, Grandma? I’m going to go upstairs and go to the bathroom. I’ll be down in a few minutes. Just . . . stir.”

  She makes her way to the stairway, her heart pounding. Maybe this isn’t some kind of flu bug. Maybe it’s something more serious.

  She rests her hands against her belly as she climbs the stairs, trying to remember the last time she felt the baby move. She remembers a sharp kick earlier, as she was bending to adjust the oven shelves, as though the baby had sensed the blast of heat. Or was that yesterday, when she was taking out the bread?

  She can’t remember. Dammit. She can’t remember, and she’s scared, and there’s nobody here to help her.

  I want my mommy.

  I want Joey.

  But he isn’t here, and Mommy isn’t here. Nina has only herself to count on. The baby is depending on her. It’s her responsibility for a ­couple more months, and dammit, she’s going to do this right. For the baby. And for Joe.

  She stops in the bathroom on her way to her room, where she keeps the blood pressure monitor.

  Her mind drifts to the dozens of sfinge still waiting to be made. They get soggy if you do them too far in advance, so—­

  Nina gasps.

  About to flush the toilet, she glimpses something pink.

  Streak of pink, on the white toilet paper.

  Blood.

  “ . . . AND THEN, AFTER university, I moved to London for a few months before—­are you all right, Joe?”

  He blinks. “I’m fine. It’s just . . . I’m a little tired, that’s all.”

  “So am I. I had ordered a six A.M. wakeup call and the bloody desk clerk got it confused and called at four. I couldn’t go back to sleep.”

  “Hmmm?” He’s thinking about Nina. Wondering for the hundredth time why, when he tried to call the Chickalini home a few hours ago, there was no answer. They should have all been there, gathered around the table for the St. Joseph’s feast.

  “Never mind. A lot on your mind?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry . . .” Joe flashes a tight smile at Elizabeth, who is ravishing in a gray silk suit with her long dark hair tucked behind her ears and tumbling forward over her slender shoulders.

  She makes another attempt at conversation, gesturing at the eclectic all-­white lounge in which they’re seated. “The decor here is wonderful. Have you ever been here before?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  And he shouldn’t be here now.

  Not with her.

  And not without his cell phone. What if something is wrong back home?

  How the hell could he have forgotten to bring the phone charger with him? He didn’t realize it wasn’t in his bag until he got into his room late last night. By then, the battery was depleted.

  But Nina knows where I’m staying . . . doesn’t she?

  Did he tell her?

  He’s fairly certain he did.

  If anything’s wrong with her—­or the baby—­she’ll call.

  There were no messages waiting when he stopped back at the room to change his clothes before meeting Elizabeth, and there were none on his cell phone voice mail when he checked it from the room, either.

  “Joe . . . ?”

  He looks up at Elizabeth. “I’m sorry. I want to do this, but . . . I can’t.”

  Nina was so frighteningly frail the other night. She said it was a flu bug, but—­

  “What can’t you do?” Elizabeth is asking.

  “Be here. With you. I’m probably going to regret this, but I have to leave. I’m sorry.”

  Twenty minutes later, he’s in his hotel room, listening to his voice mail messages.

  Ninety minutes after that, he’s on the runway at Logan, bound for New York, and praying he’s not too late.

  “NINA? NINA?”

  The voice is coming from far away.

  So far away . . .

  “Nina . . .”

  It’s so peaceful here, drifting along on a bed of downy fog that wraps around her like comforting arms, carrying her away.

  “Don’t leave us, Nina. Can you hear me?”

  I can hear you. . .

  Who are you?

  “Stay with us, Nina.”

  Oh. Yes. The nurse.

  The kind nurse with the lilting Hispanic accent and the blurry, blurry face.

  “Nina . . . Nina . . . stay with us.”

  So tired. So very, very tired . . .

  Nina!

  A new voice.

  Not the nurse’s voice . . .

  A new face.

  Not a blurry face . . .

  A dear, familiar face.

  Mommy! What are you doing here?

  “Nina. Hang in there, Nina.”

  Hang in there.

  Yes.

  But the nurse’s voice is fading, along with the beeping medical monitors and the curt surgical commands . . .

  Now there is nothing but this tranquil shroud of silence, and Mommy’s face, Mommy’s arms. Outstretched. Waiting.

  Mommy . . . I’m coming, Mommy.

  No, Nina. No. Not yet. He needs you. Go back to him, Nina. He loves you.

  “Nina!”

  It’s the nurse’s voice again, sharper this time.

  “Nina, don’t you give up. Do you hear me? You stay with us, Nina. This baby is going to need its mother.”

  Yes. The baby.

  He needs you. . .

  Nina looks back at her mother, struggling to make sense of any of this.

  How can you be here, Mommy? You’re here at last. I’ve needed you so much. . .

  “Nina! Keep fighting, Nina.”

  Fighting?

  Hug me, Mommy. . .

  “You can do this, Nina.”

  Go back, Nina. It’s not your time. He loves you. He needs you. They both will. Go back.

  And then she’s gone. Mommy’s gone, and so is the sweet, numbing serenity.

