Kalila

by Rosemary Nixon

  The men tuck in the tent around her, turn the oxygen up to fifty-three per cent. For half an hour. Get her breathing.

  Well.

  This startling change.

  Thank you.

  Yes. Good luck.

  Two shaking hands. Two shaking heads. A shutting door.

  You stare down at a daughter. Skipper sticks his nose around the door. Your arms reach toward her crib and you engulf her, tubes and all, and not a soul to stop you. You gather all those bits of baby right into your arms.

  Kalila.

  She blows out mucus.

  No.

  It cannot be put off.

  Practical Maggie reaching for the suction hose. You place shaking hands over the baby’s cheeks.

  Let’s get it over with.

  Kalila flails against blue-budded sheets. For those brief moments perhaps she thought her hell was over. Maggie shoving tubing down her nostril, green gunk sluffing up the tube. Snake out the hose and snake it in again. Kalila fighting, rasping, wheezing. Skipper begging to be let out the back door. You take over, stuff it in the other nostril, ears closed against the baby’s cries. Kalila scrunched-faced, gasping. You unsnake the hose. Draw against you this bundle of exhausted baby.

  Abusers that torture and then offer love.

  A steady rush of cold oxygen into the baby’s face.

  Slowly the blueness clears.

  Kalila light and startling rests within your arms. You look down into the little face and let go every preconception you ever held about the world. The child’s here. Inside you opens a round flat disk, a cold grey stone of peace.

  Kalila.

  Autumn baby.

  Little Kali.

  Welcome home.

  Outside the bedroom window, the thermometer reads minus twenty-nine.

  It’s warming.

  You look at each other. Breathing history. Breathing cold.

  You’ve weathered one more storm.

  You will outstrip the odds.

  February 28

  History and Physical Examination

  In spite of all Baby Solantz’s problems, she remains stable. At her parents’ request, she was discharged on February 27. Home per transport isolette 47% oxygen. Gastrostomy suspended on monitor. K. Slistan, R.N. attending night nurse.

  You wake with a start. Lie still in darkness, letting your fears unclutch. They lift, unbuckle themselves, dissolve. Kalila!

  You tear across the hall, nearly upending the night nurse, who gives a croaky shriek.

  Good Lord! she says, hand to her jiggly breasts. Well, you’re up now. I’ll gather my things. The room alive with the sluff and sigh of equipment and machines. Kalila sleeps in a little ball of tangled blankets. The night nurse waves her goodbyes, heads out the door. One day. Day one. Maggie still asleep. The mobile circles like a universe of stars, patterning Kalila’s blankets, sweeping shadow across her face. You steal close, unzip the oxygen tent.

  Hush little baby, don’t say a word

  Daddy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird …

  Maggie appears, sleepy, hair stuck out, grinning ear to ear.

  You spend the day cosied within Kalila’s bedroom, blankets and pillows spread across the floor. An all-day picnic. Skipper lies half in, half out the bedroom door. You make Maggie a smiley face plate for lunch: bean-sprout-hair, broccoli-ears, cucumber-nose, a cherry-tomato-smile, orange dressing on the side. She breaks out laughing. Her old laugh, big and clean.

  You take suctioning in tow. When Kalila dozes, you make love in the cradle of blankets and half-eaten plates. Fall asleep in a tangle of arms. That evening you order ginger beef, rent a video, lug the television into Kalila’s room. Saturday Night at the Movies. You have agreed to My Fair Lady! Would agree to anything. You pop popcorn. Maggie mixes her favourite — ginger ale and orange juice.

  Kalila. Her name a summer song between you.

  Maggie drives you crazy singing along as characters burst into “The Rain In Spain,” “I Could Have Danced All Night.” You threaten to join in.

  Kalila falls asleep in your arms during “On the Street Where You Live,” but you won’t put her in her crib. You circle her bead of belly button, that one scar lacing you all together. She sleeps, her blue-tipped fingers clinging to your hand. Maggie turns up the TV to hear over the chug and rumble of equipment.

  At eleven you abandon Kalila to her blue-budded bed and to the night nurse, popcorn trailing the floor from her room to yours. Fairy-tale crumbs to lead you back tomorrow.

