by Kennedy Ryan
She was worth it.
I know it’s unwise and I’ll pay for it soon, but I open my heart to this little girl, and like a flood, she rushes in. She squeezes herself into every inch, pervading any available space until a pressure builds in my chest and explodes in a sob.
“Oh, God.” Tears sluice down my cheeks, imprinting joy on my face. “She’s beautiful.”
I look up to find Grip looking at me the way I must be looking at her—like she’s a miracle I’m going to hold on to as long as I can.
“Beautiful,” he agrees, the tips of his long lashes damp with tears.
“I can’t believe I passed out.” I look back to Zoe, determined to absorb as much of her as I can while I have her.
“Between the drugs and the fatigue, I’m surprised you weren’t out longer. It was just for a few minutes, not long at all.” Grip eases himself down on the bed beside me, sheltering us with his arm over our heads on the pillow. “The nurses said it happens.”
“You cut the cord?” I pry my eyes away from her long enough to catch my husband’s smile, pride shining from every pore.
“Yeah, I did,” he says softly. “It was amazing.”
“Good.”
We both turn when the door opens. Dr. Wagner enters, her face a careful mask of polite concern. A nurse follows closely behind.
“How are we doing?” Dr. Wagner asks, picking up the chart hanging at the end of my bed.
“Okay.” I meet her eyes frankly, gratefully. “I know you weren’t sure we made the right decision, but thank you for getting her here.”
“It wasn’t that, Bristol.” A smile breaks through her professional façade. “That decision can only lie with the parents. It’s my job to make sure you have all the facts and know exactly what a decision entails.”
I glance back down at Zoe and then to Grip. The reality presses in on us. We can’t hide from the end that looms somewhere in the distance, though we don’t know how close.
“With that said,” Dr. Wagner continues, “you know time is short.”
Her words, though true, puncture the joy I managed to find holding Zoe. Some part of me wants to pretend this is a normal birth, that any minute now, my baby will start rooting around, searching for my breasts, already heavy with milk. I want to believe we need to scramble to get a car seat because she came a month early and we were caught off guard and now we have to take her home, but we won’t get to take her home.
“I know your family is outside waiting. As soon as you’re comfortable, if there’s anyone you want to meet Zoe,” Dr. Wagner says gently, “you should bring them in soon.”
“We will.” Grip brushes a thumb across the plump curve of Zoe’s cheek. “Thanks, doc.”
“She’s beautiful,” the doctor says, her eyes on Zoe. “I better go make my rounds. If you need anything, let me know.”
When she leaves, I notice a purple feather on the door.
“What’s the feather for?” I ask the nurse checking Zoe’s vitals.
“Pardon?” Her eyes flick from me to Grip in that carefully calm way that tells me she knows who we are, or rather who Grip is. Nobody cares who I am, and that’s fine by me. We secured this whole section of the wing to ourselves, and there are no other patients nearby. This day is hard enough without the threat of cameras or other patients stumbling into our privacy.
“The feather,” I repeat, pointing to the one hanging on the knob. “Does it mean anything?”
The nurse shifts her feet and her eyes, avoiding the probing look and the question.
“It’s just something we do so the staff knows how to conduct themselves,” she says evasively.
“Knows what?” Grip asks. “I walked the halls some earlier and didn’t see it on any of the other doors.”
She glances at Zoe before answering.
“We hang a purple feather on the door when the baby is a demise so the staff all remain sensitive to the situation,” she says, her voice soft with sympathy.
A demise.
It sounds cold and final, when my baby is anything but as she lies in my arms. She feels warm and alive. It feels like the whole world is waiting for a demise when I’m begging for a miracle.
“So would you like to start bringing in family and friends?” she asks, obviously wanting to move past the awkward moment that still has me squirming painfully like a deer caught in a sharp-toothed trap.
“Hold on one second,” I say. “I want to do something first.”
With a glance at Grip, I gently lift the cap away from Zoe’s head. I don’t hide my flaws from Grip, and he loves me unconditionally. He doesn’t hide his from me because he knows I love him with the same immutable heart. Our daughter, for as long as she’s here with us, deserves no less.
I want to see her flaws because I know I’ll love her just the same.
It’s hard to look. Without the hat, the illusion that she’s like every other newborn disappears with a cruel sleight of hand and confirms what the ultrasound showed us months ago. There are parts of her missing. A thin membrane covers the parts of her brain that developed, but it’s not pretty.
Even so, she’s ours.
“You okay?” Grip asks, his shoulders tight as if he’s braced for a blow.
“Yeah.” I pull the little cap back into place, even though I’ll never forget what lies beneath. “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”
Relief loosens the muscles in his neck and shoulders, loosens the frown from his face.
“She is.” He drops a kiss on the little cap on Zoe’s head. “Now let’s introduce her to everybody.”
It’s not everybody, but it’s that nucleus of people who have supported us. It’s Ms. James, of course, Rhys, Kai, Amir, Jimmi, Luke, and even Jade. The nurse takes pictures of them all holding Zoe, some wearing tear-dampened smiles.
