A Score to Settle

by Donna Huston Murray

  Throwing open my door, I stumbled out and raced onto a porch with two picture windows facing front. Hands shadowing my eyes, I peered inside at gas cans, fish nets, laundry soap, and hair spray beckoning from low, no-nonsense shelves. Not a phone was in sight.

  Moaning a protest, I dropped my hands and turned in a circle, slapped the top of a picnic table beneath the nearest window.

  The sign was obvious after you saw it, a dark blue rectangle edged in white. A picture of a telephone handset and the word "Phone" pointing to the instrument itself at the far end of the porch.

  I clattered down the steps and back to the car for my purse. "Nine one one, or your doctor?" I asked Michelle.

  When she told me her doctor’s name and number, I wasn’t surprised. Why risk waiting for an ambulance out here when we could go directly where she wanted to be, where she was known, where she’d just been?

  Sheltered by more porch roof, the telephone was around the corner, housed in a red box. I dialed, got an emergency number from a machine, called that and got a human, a pleasant-voiced woman who assured me that Dr. Mobly would meet Michelle at Virginia Beach General Hospital as quickly as possible.Which didn't sound nearly fast enough. "Thank you," I muttered through clenched teeth.

  "Drive carefully," the doctor's wife advised.

  A SOLID WOMAN OF FORTY-five wearing green scrubs and a concerned smile greeted me from behind the glass of the emergency-room reception window.

  "My cousin's having a baby," I babbled. "She's in the car. Premature. Dr. Mobly's coming."

  "Okay. We'll take over now. Don't you worry." She came out of her cubicle at a brisk walk and collected a wheelchair.

  When Michelle rolled by me, I squeezed her hand and told her I'd be there. My words sounded insubstantial, useless. My cousin’s affectionate smile said much more.

  By the time I parked the Jeep, answered some admission questions as best I could, and was directed to the second floor maternity ward, Michelle was settled in a birthing room with Dr. Mobly in attendance.

  A nurse allowed me a reassuring peek inside for a moment, and my glimpse showed me a single hospital bed surrounded by patterned, smoky blue wallpaper on three walls. The paper above a blue chair rail behind the bed displayed pink and blue flowers on a field of white. A gold-framed impressionist print of a mother and child, perhaps originally by Mary Cassatt, hung directly above the headboard. At the moment only the doctor and nurse could actually see the prettiest wall, but I recognized that thought as ungrateful. My living room should look so nice.

  To the right of the bed–monitors, computer style and miscellaneous boxes, all working. Plus IV's and a wood cabinet full of supplies. I wiggled my fingers at Michelle. Without her glasses she nodded vaguely in my direction.

  "We're going to be a while, Ms. Barnes," Dr. Mobly told me. "Might as well make yourself at home."

  I told him thanks, wiggled more fingers at Michelle, and retreated toward the waiting room. I wasn't Doug or Michelle's mother, or even Ronnie, but the riskiness of the birth discouraged me from remaining anyway. If things went horribly wrong, I doubted whether I could handle being there. In fact, I knew I couldn’t.

  I hesitated just outside the "Mother Baby Unit" waiting area. The area contained a round magazine table, a brass lamp and a fichus tree that needed summer. From one of the chairs a man stared at the tall plywood stork that welcomed visitors. Obviously a father-to-be, his eyes bulged with emotion, and even from several feet away they looked wet. The guy twitched so often I knew he would pop up like a Jack-in-the-Box if anyone in scrubs appeared. I didn't feel ready to join him.

  Neither Michelle nor I had mentioned calling her husband. For one thing, the Tomcats/Eagles game was scheduled for one p.m., so Doug couldn't possibly get back in time.

  Also, since an athlete’s career depended entirely upon his performance on game day, he could not afford to be absent for any reason. The opportunities to perform well were far too scarce and eager replacements far too plentiful. He had summed it up himself on Thanksgiving."I'm just a hired gun. When I'm out of bullets, they'll get another gun." If Michelle was able to accept Doug's absence in that context, I should not–and would not–interfere.

  Still, I wondered whether he should at least be made aware of what was happening.