  You fall into your own bed, exhausted, imprinted with baby, and make love through old familiar paths.

  Outside, the wind in song.

  Hell’s bells! I’m a live whole mom, holding a live whole baby. There follow days of waking, grins plastered to our faces, sprinting to the adjoining bedroom. Kalila waiting, sweet and milky, or sour with morning bowels. Who cares? The baby’s here, living the Happy Ever After.

  Mom phones. Och, you must feel such heaviness on waking. I’m praying every day. This big responsibility.

  Heaviness! I’m a free-flying cloud wisping an azure sky. Life’s joyous mystery maps our days.

  We shall not all sleep. But we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.

  Electricity flows, lightning-wild, from my fingers, down my arms, to a baby girl who startles at my touch.

  Brodie!

  Three days in a row Kalila wakes up smiling. I hold her whenever I want, lie down with her however I want, support her tiny back whatever time I want, and help her do her situps. Mom things. The sun shines through winter glass. We become downright adept at suctioning. A partnership. It doesn’t take that long.

  You make dinner while Maggie shops and pays the bills. While she clears the dishes, and tidies up the kitchen, you slip into the child’s bedroom, draw Kalila on your lap, she stares upside down into your face. At the sound of your voice, she grabs your finger and goes absolutely still.

  The fox said, For me you’re only a little boy just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you have no need of me, either.

  For you I’m only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, we’ll need each other. You’ll be the only boy in the world for me.

  I’ll be the only fox in the world for you.

  I’m beginning to understand, the little prince said. There’s a flower … I think she’s tamed me.

  Possibly, said the fox. On Earth, one sees all kinds of things.

  You move a little worktable into Kalila’s room. Spread out your books. Mark labs. Make notes:

  Entanglement: the most perplexing phenomenon in the world of quantum mechanics. Two particles may be very far apart, thousands of kilometres. But whatever happens to one of them causes immediate change in the other. You lay aside your notes, and Skipper rises stiffly. You pick Kalila up and, cords stretching, walk her to the window. You stand, all three, looking into the dark awake with moon. Daddy. Daughter. Dog.

  Your long strand of lonely life threads into three. You begin to talk, it’s true that you talk physics, but still you talk.

  Did you know that the first real breakthrough in measuring the distances of the solar system didn’t come till 1761?

  Did you know that the naked eye can see six thousand stars?

  Did you know that it was thanks to a blackout in Los Angeles during the Second World War that allowed the American astrologer Walter Baade to make a detailed study of the Andromeda galaxy? Imagine. A war revealed the stars.

  The days skim by. Each day the sky stays lighter longer.

  Marigold and her girls come over for twice-weekly visits. No tourist visas necessary. They’re free to come and go. Francine and Suzette take turns holding Kalila while the other holds the hose. They trace her tiny shoulders, transfixed, gentle, mystified.

  Maggie and Marigold chat about Marigold’s French course, about the unusually cold winter. Marigold’s eyes fill up with tears. She says that Kalila looks lo
vely, absolutely lovely. The girls kiss and kiss and kiss their little cousin. You snap pictures, zipping about like a carefree boy.

  After nine days the community nurse rings the doorbell. Kalila’s growing, she announces, after transferring the baby to her portable scale. She weighs eleven ounces more. Her head is getting bigger. And she’s more alert. Of course. She’s with her mommy and daddy now. She’s home, this little growing daughter.

  The woman jots her notes and breezes out, leaving the carefree aura of approaching summer.

  The eleventh day we hold an impromptu baby shower. Marigold’s idea. No one has seen Kalila. It’s time she meets the world. Marigold bustles in for the day, and we bake a dozen varieties of little cakes and cookies. The house smells like a holiday. The goodies sit on the dining-room table, looking festive and elegant, offsetting the white lace tablecloth.

  Brodie sets up in the bedroom, Kalila perched on his lap, oxygen hose to her face, suctioning when necessary. Skipper plants himself at Brodie’s feet, facing them on point. Francine and Suzette squish tight on either side. Kalila tilts, neck supported, a little button of a thing in her frilly white dress and booties. A constellation. No glass obscures her now.

  The doorbell chimes and chimes and chimes. The girls race ahead, shrieking.

  Come see Kalila! Come see our baby cousin! Now!