When my parents come, Rhyson stiffly greets them before stepping out of the room. Christmas dinner was okay. He and our father are doing better; he and our mother . . . better. The family counseling sessions have helped, but there is enough tension in the room without their unresolved issues adding to it.
My mother watches the door close behind Rhyson and sighs before turning her attention to me.
“How are you?” she asks, her eyes dry and steady on my face.
“As well as can be expected.” I shrug, running a self-conscious hand over my nest of hair, licking my lips and wishing for a little color. An army of friends, family, nurses, and doctors have come through and I haven’t thought twice, but without a word, this one woman reminds me that I’m probably not presentable. She’s flawless as usual.
“You want to hold her, Angela?” Grip asks. “Your husband just took his picture.”
“Where is he?” Mother looks around the room.
“He went to talk to Rhyson.” Grip clears his throat when my mother’s face falls. It’s a sore spot for her that Rhyson has extended forgiveness to my father but still barely tolerates her. Of the two, she cracked the whip hardest when Rhyson was a child. She gave him prescription drugs to cope with his anxiety, and when he was addicted, she delayed getting him help because she didn’t understand how serious it was.
“Yes, let’s get the picture.” She takes Zoe, and at first her arms are wooden, her posture arrow straight. Then, when she looks down at her granddaughter for the first time, maybe for the last, her face softens and her mouth quivers. Her body curves protectively around the little blanketed bundle. I’m astounded to see a tear skate over her powdered cheek. Then my mother does what no one else has dared to do. She inches the hat back to see Zoe just as she is. She looks up at me, and tears spring to my eyes at what I see on her face—not the agony I’ve seen with some, not the shadow of death, but awe.
“She’s wonderful, Bristol,” she says, blinking rapidly against more tears. “And of all the things you’ve done, I’ve never been prouder of you than I am right now.”
I can only nod because my throat is clogged, my lips sealed. My mother is flawed, but I
stopped my running tally of her mistakes long ago. The list got too long and just became a record of my bitterness. Despite all of that and as much as we’ve clashed through the years, I am an offshoot of this tree. I hope I grew straighter and that my roots have gone deeper. I hope my branches will reach wider, offering shelter that my mother often withheld, but if I ever have the breadth of a sequoia or the strength of a sycamore, watching her study my daughter with unflinching love, I know Angela Gray is the tree where I began.
The nurse patiently takes more pictures with everyone while they hold Zoe and some with Grip and me.
“We’ll put these in Zoe’s memory box,” she says when the room is empty of everyone except Ms. James, Rhyson, and Kai.
“Thank you.” An ache fists my heart in an ironclad grasp as I take Zoe from Ms. James. A sharp, deeply drawn breath lifts Zoe’s chest, and everyone in the room goes completely still.
“Is she okay?” I ask the nurse, fear icicling my blood. “What was that?”
“It’s what we call an agonal gasp.” She steps closer, pressing a stethoscope to Zoe’s tiny chest. “It’s not out of the ordinary.”
Agonal? How can it be considered ordinary for an infant to be in agony?
“Can I listen?” I ask, eyeing the stethoscope.
She hesitates before nodding and passing the instrument to me. I put one ear piece in my ear and Grip grabs the other, with the chest piece resting on Zoe’s tiny torso. We listen to her heart in stereo, our eyes meeting in shared awe that we made her together, in shared fear that, any minute now, she’ll be taken as quickly as she came. We fear that this little mallet in her chest pounding a steady rhythm is the only thing standing between our happiness and complete destruction.
The defiant little thump thump thump of Zoe’s heartbeat caresses my ears. It’s the sound of her life persisting, surprisingly strong, but I know how fragile she is. It’s written on the nurse’s face in lines of sympathy.
“You said . . .” My courage falters, but I gather it between my lips again and force myself to ask the question plaguing me. “You called it an agonal gasp. Is she in . . . well, is she in pain?”
As if we’re one, I feel Grip holding his breath just like me as I wait for her response. If Zoe’s in pain, I did this. If she’s in pain, was I selfish to want her? To want to meet her? To hold her?
“Research tells us that an anencephalic infant feels no pain because the part of the brain that communicates pain isn’t developed,” the nurse replies, stowing the camera on a side table and turning to face us. “Doctors will tell you they are just reflexive, vegetative, and feel nothing at all.”
She leans forward, looking around like she’s about to share a secret. “But I don’t believe that,” she whispers.
“You don’t?” Grip’s question is covered in the same dread that lines my insides as we wait. “You think they feel?”
“I know they do.” She smiles even as tears fill her eyes. “They feel your love.”
Grip looks down at me, a slow smile flowing from his eyes to his lips, and nods to her.
“Thank you,” he says.
“If everyone has seen her,” the nurse continues, her tone pivoting back to kind professionalism. “I need to ask if you want . . .”
Her words stall, but then she takes a deep breath and goes on.
“Do you have a family priest or minister? Your birth plan didn’t reference one, but I thought I’d ask.” Her face is gentle but deliberately blank. “Do you want last rites?”
Oh, God. I can’t do this.