  According to Michelle's silence–no. The message seemed to be, "Let him do his job. He doesn't need worry or regret or even joy messing with his mind." Generous, and mature. I admired my cousin's good sense.

  I still needed a public phone, and I found one nearby.

  My first call was to the airline to tell them I wouldn't be on my flight. No, I didn't want to reschedule just yet, maybe later.

  Missing my chance to watch a Tomcats' game from the sideline both frustrated and saddened me, partly because I now doubted that I would ever do it. Some opportunities tempt you for one moment then pass from your mind. And about then my adventurous impulses craved a good long rest.

  Next I dialed the house on Beech Tree Lane.

  "Gin!" Rip answered with enthusiasm, and my heart did that little clenching thing it does when my husband sounds happy. "When are you coming home?"

  I explained what was going on. "...so I really can't say. Soon. As soon as I can."

  Garry's voice came through in the background. "That Mom? Hey, let me talk to her." Then directly to me, "Hey, Mom. I filmed that game today. It was awesome, way different from being in the stands. You could hear what the guys said to each other, like you almost knew what they were thinking. It was way cool. You shoulda been there."

  Game. Sunday. Sunday morning? Had to be ultimate frisbee on Bryn Derwyn's field. Garry was their eleven-year-old wannabe player, a groupie, almost the only spectator the rag-tag college-age participants ever drew except for their girlfriends, and they only showed up on sunny days.

  I told my son I'd love to see his film.

  "Good deal," he said. "Bye."

  My husband came back on. "Everything else alright?" I asked.

  "We miss you."

  "Me too." No need to say more.

  THE PROSPECTIVE FATHER in the waiting area twitched and fidgeted until I got so antsy I had to leave. Down in the Tidewater Cafe, I had a turkey sandwich and lemonade then asked for directions to a waiting room with a television. On Sunday afternoon it was bound to be tuned to the Tomcats/Eagles game. One eager volunteer alerted another of my whereabouts so when there was any news regarding Michelle and the baby, someone could come get me. “The father plays quarterback,” I explained.

  No plywood storks, no daddys jumping out of their skin, just a comfortable chair, an overhead TV without sound and an older gentleman sitting quietly in a corner. He and I acknowledged each other with a nod.

  "Sister broke her hip," he told me.

  "Cousin's having a baby. Premature," I said. Then, waving my head toward the game on TV, I added, "Her husband plays for the Tomcats."

  That earned me a warm, crooked smile. Once a tall man, his stature had obviously dwindled. Once, too, his skin must have been smooth and unmarred by liver spots, the hair across his narrow head a vigorous blond or brown. I noticed that he wore gum-soled shoes, a plaid shirt and a tan jacket that was too thin for outdoors and too warm for the room.

  "Nice win last week," I remarked.

  The man sniffed as if I’d said something offensive. "Houston's corner really screwed up covering Smith. Killed their spirit."

  "You're referring to the Tomcats' third touchdown?"

  My companion flinched with surprise. "You noticed that?"

  "Sure," I told him. "If the guy had eyes in the back of his head, maybe he'd have seen he wasn't going to get any help. But he didn't, so Smith just zigged and ran."

  We beamed at each other.

  "Fred Wyznicki," he said as he offered me a dry hand.

  "Gin Barnes."

  "Most people probably thanked the Tomcats' coaching for that one," my new buddy remarked. "How do you know the game so well?"

  I ex
plained about my father. "How about you?"

  "Played."

  Jackpot. "Listen," I opened. "All week I've been thinking something went on during that game, something odd. What do you think?

  "Odd like how?"

  "Odd enough to get Tim Duffy killed."

  "Pshew. So much happened. Laneer pulled Cross out. Dionne screwed up. Turner got the wind knocked outta him–twice." Fred shook his head.

  I told him I heard that Duffy changed the last touchdown play from a run to a pass.

  Fred shook his head. "Good thing, wouldn't you say?"

  I would, but would everybody? Tim Duffy had looked unusually intense going into that play, and I still wanted to find out why.

