Beauty from Ashes

by Alana Terry

  She sat down right across from me, and I made it a point to give Natalie a suction even though her airway was clear at the time. I don’t know what I was expecting. This strange woman to reach over and give me a hug and tell me how everything would be just fine. It was stupid of me, but when I first saw her I thought maybe we could become friends. Not the kind to get together for play dates or anything. Her son was way too old for that, and Natalie and I were headed back to Orchard Grove in a day or two. But maybe we’d connect online. Maybe I could ask her some of those things the nurses don’t think to tell you, like how to keep the collection canister from reeking when you use the machine fifty times a day but Medicaid only lets you order one replacement a month.

  Well, she didn’t say anything to me. It’s funny because I’d been worried about taking Natalie out into the real world, worried about all the strange stares we’d get when people saw me shoving a tube down her throat. They’d be curious. They’d gawk. They’d feel sorry for me and my baby.

  I learned that day there’s something I hate even more than being pitied.

  It’s being ignored.

  CHAPTER 25

  I’ve been on my phone looking at the same posts for half an hour or longer when Dr. Bell finally steps in. I get this sense she’s a fascinating woman. You’d think that somebody nerdy enough to get all the way through medical school wouldn’t waste too much time on things like fashion or makeup, but Dr. Bell could probably pose for one of the articles in the mommy magazines she keeps in her waiting room. She’s not gorgeous, not the kind of woman you wouldn’t trust your boyfriend around. More like the big sister you look up to but know you’ll always stay stuck in her shadow no matter how hard you try.

  Dr. Bell smiles and shakes my hand. It’s not formal when she does it, and when she’s done she gives my shoulder a short rub. “How are you today?” That’s the difference between an actual pediatrician and all those specialists we saw in Seattle. The specialists never think to ask the parents how they’re doing.

  “Pretty good,” I answer automatically, afraid she might not believe me. It’s stupid and immature. I feel like the new kid in junior high all over again, just hoping the pretty girl takes pity on me and asks me to sit at the cool table in the lunch room.

  Dr. Bell’s got these soft eyes. I think that’s part of why she looks so young, that and her fabulous skin. If we were friends, I’d ask her what products she recommends, how she keeps her complexion so smooth. But that’s not the kind of relationship we have, and as she flips through Natalie’s chart, I fill the uncomfortable silence by saying, “You know, she had a really good day Monday.”

  Dr. Bell sets down her clipboard. “Tell me about it.” I find myself wondering if she has a husband. Maybe a dark, sexy boyfriend. Heck, for all I know, she might have both.

  “Well,” I begin and pray that I don’t yak her ear off and make a complete fool of myself, “she was awake for half an hour or more in the afternoon. I mean, she still doesn’t make eye contact or anything, but she stayed pretty alert. More than normal, at least.”

  I can hear the hopefulness in my own voice. It’s pathetic really. That’s what I was so excited about? That’s the progress I couldn’t wait to tell her?

  “Oh, and she didn’t need to be suctioned that whole time.” I’m saying this, but all I’m thinking about is how pretty Dr. Bell must have been as a teenager, how all the boys probably had crushes on her and all the teachers adored her and all the girls wanted to be just like her. Even the way she holds that pen. She’s so poised and confident. That’s why I say she could be in one of those mommy magazines.

  “Still three or four times an hour on average?” Dr. Bell’s looking at me, and I have to rewind what I just heard to figure out she’s asking me how often I suction Natalie these days.

  “Yeah, about that. It gets worse after she eats.”

  “Immediately after?”

  “No, about half an hour.”

  “So you give her a tube feeding, and then about thirty minutes after that is when she needs the most suctioning?” Now you know what I mean when I described her as being thorough.

  “Yeah. That’s about right.” I like this conversation, this back and forth we’re having. I realize I don’t have anyone in my life to just sit down and talk with.

  “Now tell me about her eating habits. She’s still taking 95 mLs six times a day?”

