Day-Day

by Cronk, LN

  On the wall, not far from our table, was a plaque that the owner had hung shortly after Greg had died. It had his senior picture on it (the same one that was hanging in my office in Mexico), and mentioned the dates that he had worked at Hunter’s. I was standing there, looking at it, when Laci came out of the bathroom.

  “You ready to go?” I asked, turning toward her.

  She nodded and reached for my hand.

  “I had a great time tonight,” she said. “Did you?”

  I nodded, smiled at her, and glanced at Greg’s picture one last time.

  “It was almost perfect.”

  She squeezed my hand and smiled back and then we turned to head for the door.

  ~ ~ ~

  LACI WAS USUALLY asleep when I woke up, so I was surprised the next morning when I opened my eyes to find her lying next to me, wide awake.

  Her hands were on her belly.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Something’s wrong,” she said, casting an anxious glance my way.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s not moving,” Laci said, panic creeping into her voice. “I can’t feel her moving.”

  “She’s running out of room,” I said. “You know they say the baby doesn’t move as much right before it’s born.”

  “She’s not moving at all.” Laci’s eyes filled with tears. “Something’s wrong.”

  I propped myself up on one elbow and put my hand on Laci’s belly. I pushed gently, moved my hand back and forth, and put my mouth near my hand.

  “Hey, baby,” I said. “Wake up, Gabby. Your momma’s gettin’ all worried.”

  I laid my head on Laci’s belly, waiting to feel Gabby kick at me or poke me with her fist, but I felt nothing.

  “Do you feel anything?” Laci asked in a strangled voice.

  “No,” I admitted, “but they quit moving around so much toward the end. Don’t let yourself get so upset.”

  But Laci was already upset.

  “Do you want me to call Dr. Sedevick and make sure this is normal?” I asked. Laci nodded and I reached for my phone.

  Dr. Sedevick actually answered her office line. I told her who I was and what was going on.

  “When’s the last time she felt the baby move?” Dr. Sedevick asked.

  “Laci?” I asked. “When’s the last time you felt her move?”

  “Last night . . .”

  “Last night,” I told Dr. Sedevick.

  “Well,” Dr. Sedevick answered, “the baby’s getting very crowded in there . . . they tend to slow down their movements a lot right before birth, so it’s probably nothing to be worried about . . .”

  “That’s what I told her,” I said, smiling at Laci.

  “Can you bring her by this morning? We’ll just take a listen and make sure everything’s okay . . . put Laci’s mind at ease.”

  “Sure,” I said. “When?”

  “I’m scheduled to be at the hospital at noon,” she said. “Anytime between now and then will be fine. It won’t take but a few seconds.”

  “Thanks,” I said and I hung up.

  “She said to get you on in there so she can convince you everything’s okay,” I said. “It’s not good for you to be getting all worked up.”

  “Now?” Laci asked.

  “Any time between now and lunchtime.”

  “I want to go now,” Laci replied.

  “Okay.”

  Tears were running down her face the entire way to the doctor’s office. I kept trying to convince her that everything was going to be fine and she kept on nodding, but the tears didn’t stop.

  We didn’t have to sit very long in the waiting area before we were called back into an examination room. I helped Laci get onto the examination table and then I took a chair near her head. I was holding her hand when Dr. Sedevick came in.

  “Good morning, Laci,” Dr. Sedevick said, smiling at her and nodding at me. I nodded back to her and Laci said good morning in a quiet voice.

  “Still haven’t felt her move?”

  Laci shook her head.

  “Happens all the time,” Dr. Sedevick said, patting Laci’s other hand before she put her stethoscope in her ears. “Let’s see if we can put your mind at ease. Okay?”

  Laci nodded.

  The doctor lifted Laci’s maternity shirt and put the stethoscope to her belly. Laci closed her eyes.

  The doctor moved the stethoscope from one spot to another, listening intently. She looked at Laci, saw that her eyes were closed, and then she looked at me. There was no comfort in her face.

  “Margaret,” she said to the nurse who was hanging by the door. “Why don’t you bring the cart in here?”

  The cart was the portable sonogram machine. Dr. Sedevick squirted a blob of jelly on Laci’s belly and began pressing the little wand onto her skin.

  “Have you been having any pain, Laci?”

  “No.” Almost a whisper. Eyes still closed.

  “Any bleeding or unusual discharge?”

  Laci didn’t open her eyes, but she shook her head.

  The monitor was turned so that Laci couldn’t see it, but I moved myself around so that I could. I’d watched our home footage enough to recognize Gabby’s spine. I kept watching for the beating of her little heart, but I couldn’t find it. Dr. Sedevick looked at me, bit her lip, and shook her head. She put the wand back on the cart, pushed it toward Margaret and wiped the clear jelly off of Laci’s skin. She pulled Laci’s shirt down and took Laci’s other hand.

  “Laci?” she said. “Laci?”

  Tears began pouring down Laci’s cheeks.

  “I’m very sorry,” Dr. Sedevick began, and then Laci really started crying. “There’s nothing that could have been done to prevent this . . . sometimes it just happens. I’m so very sorry.”

