"They'll do their best," he said, certain that they would. Galveston boasted some of the finest medical facilities in the country. He should know; one of the wings bore his family name. "Come on."
He heard her footsteps behind him as he ran toward the glass doors. Then he was inside, racing toward the triage desk with the unconscious blue baby held securely in his arms.
#
Erina followed the man into the strange building, with its lights that seemed to hide in the tall ceiling, yet illuminated everything so brightly. The smell was equally strange, unlike anything she'd sensed before. And the people! A few slumped in chairs made of painted metal and fabric, some walking around, wearing very plain white or blue clothing, cut in a style she'd never seen before. Doors led in different directions, some with neatly lettered signs and words she didn't understand.
"What might this place be?" she asked the man, grasping the soft fabric his shirt as he stopped beside a desk.
"UTMB Emergency Room," he said over his shoulder.
"But that's not right," she said, gasping for breath. "The University building is red brick with arched windows. Not this . . . place."
The man ignored her. "There's something wrong with his heart, or his lungs," he said firmly to the nurse behind the high desk. "He needs immediate attention."
"Have a seat."
"No. I think he's stopped breathing. He needs to be seen--now!"
The red-headed woman talked into some device. Perhaps it was a telephone, which Erina had heard about but never seen. Few people in Galveston had a telephone.
"How old is he?"
"Almost two months," Erina said, shifting her weight from side to side as she watched her son, lying in the arms of the tall man.
"How long has he had this condition?"
"Always. He was born that way."
"Was he a full term baby?"
"What are you askin' me?"
"Was he born at nine months?"
"No. Only eight months."
"And the delivery? Was it normal?"
"I . . . I suppose it was." In truth, she'd been too racked with pain to remember much of the blessed even. "Mrs. Abernathy delivered him."
The woman's head snapped up from her papers. "No doctor attended the birth?"
"No. I couldn't--"
She looked back down at the desk. "What previous treatment has he received?"
"Not a thing! The doctors were tellin' me there was nothin' they could do."
The woman looked up at her, frowning. Erina noticed that her red hair was cut very, very short, and she wore blue cosmetics on her eyelids.
"He has these . . . episodes. But saints preserve him, this one is the worst."
"Get him some help," the man said. "You can ask these questions later."
"We need background before we can perform any procedures."
"My God, he could die while you ask your questions!"
At that moment, some more people with uniforms burst through two doors and reached out for her son.
"No!" she cried, suddenly afraid that they weren't part of the miracle for which she'd prayed. What if they took Colin away, and she never saw him again?
The man handed her baby over without pause. She grabbed for him, her eyes awash with tears. "Colin!"
"Erina, calm down." She felt his hands on her arm, holding her fast. "They've got to take him to an examination room. And you've got to pull yourself together."
"I'm wantin' to go with him. Don't let them take Colin away!"
"They're only taking him inside to exam him. They'll need information from you, so you've got to calm down and answer the doctor's questions. Can you do that?"
She looked up at the man. He seemed so sincere, so certain. "I want to help my son," she whispered.
"Then go with him, but stay out of the way, and no hysterics. They need answers and you're the only one who can give them."
"He'll be in crash room one. We need these forms filled out," the woman behind the desk said. "What's the baby's name?"
"Colin," Erina said, glancing back at the swinging doors.
"I'll take care of this," the man said. "Go see your son."
Erina paused just a moment, afraid of these strange surroundings, but more afraid for her baby. She walked quickly toward the doorway where he'd been carried.
"Colin O'Shea," she heard the man say.
She stopped and turned around. "No. Colin Patrick Kirby," she said. Dropping her gaze from the man's startled expression, she added softly, "His father's name is Kirby." And then she turned back and hurried through the doors.
CHAPTER TWO
Kirby? What did she mean, his name was Kirby? Grant felt as though he were in the midst of some mysterious drama, yet he didn't know how or why he'd become involved.
"Excuse me," the triage nurse interrupted, "but we need to get some additional information."
"Sure." Grant shook his head, but he could still see the image of Colin, his blue-tinted skin color revealing his failing heart. The poor little guy. Colin Patrick Kirby. Was he the son of some relative, or had Erina O'Shea picked the name because the Kirby family was well known, socially responsible, and financially secure?
"And what is your relationship to the patient?" the woman asked.
"I . . . I'm not sure," Grant admitted.
"Does the mother have insurance?"
"I have no idea." He doubted she carried insurance. She didn't appear responsible to him, dragging a sick baby around on a night like this, breaking into his condo through who-knew-what-method. He couldn't imagine what kind of occupation or background would require her to wear such clothing. Maybe she was some sort of religious fanatic or cult follower.
"Who is the responsible party?"
"I don't know. If she doesn't have the means, I'll take care of the child's expenses." Had he really said that? Grant closed his eyes and wondered again if he was hallucinating. No, he really was in the ER of UTMB, taking on the responsibility of a gravely ill child. He could afford it, of course, but he'd always confined his philanthropic efforts to writing checks to legitimate charities, not providing funds to babies with names and faces, and mothers with wildly curly black hair and eyes that revealed her very soul.