  “Yeah.” I’m amazed at the way she remembers the number without looking at Natalie’s chart.

  “Well, let’s go ahead and increase that to 105 mLs. See if we can get her weight up some more. And those six feedings, is that spread out just through the day, or does she need a snack at night too?”

  I love the way she talks about Natalie as if my baby understands concepts like snacks or hunger. With the G-tube, she doesn’t even have to be awake to get fed. In fact, most of the time she’s dead to the world.

  “She gets a feeding at night, but that’s just because it’s the schedule she’s on.”

  Dr. Bell nods. I wish I could have her over to my house. I have the feeling that if she saw Natalie there, she’d be even more understanding. More sympathetic. I want to sit with her in my living room over coffee. Talk about our jerky ex-boyfriends or what med school was like. I don’t even know if doctors still have to practice on corpses or not. There’s no way I can picture her covered in sweat and grime and dissecting some dead stiff.

  Dr. Bell’s writing on the chart. “Let’s try this. Let’s stick with six feedings a day, but let’s do them every three hours starting first thing in the morning. I want you to try it and call me Friday to let me know how she’s handling it. What I’m hoping is it will give you a chance to sleep straight through the night for a change.”

  She looks at me with so much compassion that I wouldn’t tell her that my mother-in-law takes care of the night feedings even if I had to testify under oath.

  “And what about you?” Dr. Bell asks me. “Are you getting the support you need? It’s not easy to ask for help, I know that, but sometimes it’s the best thing you can do for you and your baby.”

  Now she sounds like she could write a mommy magazine article in addition to modeling for one. It’s kind of funny in a sad way how she thinks that my biggest problem is not having enough help.

  “We’re managing ok.”

  “I know it’s a lot of work,” she says with a soft smile, “but it’s really paying off. I don’t know if Barb told you, but she’s gained four ounces since last time she was here. I think increasing the formula’s going to help a lot too. Good job, Mom.”

  I’m pretty used to medical professionals calling me mom by this point. That’s basically all I went by with the nurses in the NICU. But part of me’s afraid I’m about to say something really cheesy like Call me Tiff. It’s what my friends do. Thankfully, Dr. Bell turns those kind eyes away and writes something on her clipboard.

  “Just hang in there. This new schedule will hopefully get you some of that rest you need. And don’t forget, it’s perfectly fine to take a nap. I know some parents in your situation get nervous about that, but that’s why we got you the apnea monitor.”

  I meet her smile this time and decide then and there that I’m not going to bring up the DNR today. Dr. Bell thinks I’m doing a good job. I’m not about to burst her bubble.

  CHAPTER 26

  The pediatrician spends another half an hour asking me questions and examining Natalie. I feel pathetic when I realize it’s the most relaxed I’ve been in weeks, and I’m not at a spa or a five-star restaurant or even the mall. I’m at the stinking doctor’s office.

  When Dr. Bell acts like she’s ready to wrap our meeting up, I realize I don’t want to go home. It’s time to pick up Jake from work, so at least I won’t be stuck alone with Patricia. But it’s not like he adds much to the family dynamics. He’ll run straight to the couch and be glued to his phone until dinnertime, I’m sure of it.

  I wonder sometimes why I’m still with him. If
I could afford a place of my own, would I have ditched him by now?

  Dr. Bell gathers up all her papers. “Well, if you don’t have any other questions ...”

  I’m wracking my brain. Anything to get her to stay with me, even if it’s only another two or three minutes. I feel so pathetic, starved for friendship. It reminds me of the NICU and how I could go a full week with the nurses the only people besides Jake I talked to face to face.

  “Oh.” She’s staring at my intake paperwork, and my heart lodges itself near the base of my throat. I know what she’s going to ask, and I don’t want to hear it.

  “It says here you wanted to talk to me about the apnea monitor?”

  I feel my face flush and hate myself for it. I glance at the clock behind her head. Natalie still has to get her shots, and Jake can get grumpy if I’m late picking him up.

  “Are you having issues with the monitor?” Dr. Bell prompts.

