The Baby Gift

by Bethany Campbell

  “She could—she could…”

  Briana started to cry. Josh put his hand over his eyes. “Okay,” he told her raggedly. “You don’t have to say it. What can be done? What can I do?”

  She seemed to pull herself together, but she still sounded shattered. “Can you come home? I mean come here?”

  “Yes. Yes. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll book a flight as soon as I can. But what can we do for her?”

  “Oh, Josh,” she said, despair naked in her voice, “I’ve thought and thought. I think there’s only one thing. One thing in the world.”

  “What? I’d do anything. You know that.”

  She was silent a long moment. He knew she was having trouble speaking.

  At last she whispered, “To save her, I think we have to have another baby.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  JOSH WAS STUNNED, stupefied.

  “What?” he said.

  “I—I said,” she stammered, “I—I think we have to have another baby. To save her.”

  “Another baby.” He repeated the words, but they made no sense. They fell like great, meaningless stones on his consciousness.

  Briana began to talk, low and swiftly. She said Nealie had something called Yates’s Anemia.

  Josh had never so much as heard of such a disease. Now she was telling him his child—their child—might die of it.

  “It’ll lead to aplastic anemia,” Briana said. “Her blood count’s unstable. Her system can’t fight infection. She gets tired too easily. She bruises too easily. When she’s cut, she doesn’t heal right. She could have complete bone marrow failure. Or other diseases. Even—stroke.”

  Stroke? How could so young a child have a stroke?

  He shook his head to clear it. Briana sounded as if she were on automatic pilot now, as if she’d rehearsed saying this to him a hundred times. Her words tumbled out in a breathless rush.

  “Wait,” he begged her. “You’re sure of all this?”

  “Yes. Yes. I took her to a doctor in St. Louis. She had a complete blood count and a—a chromosome test. It had to be sent away to a special lab. She has what they call chromosome breakage. It’s Yates’s anemia and it’s life-threatening. It’s one of the hereditary anemias.”

  He put his hand on his bare stomach because he was starting to feel physically ill. “She inherited it?”

  My God, he thought, was it from me? Did I somehow give my own child a death sentence?

  Briana seemed to read his thoughts. “Yes. But, listen, Josh. She had to inherit it from both of us. We—we both carry a recessive gene.”

  “Briana—I don’t get it. This runs in both our families? I never heard of it.”

  “Neither did I. It’s recessive—and rare. Very rare. We couldn’t have known.”

  We couldn’t have known. He knew she meant to comfort him, but he felt no comfort, only a growing desperation.

  Briana went on as if possessed. “Her bone marrow isn’t at failure stage—yet. It might not fail for years. Or it might start tomorrow. There’s no predicting it. But she hasn’t been well, Josh. Not well at all…”

  She talked about strange drugs he’d never heard of. She used terms that sounded as mysterious as witchcraft. But everything she said boiled down to one fact—for Nealie’s illness there was no simple cure and no sure one.

  The best chance was a transplant involving either marrow or umbilical cord blood. By far the best donor of either would be a healthy sibling.

  Nealie had no sibling.

  Briana paused, then plunged on again. “If she has a crisis, she’ll need a donor immediately. But finding a match can take months, years. We need to find a donor before a crisis occurs.”

  “I understand that,” he said. “But how much time are we talking here? It’s inevitable this disease gets worse?”

  “Yes. It’s inevitable.” In her voice resignation warred with determination to fight.

  Josh swallowed. “So…how long could she live?”

  He heard her take a deep breath. “Without a perfect donor? The average life expectancy is—she’d live to be fifteen. Maybe longer. Maybe not. She’s—already outlived some children who’ve had it.”

  A shifting blackness wavered before his eyes. He shut his eyes and began to think, God, God, God. He didn’t know if he was cursing or praying.

  He said, “With a perfect donor?”

  “She might get well.”

  Might, he thought, pressing his eyes shut harder.

  Briana said, “So I’ve thought about it, Josh. I’ve thought about all of it. The best chance for her—is for us to have another baby.”

  He fought to think. “But we both carry this gene. We could have another child who’s sick.”

  “No. There are ways to make sure we have one who’s healthy.”

  He frowned, eyes still shut. “What do you mean?”

  “Josh, I’ve talked to the doctors about it. I mean, it can be done. It’s complicated to explain. It’ll be easier to talk about it face-to-face.”

  “Just tell me.”

  She was silent a moment. “We don’t even have to touch each other. We can have my eggs artificially inseminated.”

  His eyes snapped open in shock. “What?”

  “There are tests,” she said. “The doctors can tell if there’s a healthy embryo that’s a match for Nealie. If there is, they can implant it in me—”

  This was crazy, Josh thought. This was mad-scientist stuff, fantasies out of a future world.

  Was she really saying they’d have a child but they wouldn’t touch? That under the cold lights of a lab, strangers would quicken the eggs into life without either of them being there? And that then tests—not nature—would decide which of these tiny entities would survive and which would not?

  Something deep within him rebelled.

  “You want us to play God, Briana?”

  “Josh, it’s for Nealie.” Her voice broke, and with it so did his heart. There was no answering her argument.

  Still, he tried. “Look, I love her, too. You know that. But have you thought about—”

  “I’ve thought of nothing else.”

  “Briana, let’s talk this over—”

  “I can’t talk much longer right now or people will get suspicious. Rupert’s already banging on the door.”

  Josh could hear him. Larry’s boys were little louts, and they were the plague of Nealie’s life.