You're getting fanciful, Grant, he warned himself silently. Get a grip.
"And your name is?" the woman asked.
"Grant Kirby," he replied, distracted by his jumbled thoughts and still-racing pulse.
"Oh. Mr. Kirby. I didn't recognize you."
He ran a hand through his hair. He was accustomed to the mollifying or patronizing tone some people used when they discovered his name, even though the fawning made him uncomfortable. Being on the cover of the local Sunday magazine insert of the Houston Chronicle and various business journals hadn't helped his anonymity, either. "That's okay. I'm a little disoriented myself."
"I'll just place your name at the top of the form, and these can be filled out later."
"May I go back and see how he's doing?"
"Well . . . only relatives should be with the patients."
He took a deep breath. "I may be a relative. I'm not sure yet. But his mother . . . well, she needs someone with her right now."
"All right, Mr. Kirby. He'll be in crash room one. That's the one at the end of the hall, just a bit to the left. Don't get in the way," the woman said with a smile. "And I hope your--I mean, the--baby is going to be fine."
Great, Grant thought as he walked through the swinging doors. Now the entire hospital would think that he just brought his secret love child into the ER for treatment, along with the obviously confused, very young, mother. Great, just great.
#
"Let's get him stabilized. Get that ventilator over here."
The nurse pulled a clear mask off Colin's face as someone else rolled more machines to the bed.
"Don't worry," another nurse said, brushing past her. "The machine will breathe for him. He'll get more oxygen that way. And we're running other tests-
-X-rays and an EKG--to see what's wrong."
Erina folded her arms across her chest, then stuffed a fist in her mouth to stifle a scream as the doctors inserted some sort of device in her son's throat. She didn't understand what they were doing. They'd already warned her to stay back, that interference could jeopardize the care her son received. As difficult as that was, she'd refrained from crying, or asking questions, or snatching Colin from the table and running out the door.
She'd grabbed his blanket instead, holding it in her empty arms, letting her baby's familiar smell fill her senses.
She shook from her fears, and from this unknown situation in which she found herself. These men didn't look like the doctors she'd seen before. The nurses didn't resemble the nuns at St. Mary's, or any other women she knew, with their short skirts or pants like men's.
"We need your signature on this form." The red-headed nurse that had been behind the desk shoved a piece of paper at her, then handed her a dark, narrow object. "Sign here."
"I need a pen."
The woman looked strangely at her, then did something to the object, causing it to click, and placed it in her hand. "Read it and sign. We need your consent in writing"
"But the other doctors said--"
"Ms. O'Shea, I'm not sure why your son hasn't received any previous care, but he has a serious heart condition. We need to get him admitted."
"But what can they do for him?"
"We won't know yet. The important thing is to get him stabilized, so he's not deprived of oxygen for long periods of time. If his problem is congenital, he may need surgery."
"On his heart? But how can that be?"
"It's done all the time."
"And this can fix Colin's heart? And my son . . ."
"The survival rate is good. There are no guarantees, but we'll do everything we can to repair his heart."
Tears came to Erina's eyes as she looked down at the form before her. She couldn't read the words at this moment, but did that matter? They were going to save her son. She stroked the instrument across the paper, surprised to find a thin line of blue ink. With shaking hands, she signed her name. Anything to save her son.
The woman hurried away, form and miraculous pen in hand.
What kind of world was this? Where had Mother Mary sent her?
Just then the doctors rolled another piece of equipment toward the bed.
"Clear," someone said.
A whirring noise came from the machine. Erina jumped backward, right into something solid and warm.
Strong hands closed over her upper arms. "What's going on?"
"They're goin' to do something called 'stabilize' to him. Then they might have to operate on his heart." Erina glanced back over her shoulder, into the worried face of the man who'd been chosen to save Colin.
He seemed so concerned, so caring, even though he'd been wakened in the middle of the night and didn't know her or her son.
In the background, Erina heard the gentle whir of the machine that was now breathing for Colin. He would be fine. Mary had sent her to this place so he would be cured. Erina knew her faith must be stronger now than ever. Asking for a miracle was one thing; living through one was another entirely.
One of the nurses came over to them. "We're taking him to the Pediatric ICU. You won't be able to see him for a while, so you can wait down here, or--
The bed rolled past her. Erina stepped forward. "Wait!"
She leaned over Colin, who seemed so still, small, and frail on the white sheet. A transparent pipe of some sort went into his mouth, while a tiny one was attached to his arm. Erina had no idea what these devices were, except one of them helped him breathe, but at least Colin's color seemed better. And she had to trust that these people knew what they were doing.
After all, God had granted this miracle, sending her to this place where doctors could operate on a beating heart.
"I love you," she whispered to her fragile son. She smoothed a hand over his forehead, brushing against his dark, downy hair. His eyes were closed, and she wished she could look into the their wide, dark depths one more time. Or that she could see his true smile, just once again. "Holy Mother, watch over him," she whispered.