  What I really needed to do was watch the game film again, preferably with Ronnie. He had been on the sideline, after all. With a little prompting maybe he would remember something that fit with the information I'd gathered during the week. Or maybe the answer would simply leap out at me.

  A nurse came to collect my waiting-room companion, and before he departed we wished each other luck like two dear old friends.

  For another nerve-wracking hour, mostly by myself, I watched the Eagles annihilate the Tomcat's defense and thwart Doug's best efforts to orchestrate a score. I scanned the sideline every chance I got, but the TV camera rarely shared any of the off-field activity.

  With luck, the footage Ronnie and his crew shot last week would include much more. As historians of the game, they made an effort to record the whole drama, so if there had been an interesting emotional response, there was a chance that they caught it.

  Since the Tomcats were losing 28–7 in the fourth quarter, the volunteer found me slouched in my chair with my eyes half closed.

  I jumped out of my seat as if I'd been bit. "What? What happened?"

  "Your cousin had a little girl," the woman informed me. "Everybody's fine," she added. "But they've got the baby in NICU just to be sure."

  "Thank you," I told her. I could scarcely refrain from hugging the passing visitors as I bounded back upstairs.

  Chapter 21

  THE PLYWOOD stork and I kept company a few minutes while Michelle was settled into her room. I had time to notice that the stork's jacket and hat were blue and that he wore a slightly surprised expression, but I tried not to read too much into either.

  Again, Michelle's accommodations were private and nicely appointed with a maple dresser, a small round table and chairs, a chintz-covered sofa and more Mary Cassatt on the textured walls. The new mother sat up in bed, looking alert and pleased.

  "Congratulations," I said, squeezing her hand rather than opting for a hug. We were sharing mile-wide grins, and I didn't want to break that off.

  "Thanks," said Michelle, her whole being exuding happiness in spite of her exhaustion. The battle scars, the fatigue, the litany of anxieties–none of them could ever fully overshadow the lifelong baseline of joy, not unless something went drastically, drastically wrong. Given a choice, I doubted that even the women who endured the worst of motherhood would say they'd have preferred not to have been a mother at all.

  "She's a miracle, Gin, the most beautiful baby girl in the whole world."

  “Do you have a name yet?”

  "Probably Jody," Michelle responded, "but I'm going to let Doug decide when he sees her. Who's winning the game, by the way?"

  "What game?"

  "Tomcats," she laughed.

  I hit my head with a palm, pretending to chastise myself for temporarily forgetting why Doug wasn't there. "Eagles were winning twenty-eight to seven ten minutes ago."

  "Poor Doug."

  "I wouldn't say that. Not today."

  "You're right," Michelle agreed, smiling again.

  "Am I allowed to go see her?" I asked.

  "Of course. Come right back though, okay?"

  Michelle wasn't quite finished sharing her joy; and I wasn't quite finished basking in it. No matter what else happened, I would always thank Ronnie for this day–December 14, the day his niece was born and his little sister and I cemented the bond we’d been working on all week.

  The hall on the way to the Pediatric Acute Care unit wore more fresh wallpaper in a pattern that looked like painted strings. A sign on the double wooden door said, "Important! Radio Frequency ventilator in use. PLEASE No phones or other electronic devices beyond this point! Thank you." Another sign instructed me to press a button and look into a shoulder-high camera lens.

  A nurse wearing magenta scrubs showed me in. She was pleasant-faced and contagiously calm, perfect for her job.

  "The Turner baby?" I asked.

  "Right this way." Two units down the row she stopped and flourished her hand. "Here she is."

  I noted the low-sided, hip-high bed covered with a pink blanket. Lying front and center on a loose diaper lay a tiny, red/brown newborn with little hair and many wrinkles. A small clear plastic oxygen tent on a thin metal frame covered her tiny head. Barely more than a handful, Baby Jody seemed loaded down with tubes and wires.

  "What does she weigh?" I asked the nurse who had remained to admire the newborn.

  "Three and a half pounds, not bad for thirty-two weeks. Could've been worse."

  Beside us an alarm went off, a cross between a buzzer and a whistle. I jumped and stared at the boy next door. The nurse laughed.