  “No, it’s not that.” My hands are clammy. This isn’t the time. She’s been so nice, so patient listening to me talk about my daughter. She’s the only person in the world besides Sandy that I feel so comfortable with.

  I can’t tell her I want my daughter to die. What was I thinking?

  I swallow. It’s so loud I can hear the saliva work its way past the lump in my throat. “We’re just having a lot of false alarms and I was wondering if that was normal.”

  Dr. Bell smiles. “Unfortunately, it is.” She sighs. “I can only imagine how hard that must be, especially when you’re trying to catch up on your sleep.”

  She has perfectly round eyes. Doe eyes, except the kind that make you look warm and feminine. Not the kind that make you look stupid or too trusting.

  “Some parents with DNR forms decide that the apnea monitor isn’t worth the hassle ...” Her voice trails off. She’s inviting me to agree with her without actually forcing me to say the words. God bless her.

  “No.” I try to make myself look confident, put together, even though I’d never pull it off as convincingly as she does. “But you know, speaking of the DNR, my husband and I decided that we don’t need it after all.”

  Her eyes have softened even more now, and I know I’ve said the right thing even though I’m lying through my teeth.

  “So, umm, I was just wondering if there’s anything we need to do. You know, to cancel that order or whatever.”

  I can’t meet her gaze. She’s the kindest woman I’ve met in the state of Washington. I can’t believe I wanted to tell her my little girl would be better off dead.

  She’s hugging the clipboard. She reminds me of Sandy right now. Of course, Sandy’s a few decades older, but she and Dr. Bell both have that same kind of quiet gentleness that hangs around them like a halo or one of those beautiful crocheted shawls you can buy online.

  “Well.” She’s talking slowly, and I think that maybe we’ll get an extra ten minutes out of this interview, not just another one or two. “If you and your husband both agree that this is the way to go, I’ll make a note here in your chart, and that’s as formal as it needs to be.”

  I meet her smile this time, certain I’ve made the right choice. It’s a good feeling, one I’m not sure I’ve experienced since Natalie was born.

  Dr. Bell’s hand is on the door knob. “Why don’t you make an appointment to come back and see me in two weeks, and I’ll let the nurse know she’s ready for those shots.”

  I’m a little disappointed she doesn’t use Natalie’s name, but I gush out my thanks and feel stupid afterward for being so sappy. So needy. When did I grow into such an emotional sponge that I’ve latched on to my daughter’s pediatrician, some woman I only see twice a month?

  Natalie’s half awake, but she’s not fussing at all, so I leave her in her car seat and wait. I hate when she gets shots, I really do. Maybe if she was healthy to start with I would have become one of those anti-vaxxers. I don’t know. It would sure beat putting her through so much torture every month or two. But she’s so sick I figure she needs all the immunizations the clinic can give her. It may not be ideal, but I guess a baby with a little mercury in her bloodstream still beats a baby who’s died from whooping cough or that RSV virus that sounds so scary.

  I glance at the time. Knowing the way this clinic works, it will be another twenty or thirty minutes before we see the nurse, and by then I’ll be late to pick up Jake. He’ll be in a bad mood, and Patricia will blame me. Make her sour-lemon face and comment something about how she always made sure the house was clean and a hot meal was on the table when Jake’s father came home from work. Of course, they’ve been divorced now for twelve or thirteen years, and there’s been another failed marriage between then and now, so I’m not about to take marital advice from the likes of her.

  I flip on my phone. None of my friends have posted anything interesting online, so I switch to YouTube. I’d be embarrassed to show you my video feed. I’m way too addicted to those talent shows, you know the ones where people sing in front of famous judges or things. I don’t have time to watch them on real TV, so this is how I get my fix.

  There’s a new video today, a twelve-year-old girl belting her little heart out. She’s doing a Whitney Houston song, the one from that really old Bodyguard flick. Gutsy move. Didn’t someone say the song was forbidden now that Whitney’s dead or something like that? I study the girl’s face, wondering how someone so young could pretend to know about that degree of loss and heartache.