  The little house crowds to overflowing. Skipper, paws crunched by one-too-many high-heeled shoes, skulks to the basement, while the women exclaim over chocolate cheesecake brownies, carrot cake with cream cheese icing, poppyseed cupcakes, platters of exotic fruits and cheeses, greeting one another with anxious cries of recognition, settling on chairs and sofa, ignoring the girls.

  Come on! Francine and Suzette grab hands, drag unwilling feet toward the bedroom door. The women apprehensive, clustering in twos and threes.

  How abnormal will she be? their nervous smiles ask. Deformed? What do we say? No. You go first. No really. After you.

  Brodie, grinning.

  But she’s lovely, the women sing. Look at your pretty cousin!

  She’s almost a normal baby! Suzette says proudly. We treat her just the same!

  I feel beautiful. A yummy mummy. I don’t give a shit what these designer women think. Girls! Fetch the gifts!

  Everyone crowds into the living room to watch the girls rip open one fancy-papered, daintily-ribboned package after another. Marigold takes turns handing each a gift and records the giver while Suzette and Francine volleyball the discarded paper.

  Colourful clowns.

  Storybooks for two- to five-year-olds.

  Outfits up to 6X.

  A little backpack.

  Gifts for Kalila’s future.

  I lie awake long after the guests have gone and the paper is bagged, leftover dainties returned to the fridge, the creak of the kitchen floor, the night nurse sampling a plateful. Brodie’s steady breaths beside me. I lie in darkness, eyes fixed on the stars.

  I’ve been a real mom sixteen days when Kalila’s gastrostomy tube drops out. The baby is sleeping while I have a go at making bread. First time I’ve tried her in the cradle Larry made before her birth. I’m kneading the dough when a thump hails Kalila’s hoarse and whispered cries. I drop the wooden spoon and run. The baby’s weight has rocked the cradle, she’s slid against the side, ready to drop onto the floor. The tube has shot right out of her stomach in a mess of porridge-looking goo.

  Oh, Jesus.

  I stand, neck cranked, hands sticky with bread dough. Our baby has a hole, a hole crusted with scabby pus. It smells. A rotten stink. Kalila purrs. Skipper is licking it. I shove the dog, right the baby in the cradle, trip over Skipper, knock him out of the way, decorating him with bread dough and drops of flour, try to stuff the rubber tube back in; the hose won’t go. The baby cries sharp bird cries.

  Shit! I dial the hospital’s telephone number with shaking fingers. The porridge moves out, in, out from the baby’s gut like something alive.

  Lord Jesus. Fifth floor, please. Neonatal.

  An endless pause.

  Neonatal. Carol Hunt, head nurse.

  It’s fallen out the tube into her stomach Kalila — Maggie — Watson Solantz my baby’s gastrostomy her stomach’s pouring out it won’t go back she’s still she isn’t moving her insides are gushing —

  A rustling. Muted voices.

  The voice comes back on the line. Mrs. Solantz. Our records say that you’ve withdrawn this child from our hospital.

  God! Of course. I know! I’ve, yes, we took — she’s falling apart here …

  A crackling line. — suggest you phone your family doctor, Mrs. Solantz.

  No! This is the baby you — she lived there, for God’s sake! Is there someone in charge?

  Mrs. Solantz. Such a reasonable voice. I’m in charge. You’ve withdrawn your child from our care. Hospital policy. Our records say your baby’s been discharged.

  The startled taxi driver ushers me tangled up in tubes, out the door, taxi driver, baby, me, an awkward three-step, stumbling, slipping on the stairs, oxygen tank, blotting tissues, oxygen hose, the sliding porridge goo. Skipper whining behind the slammed door.

  The mountains razor-sharp against Calgary’s skyline. This city rife with red lights, pedestrian crosswalks, school zones. Bloody hell! I park my eyes on the taxi driver’s chewed-down fingernails.

  Two adults and a baby sidestep in the clinic door.

  Brodie takes exactly twenty-three minutes, leaving delighted grade elevens with a last-period spare.

  Our family doctor reinserts the tube, regards our faces. You’re brave, he says. He says this very gently. You shouldn’t have tried to stick the tube back in. Leave doctors’ work to doctors. Here, it’s not life-threatening. Gastrostomy tubes slip out. Sliding relief of tears. All three of us head back into cheery winter sunshine. Kalila yawning, fisting out her eyes.