  "He's fine. Just look at him. Those alarms go off all the time. We have to teach the mothers not to panic just because one of the babies wiggled."

  I realized then that the room was full of noise, mostly mechanical in nature.

  "So if the baby looks okay she probably is?"

  "Right."

  I breathed easier. "What is all that stuff?" I finally asked.

  "Okay. See the wire taped to her abdomen?"

  I looked until I identified the attachment she meant.

  "That's a control for the radiant warmer, a thermostat for the bed, in other words. Warmth is especially important for a preemie, so we dry them off as quickly as we can. That stimulates their circulation, too. It's critical that they start circulating on their own, independent of their mother. If they're cold, some of them don't make that transition. The radiant warmer adjusts for whatever the baby needs."

  "Looks like the thermostat in my oven."

  "That's pretty much the idea."

  "What about the white things on her chest?" Three patches held wires in place that led to a computerized monitor.

  "Heart rate and respiration." The nurse tapped the large blue screen with its lines and blips. "The bandaid sort of thing around her ankle is for the Pulseox, this other monitor. That gives us a reading on the percentage of oxygen she's getting."

  "How about the belly button one?" An IV cord seemed to go from the baby's umbilical stub to a drip bag over on a hook.

  "We don't feed the babies right away, so that's for fluids–and antibiotics if she needs them." Then the nurse seemed to read my mind. "She's doing great. It may take awhile, but I think she's going to be fine."

  "Really?" Tears had sprung into my eyes, and I wiped them away with a knuckle.

  The nurse blinked at me then looked back at Michelle and Doug's tiny child. "None of the stuff you're looking at is unusual for a preemie. Plus she's a little girl. Girls have better statistics than little boys."

  Surprised, I blurted, "Why?"

  The nurse shrugged. "We don't know. They just do. Little black girls fare the best; little white boys do the worst."

  I told her “thanks” as she moved down the row. She nodded and picked up a chart, smiled as she reached for a diaper.

  I spent a final lingering look at the baby imagining what her life might be like–rattles and applesauce, crayons and ABCs, boyfriends and proms and before you knew it a wedding and a family of her own. Maybe.

  Then I wondered what would happen if her father got accused of murder even before they released this precious new person from Pediatric Acute Care. Fear of that had already threatened her well-being, and for better or worse
I’d been asked to do whatever I could to help. Maybe my agenda wasn’t precisely what my relatives had in mind, but maybe in the privacy of their hopes and prayers it was. Not that that mattered. As my husband found out the hard way, getting me to quit something I’d taken on was like trying to loosen a pit bull attached to your arm with super-glue. My cousin Ronnie put best. “Stubbornness isn’t one of our family traits, it’s our only trait.”

  Telepathically, I promised our newest member to do my best, sealed the deal with an air-kiss, and tore myself away.

  When I got back to Michelle’s room, I assured the new mother that she had indeed given birth to the most beautiful baby in the entire world.”

  That decided, there were plans to make. "Doug's going to be here tonight..." I began.

  "Yes, about seven-thirty. We just talked.” My cousin’s cheeks pinked up with anticipation.

  "That's great," I said. "Soooo you really don't need me here anymore."

  Doug's mother, Rene, would surely come east to help Michelle with the baby, neighbors would rally, the women from the shower were nearby and willing.

  “Well...” Michelle waffled.

  "So, if you don’t mind,” I pressed on. “I'd like to catch a plane back to Philly.”

  Michelle reached her hand toward mine. "You've been great, Gin, and I'm sure you'd like to get home to Rip and the kids. Go ahead. Do whatever you need to do."

  I certainly did miss my family, but first I intended to meet with her brother. The Norfolk police would still be all over Doug the second they heard the story behind Coren's suicide, and the only way to prevent that disaster I was to hand them an even more likely suspect. Reviewing Ronnie's game film was my best and perhaps only hope.

  Michelle and I parted with teary promises to keep in touch, and I found my way back to the telephone cubbyhole near the waiting room. There I made my flight reservation and arranged for the airport shuttle to pick me up back at Michelle's house. I also called home.

  Garry answered.

  "It didn't work," he complained as if our last conversation had never ended.