  Now there is pain, and noise, and bustling commotion all around her. Voices . . . so many voices . . .

  “I’ve got a pulse!”

  “She’s stabilizing.”

  “Yes, Nina. Yes. You can do it. You’re going to pull through this . . .”

  JOE BURIES HIS head in his hands. He can’t take much more of this.

  “You okay, Joey?”

  He looks up to see Rosalee seated beside him on the uncomfortable waiting room couch, her eyes red-­rimmed and swollen.

  “Not really, Ro . . . how are you?”

  She shakes her head and bites her lip to keep it from trembling.

  Tim, on her other side, hugs her close and she buries her head on his shoulder.

  The room falls silent, except for Grandma Chickalini softly murmuring another Our Father. She’s been praying the rosary for hours on end, clutching her wooden beads in gnarled fingers.

  Her son, whose hair seems to have literally gone gray overnight, sits beside her, no doubt saying silent prayers of his own.

  Anthony Chickalini has been here, in this small waiting room adjacent to the critical care unit. Seventeen years ago, it was his wife who was rushed to the hospital in the throes of eclampsia.

  Now, his daughter.

  Rosemarie Chickalini never came home.

  But Nina . . .

  Nina will make it, Joe thinks fiercely, wiping a fresh flood of tears from his eyes with a soggy tissue. She has to make it through.

  And the baby will, too.

  But it’s too early. Nine weeks early.

  Joe exhales shakily, going over the details again in his mind.

  Nina’s blood p
ressure had apparently gone dangerously high.

  Preeclampsia.

  Same thing that killed her mother.

  “Does anyone want more coffee?” Tim asks. “I’ll go down to the cafeteria.”

  Nobody wants more, but Tim goes anyway, taking Rosalee with him.

  Joe leans his head back against the seat, staring at the network of cracks in the dingy mustard-­colored ceiling.

  If only he hadn’t gone to Boston.

  He would have made sure she monitored her blood pressure these past few days. He wouldn’t have let her work so hard. He would have taken care of her . . .

  Oh, Nina. I can’t stand the thought of you alone, frightened, in pain, in danger. . .

  When Nina saw blood in the toilet, she called Dr. Sanjna. She was alarmed and advised her to get straight to the hospital. By the time Nino rushed home and drove her there, she was vomiting. Her kidneys and liver were shutting down. The doctors found that the baby’s placenta had separated from the wall of her uterus.

  An hour ago, Joe arrived in a cab from LaGuardia to find that they were delivering the baby in an emergency C-­section, making a valiant effort to save both mother and child.

  There has been no word from any of the hospital staff since then. There has been nothing but this agonizing wait, and acrid, lukewarm coffee; nothing but prayers, tears, terrifying what-­ifs . . .

  Joe lifts his head. His gaze collides with Nino’s. The older man’s dark eyes are tortured.

  Joe struggles to find something reassuring to say, but words refuse to form.

  It’s Nino who manages to speak. “Nina’s strong, Joey.”

  He nods. “Yes,” he says hoarsely. “She’s strong.”

  “She’s gong to make it. We’re all going to be dancing at your wedding. The baby will be too, if you wait long enough,” Nina’s father adds with a chuckle that sounds almost like a sob.

  Joe doesn’t have the strength to tell him that there isn’t going to be any wedding. That if Nina pulls through she’s going to leave them. Both of them. All of them.

  Footsteps tap in the corridor outside the room.

  “Mr. Chickalini?” asks a pretty, dark-­skinned nurse in green scrubs.

  Nino bolts from his chair, with Joe right behind him. Even Grandma rises and scurries toward the nurse, still clutching her rosary beads.

  “Your daughter’s condition is stable.”

  Joe closes his eyes.

  ThankyouGodthankyouGodthankyouGod.

  “She’s going to be okay?” Nino asks raggedly, putting his arm around his trembling mother, who has tears running down her face.

  “She’s out of immediate danger,” the nurse says simply.

  The room falls silent.

  Joe doesn’t dare ask.

  It is Grandma Chickalini who finds the courage. “What about the little one?”

  “Is this the father?” the nurse asks, looking at Joe.

  He nods. A clenched fist has wrapped itself around his heart. He can’t breathe. It’s as though a freight train is rushing toward him, and he’s standing squarely in its path, and he’s powerless to budge.

  “You have a daughter,” the nurse says over the roar in his ears.

  A daughter?

  The freight train has rushed past, sideswiping Joe, leaving him dazed, reeling, but . . .

  “Alive? The baby’s alive?” he rasps.

  The nurse nods. “Her condition is grave. She weighed less than four pounds. She’s been taken to neonatal intensive care. If you’ll come with me, I’ll bring you down there.”

  He nods, then hesitates. “But . . . Nina . . .”

  “She’s still unconscious,” the nurse says. “You can wait here if you’d rather. I’ll have somebody come get you when it’s okay to see her.”

  Joe is torn. His daughter is battling for her life downstairs. But he has so much to say to Nina . . .

  Nino settles it for him. “The baby needs you,” he says simply. “Go. I’ll wait here. If anything changes with Nina, I’ll come and find you.”