  Margaret opened the door and wheeled the sonogram cart into the hall. I panicked for a moment watching it go, feeling as if she was somehow taking Gabby away. But then I remembered that Gabby was still here . . . with Laci.

  Dr. Sedevick continued talking.

  “We’re going to need to admit you into the hospital, Laci. It can be anytime today or tomorrow, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable waiting any longer than that.”

  Laci did nothing but cry, so Dr. Sedevick turned to me.

  “Today,” I said quietly. Dr. Sedevick nodded.

  “I’ll give you a few minutes and I’ll be back,” she said. She patted Laci’s hand one more time.

  “I’m very sorry,” Dr. Sedevick said one more time. Then she left and closed the door.

  Margaret came back in.

  “Would you like to come into the office?” she asked. “You’ll be more comfortable . . .”

  We both helped Laci off of the examination table and into Dr. Sedevick’s office. There was a couch and we helped her sit down on it. I sat next to her and Margaret left us alone.

  “I’m sorry, Laci,” I said, holding her against me while she sobbed. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  We sat there and cried for a while, and then I realized we had to let our parents know. I called my mom first.

  “Hi, honey,” she answered the phone.

  “Mom . . .” I said. My voice broke and I think she probably heard Laci crying in the background too.

  “David,” she said. “Is the baby all right?”

  “No . . .”

  “Oh, David,” she said, her voice catching. “What’s wrong?”

  I couldn’t answer her.

  “Is she . . . is she not going to be all right?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Oh, honey,” she said. “I’m so sorry. What can I do?”

  “We have to go to the hospital,” I began.

  “You want me to bring Laci’s bag?” she asked. “Have you called Laci’s parents?”

  “No . . .”

  “Do you want me to go over there and tell them?”

  “Yes,” I said, grateful that someone could pull it together enough to be in cont
rol. “Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry, David,” she said again. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Everybody was sorry.

  Everybody was so very, very sorry.

  ~ ~ ~

  SITTING ON THE couch, holding Laci as she sobbed, I started to get really concerned about her – she was pretty much hysterical. My first thought was that it couldn’t be good for the baby for her to get so upset, but then I caught myself and just worried about Laci. Dr. Sedevick finally came into the office and asked if we were ready to head over to the hospital.

  “Can you . . . can you give her something?” I asked. “Something to calm her down?”

  Dr. Sedevick shook her head.

  “I’m hesitant to give her anything that might compromise her ability to assist with labor . . .”

  Assist with labor?

  I don’t know what I’d thought was going to happen when we got to that hospital, but not until right then did I realized that Laci was still going to have to go through the entire birthing process, just as if Gabby were still alive.

  How?

  How was she ever going to do that?

  How she was able to do that (it turns out) is that they broke her water and pumped Pitocin into her veins until her body was wracked with such painful contractions that she couldn’t not push and she screamed and cried with pain and grief.

  Of course, when Gabby was finally born I was hoping that the doctor’s instruments had been wrong and that it had all been a big mistake, and that Gabby would let out a lusty cry and prove to everybody what a strong and healthy little girl she really was and how everybody had been wrong about her.

  But it was silent in the room when she was born.

  Absolutely silent.

  The only sound was a nurse announcing the time of her birth: 7:34 p.m. It was just after that that Laci, mercifully, finally fell asleep.

  They wheeled Laci into a regular room – away from the maternity ward where all the other mommies were with their babies and their flowers and their balloons. Laci woke up in the middle of the night when a nurse came in to check on her. I had fallen asleep too, seated in a chair with my head on Laci’s hospital bed, near her shoulder. I woke up when she did.

  “Please tell me this is all a bad dream,” she whispered to me and I pressed my face into her hair, against her neck and pillow.

  The nurse looked at us both.

  “When you lose a baby,” she said, “you need a chance to say goodbye. We have her all ready for you to see . . . I can bring her in whenever you’d like.”

  I was very surprised. I’d caught a glimpse of Gabby after she’d been born and I didn’t know I’d get to see her again. Laci, however, didn’t seem surprised at all.

  “Now,” Laci said. “I want to see her right now please.”

  The nurse nodded and left the room.

  “I just want to see her,” Laci sobbed. “I just want to see her.”

  I stroked her hair and she kept crying until the nurse came back into the room.

  Gabby was wrapped up in a soft, white blanket with only her face showing. Laci reached up and took her from the nurse and the nurse left us alone with our baby. Laci stroked Gabby’s face with her fingertip and kissed her nose and forehead. She talked to Gabby and lifted the blanket from the top of her head.

  “Look at her hair, David,” Laci said to me. “Look at her hair.”

  I looked. It seemed freshly washed and was the same color as Laci’s.

  “Look how much hair she has,” Laci said, almost in awe. “I can’t believe how much hair she has.”

  I leaned over and kissed Gabby’s hair. It smelled clean too. I wondered whose job it was to make sure that little babies who had died looked and smelled nice for their parents who had to say goodbye before they’d even said hello.