The realization pounds from inside my head, slamming against my temples, pushing against my chest, banging at my lips from the dry interior of my mouth. The words want out. They want all these people who think I’m capable of letting my baby go to know it’s a lie.
I cannot.
Who the hell did I think I was? Why did I assume I was strong enough for this? I’m contemplating how exactly to let them know I can’t do this, that we need to find a way to stop this spiral. I need off this ride, out of this nightmare. I need to wake up in a cold sweat beside my husband in our bed, pregnant. This bad dream can’t be my life because I won’t survive it.
“Um, we don’t really have a minister, per se,” Grip responds to the nurse. He glances at me, and even though his voice remains even, the same panic rises in his eyes, unvoiced. “We . . . I guess we could . . .”
“I’m sure there’s a hospital chaplain,” Kai speaks up, reminding me we’re not alone. She, Rhyson, and Ms. James watch us carefully, like we might blow at any minute.
“I could call Pastor Robinson,” Ms. James volunteers. “He baptized you, Grip, when you were a little boy.”
Grip looks uncertain, wrestling for a moment and then looking to me.
“What do you think, Bris?” He searches my face, eyes tortured and voice low. “What do you want?”
We painstakingly crafted that birth plan, taking every step and every minute into account, but neither of us really have any faith. Last rites never occurred to us, and it never came up. I haven’t given much thought to what happens when you die. You die, you’re gone. But as I look into Zoe’s eyes, the exact color of mine, and as I see my DNA mingled with Grip’s in this little girl, that’s inadequate.
I search the circle of faces waiting for me to express something I’m not sure of, until my eyes land on Kai. I don’t have faith. I’ve never pretended I did, but today, I need to believe in something. I need to believe this isn’t the end for my baby girl, that when she breathes her last and she’s lain in the ground, she doesn’t just go to dust.
“What do you think happens next, Kai?” I ask, my eyes locked onto hers for any sign of doubt. “What do you think happens if Zoe dies today?”
Her eyes widen, but never waver, and I realize how easy it is to underestimate her. I know she has soaring ambition, of course; I’m her manager. I know her drive would put anyone to shame; I’ve seen her work ethic in action. What I didn’t realize until right now is what drew my brother to her, beyond the talent and her beautiful face. At her core, there’s something unshakeable, something that if tested, holds, and I need it right now.
“I think she goes to heaven,” Kai says, her voice strong and sure.
“Your daddy told you that?” I ask, lifting one brow. “You said he taught you most of what you believe about God.”
“Yeah, he did.” She looks at the floor and then up to the ceiling, exasperation twisting her lips before she returns to me. “He may not have lived everything he preached, but I never doubted that he believed it, and I do, too.”
“What did he say . . . I mean, well, did he have anything to say about babies like Zoe?”
Kai’s eyes don’t leave my face, but I can tell her mind turns back, back to some memory.
“When I was a kid, my best friend’s little sister only lived for a day.” Kai bites her lip before continuing. “We were so excited all those months her mama was carrying her, and for days I cried after the baby passed away.”
I glance down at Zoe, noting how still she’s gotten, how shallow her breaths have become, and my heart rests on the jagged edge of Kai’s faith, on her next words . . . borrowed faith for a little girl on borrowed time.
“Daddy told me this world is dark and dirty and hard.” She huffs a laugh comprised of cynicism and grudging admiration. “That’s how he talked to me, a little girl, about faith. He was ruthlessly honest about it, and he said these babies were the purest thing God had to offer. They never got tainted by this world. They’re here just long enough to give us a glimpse of heaven, a glimpse of glory. He called them glory babies.”
Tears slide into the corners of my mouth, drowning the sad smile. The nurse’s lips purse and her eyes pinch with the effort to keep her face neutral, but I know. I don’t need her stethoscope to tell me what my heart already knows: Zoe’s leaving me.
I huddle deeper into Grip’s shoulder. Beneath my head he’s solid ground, but his chest quakes with a tremor
and his tears dampen my hair when he buries his face in my neck. He always says he can’t take my tears, but the sound of the sobs he’s restraining, trying to protect me from his own heartbreak, rends my soul.
We’re a mess.
And I suspect this is just the beginning. We got her here, but I’m not strong enough to live in the empty space she’ll leave behind.
“Glory babies,” I whisper, sniffing and pulling Zoe’s little cap back and off, not caring if Ms. James or my brother or Kai aren’t prepared for what lies beneath. Her last moments on this earth will be in my arms just as she is, in her purity, in her glory. As she came into this world, that’s how she’ll leave. She has nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide.
Our glory baby.
“Would you say the last rites, Kai?” The words cling to the inside of my throat, fighting against being spoken.
“I’m not a . . . well, that’s to say, I can’t . . .” She looks over her shoulder at Rhyson, whose eyes are as wet and tortured as ours. He nods his encouragement, but Kai’s expression remains helpless when she turns back to face us. “I’m not a priest, Bristol.”
“I don’t want a priest,” I snap, the fierce response rearing from my weariness. “I want someone who believes what they’re saying. Do you or do you not believe my baby is going to heaven? To glory?”