  She does a knock-out job though. Gets the confetti and everything. Of course she starts crying, and her mom backstage starts crying, and I just wonder if anyone in this happy little universe knows about babies who could die from a simple flu virus because their lungs are so compromised and their frail little bodies so weak.

  Another video pops up in my recommended list, a clip from Dancing with the Stars. It’s that adorable teen girl from the hillbilly show, and she’s dancing a routine to some of the old-school Disney movie songs.

  A whole new world ... I swear there’s a lump in my throat the size of her right dimple. It’s the hormones. It’s got to be the hormones. I’m biting my lip or else I swear I’d start blubbering. It’s just that she’s so young. Young and pretty and healthy.

  The tears are still streaming down my cheeks when Barb comes in with her tray of torture devices. “Is the little angel ready?”

  “Yeah.” I wipe my cheeks when she isn’t looking. “I’m going to step out of the room. Just let me know when you’re done.”

  She doesn’t make me feel bad that I have to bail. If I were a good mom instead of a wimp, I’d be in there with my daughter. I’d hold her and comfort her while the nurse injects her with poisons that all the anti-vaxxers are convinced will cause autism or cancer or sterilization.

  But I can’t. It’s not that I can’t handle her crying.

  It’s the fact that I know my daughter won’t even make a sound.

  CHAPTER 27

  “She did great.” Barb comes out just a minute or two later with a smile, as if she weren’t some sort of twisted sadist who just finished injecting my baby girl with live viruses. “She slept right through it, tired little angel.”

  I assume she’s trying to comfort me.

  “Oh, before I forget,” she adds, “the woman you were here with, she wanted me to tell you that she went to pick your boyfriend up from work and they’ll be back to get you in just a few minutes.”

  My boyfriend. Of course, with different last names and still no ring, I can’t blame Barb for her mistake. In fact, it was probably Patricia’s fault to begin with. She’s been living with us two months. Two stinking months, and she’s never once mentioned the fact that we’re married. I swear, if Jake and I make it to our fiftieth anniversary and she’s alive and kicking, that woman will still refuse to acknowledge me as anything but her son’s live-in partner.

  I plaster on a forced smile and thank Barb for telling me. No use shooting the messenger, right?

  I go back in the exam room. Barb has strapped N
atalie into her car seat carrier, and my daughter’s as oblivious as Sleeping Beauty. I grab my phone and lug Natalie back into the lobby to wait.

  I’m not in the mood for mommy magazines anymore. I’m sick of reading about what my baby should be doing as a healthy four-month-old. Because she’s not healthy, but the idiots who publish the junk don’t know that. They think I’m the typical brand-new mom who’s worried about things like stretch marks and a diminished libido and how much longer until my little girl starts to crawl.

  I wonder how long ago it was that Patricia left. How long I’ll have to wait here. After being shut up in the trailer for weeks at a time, it’s exhausting to go out. This is my first time leaving the house since Sunday.

  Jake and I haven’t talked about the church service at all. I don’t know if he’s planning to go back this weekend, and if he is, I don’t know if I’m planning to pitch a fit and refuse or if I’m planning to go back with him in hopes of catching a more precise heavenly message. But I feel settled for the first time since that granny started talking. Like somehow I got the answer to my question about the vision after all. I feel really good that I canceled the DNR, and I don’t think it’s just because that’s the decision Dr. Bell wanted me to make.

  Maybe in five years my daughter will look like that little girl with the missing front teeth. Chocolate skin and almond eyes. That’s how I always pictured the kind of baby Jake and I would make.

  I wonder if we’ll still be together when Natalie’s that age. I wonder which one of us will be the tooth fairy and sneak into her room to hide the coin under her pillow. I wonder if she’ll run to me when she’s hurt or to her dad. I wonder if I married Jake because I was in love with him or because I was so scared of losing Natalie that I latched onto anything reminding me of her.