  “Thank you, Nino.” Joe hurries after the nurse, his heart pounding.

  Chapter Nineteen

  SOMEBODY IS SINGING.

  No, humming.

  Somebody is humming.

  Nina opens her eyes.

  At least, she thought she did. Everything is still black.

  She tries again . . .

  How can her eyelids weigh this much?

  She glimpses a dimly lit room and the silhouette of a person before her eyes close again and she drifts off down that blessed tunnel.

  “Nina!”

  Joe.

  She forces her eyes open again.

  Joe is hovering. He looks different. His eyes are sunken, his unshaven face gaunt.

  She moves her lips. Nothing happens.

  “Don’t try to talk, Nina,” he says, stroking her forehead. “Save your strength.”

  Strength.

  She has no strength.

  It’s all she can do to open her eyes, to breathe.

  Then the memories tumble in.

  Blood.

  The emergency room.

  The baby.

  The baby!

  “Joe,” she croaks.

  “Shh. It’s okay. You’re in the hospital. You’ve been here a few days.”

  Days?

  She’s been here days?

  But it just happened.

  With monumental effort, she moves her leaden arm. An inch. Another inch. She makes contact with her stomach.

  Panic washes over her when she comprehends that her belly—­her round, firm belly—­has vanished. Where is her baby?

  “Nina . . .”

  Gazing up at Joe, anguish in her heart, she silently begs him to tell her.

  “It’s a little girl, Nina.”

  A little . . . girl?

  She had the baby. But . . .

  How? When? It’s too soon. Where is her baby?

  Dread has crept in to mingle with confusion—­and then Joe answers her unspoken question. “She’s in the neonatal intensive care nursery. She’s a fighter. Just like her m—­Just like you. You nearly died, Nina.”

  Yes.

  Yes, she nearly died.

  It’s all coming back to her now, slowly, in fragments.

  A little girl?

  Somehow, that doesn’t seem right.

  Why doesn’t that seem right?

  Because it was supposed to be a boy.

  Nina was certain it was a boy.

  Not only that . . .

  Mommy. Mommy was here, with Nina. And Mommy said she had a son.

  Didn’t she?

  What did she say?

  Nina’s thoughts are hopelessly muddled. She’s weary, too weary to think clearly.

  Was Mommy really here?

  But . . . that’s impossible.

  Mommy’s dead.

  You nearly died, Nina.

  Maybe she is dead.

  Or maybe this is all a dream.

  She lifts her heavy eyelids to see Joe’s face inches from her own. He certainly looks real.

  “It’s okay, Nina. You can sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up again.”

  He’ll be here.

  Just knowing that . . . it’s everything. It means everything.

  “Oh, and Nina . . . I named her.”

  She strains to focus on what he’s saying.

  The baby. He named the baby.

  Rose.

  Her name is Rose.

  After Mommy.

  There’s something Nina needs to say to Joe.

  Something important.

  She tries to grasp it, but it flits out of reach as Nina’s eyes flutter closed and s
he drifts away from Joe once more.

  THE NEONATAL NURSERY is nearly deserted at this predawn hour of the morning. Here and there, an efficient nurse fusses over an isolette’s tiny occupant, or an anxious parent sits in silent vigil, as Joe has done for several days now, when he isn’t at Nina’s bedside.

  At the moment, all is calm and quiet in this far corner beside the window, where the first pink streaks have appeared in the eastern sky.

  Leaning over the isolette as the nurse lifts his fragile child out for the very first time, Joe says softly, “Hey there, little one. It’s me. It’s Daddy.”

  He clears his throat ferociously, peering down into an impossibly small and ruddy face.

  He has to get hold of his emotions. He can’t cry. Not now, when he’s about to experience the moment he’s been anticipating for months. Not here, in an environment so sterile that his street clothes and shoes are shrouded in surgical scrubs.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This isn’t how he’s supposed to experience his first true, one-­on-­one encounter with his daughter.

  He’s supposed to be in the delivery room, telling Nina to push. He’s supposed to hear the triumphant “It’s a girl,” and then, he’s supposed to be the one who cuts the cord.

  Then, a robust, healthy infant would be handed over and a nurse would say . . .

  “Just be careful to support her head.”

  He snaps back to reality. “I will,” he assures this nurse, Taneesha, who has been so kind to him in the past few days.

  It just takes some getting used to, that’s all. It isn’t like he imagined, but this is good, too. This is better than good. It’s miraculous.

  His daughter is going to survive, and so is Nina. They’ve both made great strides in the last twenty-­four hours, since Nina first opened her eyes and saw Joe at her bedside.

  “All right, then, are you ready?” The nurse’s words are muffled by her face mask.

  “I’m ready.” He gives a nervous laugh, feeling giddy. “You have no idea how ready I am.”

  The nurse’s warm chocolate-­colored eyes twinkle above her mask. Then, as he holds his breath and braces himself, his newborn daughter, swaddled in a pink blanket, is gently placed in her father’s arms for the first time.

  Joe stares at her, astounded.

  She’s his.

  That he—­he and Nina—­are capable of creating something this . . . extraordinary . . . is just . . .