Then they pushed him away, all the people rushing down the hall, through doors that swung open and then shut, closing her out.
Only then did she bring his blanket to her face to smother a sob, bending at the waist, devastated by the pain she felt. Her son, her only joy, was gone.
"They'll take good care of him."
She'd forgotten the man. Suddenly she realized that his hands held her fast, that his strength helped support her trembling body.
"I've never been separated from him. Not for one minute since his birth," she said softly.
He didn't say anything, just urged her forward with an arm around her shoulders. She felt so weak that she was surprised she could walk. "Where are you takin' me?"
"Someplace quiet. We'll sit down and get some coffee. There's nothing you can do until after they find out what the problem is."
"And how long will that be takin'?"
"Hours, probably. It depends on what they find once they get the results back from the tests."
And what if these tests told them that he needed surgery to fix his heart? Would she even know before they cut into his little chest? Erina stuffed a fist in her mouth, stifling her cries. How could Colin survive such surgery? Faith, her inner voice answered. You must have faith.
"Come on," the man said gently.
She let him guide her down the wide hallway as she blinked back tears. They went into a small room like the one at his house, one with no windows, that moved downward. In a few seconds, a faint bell rang and the doors opened. They were in another part of the hospital.
If she hadn't been so frightened, she realized, she would have been amazed yet again.
He turned her to the right, into a room with large, shiny boxes that had names splashed brightly across them. Coke. Pepsi. The words made no sense. The air smelled like strongly boiled coffee. The odor made her slightly nauseous.
He pulled her down to a chair. "I'll get us some coffee. What do you like in yours?"
She looked up at him, suddenly so tired and sick she couldn't make sense of his words.
"Sugar and cream?"
She nodded.
She hugged her arms, rocking his blanket back and forth as though Colin still rested close to her breast. How many times had she tried to ease his pain and distress by rocking him on their single bed, in the small apartment above Mrs. Abernathy's Dress Shop? Would she ever hold him again?
"Here you go," the man said, sitting across the table from her.
"Thank you." She held the warm, soft cup with one hand and wiped her eyes with the other. "What is this . . . material?"
"Styrofoam," he said, a puzzled look on his face. He needed a shave, she realized. Whiskers a few shades darker than his hair covered his jaw and chin. She imagined they would be very coarse and scratchy.
"I know some people don't think it's environmentally sound," he said, "but then others don't approve of cutting down trees either."
She looked into his eyes, wondering how he could make so little sense. But these strange cups must be normal to him. She embraced the meager warmth with both hands. Apparently the people in this unusual place didn't like their beverages very hot.
She dipped her head and took a sip--and almost burned her mouth. It was scalding! But the cup was cool.
"Sorry. I should have warned you. Someone just made a fresh pot."
Erina nodded. The coffee tasted a little better than she had expected from the smell of the room. She blew across the surface as they sat at the small table.
The silence stretched as long and tight as her nerves. The man reached over and patted her hand, the gesture comforting and nothing more. Years had passed since anyone except Mrs. Abernathy had offered her affection without expecting something in return. Her da had been happy and affectionate, but he'd
passed on three years ago.
"I'm thinkin' that I should apologize for gettin' you involved in my problems. I had no idea…"
"Still sticking to your story that you were sent to my condo by the Virgin Mary?"
"Yes. It's the truth I'm tellin' you." She looked into his eyes. They were green, tinged with a bit of blue like the ocean on a calm day. His hair was short and light colored, like the different shades of yellow and brown on the dried grasses near the beach. His complexion appeared unusually dark for a blond-haired man, as though he spent much time out of doors without a hat. Perhaps he worked at the dock or on one of the shrimp boats. His hands were certainly large and square, not the hands of a man of leisure.
Whatever he did, he didn't look like any man she'd ever seen before.
"I don't even know your name," she said softly.
His features hardened, a muscle jerking in his cheek. "You don't?"
"No. I'm sorry I forgot to ask."
"It's Grant. Grant Austin Kirby."
She felt the room spin around her. "Kirby?"
"Yeah," he said. His voice sounded a thousand miles away.
"But you're not… I don't know you."
"And I don't know you either. Which is why I was really surprised when you gave my name to the clerk. Tell me, is your son's father really a Kirby, or did you decide that would make a better story?"
"No," she said, confused. She sat the coffee down on the table, then rubbed her forehead. "His name is Kirby."
"And yours is O'Shea."
"Yes," she said weakly.
"Did you keep your maiden name, or didn't you marry his father?"
She took a deep breath and paused a moment before answering. "It's sad I am to admit that he didn't marry me," Erina said softly. How humiliating to tell your darkest secret to a stranger, even one that shared the same name as Colin's father.
"Which Kirby?"
"Jerrold," she said, looking into the face of this man who had been kind, despite his reluctance to believe her story. He stared at her intently.
He frowned. "I don't remember any Jerrold Kirby. Does he live in Galveston?"
"Yes. In the house on Broadway, when he's not away at school. He's studyin' law at Harvard."
Miracle of Love Page 2