  We’ve had an outing.

  There. You see? To hell with the bloody hospital. We’ll do fine on our own.

  We step through calendar pages. Day eighteen, day nineteen, day twenty-three. An Upjohn worker phones, sets up a house call. How’s that baby doing? A routine checkup. Dustballs crowd behind the sofa. I clean. Scrub the spotted kitchen floor. Put an incensed Skipper outside. Measure out digoxin. Water my thirsty plants, which throw back their tendrils and suck the water in. They know they must look good. I clear out the suction tube. Kalila coos. Scrub the brown scum from the kitchen sink, pop in to shout Hi! to Kalila, unhook the tubes, change a diaper, rehook, rinse a jam jar, check on the baby, wash and iron the curtains. Rehang them. Bake the scones.

  She’s coming to see that Kalila’s okay, she’s not going to write a housekeeping report, Brodie jokes as he heads off to work.

  I dust the picture frames, clean out the hall closet, make coffee, scrub down the kitchen cupboards. Am wiping baseboards when the doorbell rings.

  Jasmine Forester says, I’m here from Foothills —

  I stare at her name tag. From Upjohn?

  No, from Foothills Hospital.

  Well. This is unexpected.

  I usher the woman in. She has brought the smell of windtossed clothes. A whiff of ice.

  She’s here to check that the heart monitor is working.

  Ah. A lady of the heart. It’s working fine. I’m actually expecting —

  Jasmine Forester steps past me into my spotless house.

  The doorbell. Jasmine Forester gets there first, lets in a stranger.

  A pleasure to meet you, the two say to each other. Jasmine Forester. Noreen Marks.

  I’m Maggie, I announce. But it’s like grade three on the playground. They’ve already made friends. I speed to get the coffee. Set out white-chocolate-and-blueberry scones and cream and jam. Have I cleaned enough? What if they want decaf? Do I look like a mother? I retie my apron sash and lead the Upjohn woman into Kalila’s room. The heart monitor woman follows. Kalila peers up at us.

  Three women peer down. Pride rushes my veins. What this child h
as survived. What she — just look at her!

  Could I speak with you in the living room? the Upjohn woman says.

  Sure, I say. Sure, the heart monitor lady says.

  Well. This is unexpected.

  The two of them pull the bedroom door shut on their way out. I stand in the centre of Kalila’s rumbling bedroom, which smells of Prosobee and medication. Look at the heart monitor machine, which Jasmine Forester neglected to check. Look at my baby, who stares back at me, look out the window to a white March landscape, look at my watch. Gravity slowly giving up its hold. Goosebumps ride my skin. I want my sweater, which is lying over a dining room chair, making my house look messy.

  Kalila throws her head from side to side, turns blue, blows mucus. Oh, for crying out loud! Kalila! No! Not! Now! Quit! It! Please! I snatch the tube, down, down the baby’s nose. I’ve learned in Brodie’s absence how to clasp the baby’s head in the crook of my elbow, which frees my left hand. I suction, suction, steel-backed against Kalila’s cries. Small cheeks within my hands, the baby quiets, gums her lips, looks grievously at me.

  The moment I step out into the hall of our tiny house, I am upon the women, who are standing, heads bowed together, as if in prayer. The Upjohn woman brushes her hands against her skirt like she’s been baking. Cooking up an idea, it turns out. Mrs. Solantz! she says, as if I’d yelled boo. The women take a sudden breath; eyes meet. They look away.

  Mrs. Solantz, the Upjohn contract is to be reviewed, and renewed — if necessary — every second week. Ms. Marks waves an airy hand. I’m sure you’ve read it. You are doing a fine job here, you and your husband. She looks around my newly mopped and vacuumed house.

  Jasmine Forester claps her hands. Did you just suction the baby?

  Yes, I did. I look at the impeccable Jasmine Forester, whose lime suit is highlighted by her sunshine-yellow-and-lime scarf.

  My, but you’re efficient.

  Isn’t she doing well!

  Jasmine Forester has placed an interested expression over her professional one, as if she is hearing the Upjohn woman’s words for the first time.