  “Do you want to hold her?”

  I took Gabby from Laci and sat on the edge of the bed with her. It was too much for me to stand.

  I looked at her little face and was mesmerized by her lips. I couldn’t believe how perfectly shaped they were. There was a tiny little mark on her upper lip and I knew it was a blister from sucking her thumb. I couldn’t get over how perfect her lips were. I traced them with my fingertip.

  I pulled the blanket back and took one of her hands between my fingers. I laid my index finger under her hand – against her palm – and used my thumb to wrap her fingers around mine. Her fingers were perfect too.

  After a while I kissed her perfect little lips and gave her back to her mother. I’m not sure how long we had her before the nurse came in and took her away from us, but the moment that she left with Gabby was the worst moment of all.

  Before Laci was discharged from the hospital, I talked with the pediatrician who had examined Gabby after she was born. I wanted to know – medically – why she had died.

  “She had an umbilical cord anomaly,” he told me. “She basically wasn’t getting the nutrients that she needed.”

  Laci had spent almost a year traipsing to the landfill to feed hungry kids. The irony of this was not lost on me.

  “There’s nothing that could have been done to prevent it,” he added.

  I nodded, wondering why everybody always thought the fact that nothing could have been done to prevent it was somehow supposed to make it better.

  ~ ~ ~

  LACI WAS A mess before the funeral and her parents took care of her while my parents and I made the funeral arrangements. I was looking at the different coffins and trying to make decisions when my dad told me that he was going to be paying all the expenses. I started to protest, but he stopped me, and in an instant I knew to let him do what he could to help. I concentrated instead on picking out what we would want for Gabby.

  Ashlyn was supposed to be in charge of the baby shower, but instead she helped with the funeral arrangements. She talked to me, tried talking to Laci, and relayed things to the minister for us. It was Ashlyn’s idea to play a song by Watermark at Gabby’s funeral. I had been listening to Christian music for over ten years and I’d heard songs by Watermark before, but I’d never heard this one. It was the perfect song to play and I was really glad that Ashlyn had thought of it.

  It was called Glory Baby and it was sung to a little baby who had died. It told her to let Jesus hold her until Mom and Dad would be able to. It made me feel better to think of Jesus holding Gabby until Laci and I were there, but another image came to my mind too. I thought for just a moment about Greg and I pictured him holding my daughter and running his finger over her perfect little lips. When he smiled at her, I saw her smile back.

  That made me feel better too.

  Physically Laci still had to go through the same healing process that any woman goes through after giving birth, but usually they have a wonderful, healthy little baby to take their mind off of all the pain and discomfort that their body goes through. All Laci had to take her mind off of the physical pain was additional emotional and mental pain – the same pain that I was going through. It took all the prayers of our friends and family to get us through.

  As the days wore on and slowly turned into weeks, we cried a little less and began trying to focus our minds on returning to Mexico. One week before we were set to leave, however, I suddenly remembered that we had reserved a third seat for Gabby.

  A third seat.

  An empty seat beside us on the entire flight back.

  I went into the backyard so that Laci couldn’t hear me call the airline.

  “I need to relinquish a ticket, please,” I told the lady who answered my call. She asked me for the reservation number and pulled our information onto her computer.

  “Sir,” she said. “These tickets are non-refundable.”

  “I know,” I said. “I don’t care about getting my money back, we just don’t need the seat and I was hoping you could fill it.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “If you’d purchased the insurance with them we’d be able to reassign your seat, but since you didn’t, there�
��s nothing I can do.”

  “I don’t want my money back,” I explained again. “I just don’t need the seat and I want you to fill it . . . I want to relinquish the extra seat.”

  “I’m sorry sir,” she said. “There’s nothing I can do.”

  I hung up. I usually tried to avoid asking God for favors, but I asked for one now.

  Please, God. Please don’t make us sit next to an empty seat for the entire flight back to Mexico. Please don’t make us be reminded of what we already aren’t going to be able to forget anyway . . .

  I hit redial and a different woman answered my call.

  “My wife and I are scheduled to fly out on flight 3847 to Mexico City on Tuesday,” I said. “We came home to have our baby, but our baby died and we don’t need the extra seat and I was hoping . . .”

  “What is your reservation number, sir?” she asked.

  “I don’t want my money back . . .”

  “What’s your reservation number, sir?” she asked again.

  I read off the numbers to her.

  I could hear her tapping on her keyboard and then she was silent for a moment as she apparently studied our reservations.

  “Sir?”

  “I just want to relinquish our seat . . .”

  “I understand that, sir,” she said. “The coach section has three seats in each row on the right hand side of the aisle and two on the left. I’m trying to see if there’s a pair of seats on the left . . .”

  “If you could just fill the third seat . . .”

  “First class only has two seats on either side of the aisle,” she went on, ignoring me. “Here’s a pair of seats . . . give me a minute.”

  I could hear her tapping away some more.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “I have you and your wife seated side by side in the first class section. There will be no seat next to either one of you . . . empty or otherwise.”