  Oh, God. Nealie’s life. Nealie’s life.

  “Aunt Briana, come out!” It was Rupert’s voice. “Neville made the cat throw up!”

  Josh furrowed his brow in concentration, as he tried to block out the kid. He said, “Briana, tell me one thing. Does Nealie know how sick she is? Does she suspect?”

  “No. I told her all the testing was for allergies. I told everyone that. I’ve lied to the whole world. Only you know the truth. Oh, Josh, please come home. Together maybe we can save her.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Rupert was banging louder. Josh heard Briana shush him. “Nealie’s asleep,” she told the boy. “Be quiet. You’ll wake her.”

  “Nealie’s a wimp,” Rupert shouted. “I didn’t mean to give her a nosebleed. I said I was sorry.”

  Alarm and anger rose in Josh. “A nosebleed?”

  “She gets them all the time,” Briana said wearily. “I made her lie on the couch with a cold cloth on her face. She fell asleep. I put her to bed. She has no energy lately.” To Rupert, she said, “Rupert, stop that. If you wake Nealie, you’ll be in real trouble.” To Josh she said, “I’ve got to go. And I’ve got to pull myself together before I face them. I’ve been dreading telling you this. I’m sorry, Josh. So sorry.”

  “Tell Nealie I love her and that I’m coming home. I’ll let you know when as soon as I get a flight.”

  “Thank you. Josh. Goodbye.”

  She sounded almost humble—his proud, cheerful, independent Briana.

  The line went dead. He sat for a moment,
then hung up the phone on its gold-colored hook.

  His head swam with sorrow and shock. He did something he had not done since he was eleven years old. He put his face into his hands and wept.

  RUPERT WAS JOINED at the door by his brother Neville, who began to kick. “Aunt Bri, Aunt Bri,” Neville called. “You’ve gotta come. The cat threw up. Mama tried to clean it up, but she started to get sick. And Marsh spilled root beer on Grandpa’s pants.”

  Briana was torn between laughter and weeping in despair. It was all surreal—the downstairs decked with balloons and streamers, her rambunctious nephews, the tormented cat, the nauseated sister-in-law, her father with his pants full of root beer.

  She fought the hysteria and dashed the tears from her eyes. She forced her mouth to stop quivering and by sheer willpower composed herself.

  Josh was coming home. That’s what was important. He would help her face the tumultuous emotions, the terrifying decisions about Nealie. As for her feelings about Josh, she could not worry about that now.

  She swung open the door and looked at her two oldest nephews. “Rupert,” she said calmly, “you are never to batter this door again. Or any door in this house. Or anything else.”

  Rupert looked hangdog. He often disobeyed his mother, but Briana had a steely moral force that could wither him when she got him eye to eye.

  “I thought you’d want to know about the cat,” he said sulkily.

  “I got the message the first time you said it.” She swung to face the other boy. “The same goes for you, Neville. In my house, no kicking.”

  “Daddy sent me to get you,” Neville said righteously. “He said he wasn’t going to clean up after that old cat. And Grandpa needs—needs soda pop for his pants.”

  Briana deciphered this. “You mean club soda. Let’s go downstairs.”

  “Can Nealie get up and play?” Neville asked.

  “No. She needs her rest.”

  “Why’s she always gotta rest?” Neville asked, hopping heavily down the stairs. “I don’t have to rest. I’m not even tired. I could go all night.”

  “I wasn’t trying to hit Nealie,” Rupert whined. “Her nose got in front of my fist, that’s all. I was showing her how to box.”

  “Well, don’t,” Briana ordered and herded both boys into the living room.

  “There you are,” her brother, Larry, said almost accusingly. “Help me with Dad’s pants.” He stood by the sink tearing off great swaths of paper towel and handing them to Leo Hanlon, who looked bewildered.

  The scene was as chaotic as Briana had feared. Glenda, her sister-in-law, was three months pregnant and lying on the couch, her feet up on a cushion. Her face had a greenish cast.

  She smiled weakly. “Hi, Briana. Have you got a cracker or something? To settle my stomach?”

  Little Marsh toddled toward Briana with an empty plastic mug. “More root beer,” he said. “More root beer.”

  “No more root beer,” Larry said. “You ruined these pants. These are your good pants, aren’t they, Dad? Your Sunday pants?

  “I just had ’em cleaned,” said Leo and did his best to glower at Marsh. Marsh glowered far more fearsomely.

  Briana marched into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a bottle of club soda. She thrust it into her father’s hands. “There. Go into the bathroom and scrub those pants.”

  “How do I get them dry?” Leo asked with a helpless air.

  “Use the hair dryer,” Briana said. “It’s under the sink.”

  “I’ll get scorched,” Leo complained.

  “Take off your pants and then dry them,” Briana said.

  “Oh. Well. I would have thought of that. Of course.” He took the club soda and went into the bathroom.

  Larry leaned against the closed door and looked at Briana. He waggled his brows. “I bet Harve Oldman would love it if you told him to take off his pants. He’d probably pass out with happiness.”

  Briana said nothing. Harve Oldman was a neighboring farmer, a bachelor and a would-be suitor. She had cut off all contact with him as soon as she knew Nealie was sick.

  “Where is good old Harve, anyhow?” Larry asked. “He hasn’t been around lately.”

  Briana still said nothing. She reached into the cupboard and pulled out the box of soda crackers. As she arranged half a dozen on a plate, Larry gave her a friendly leer. “I mean Harve’s well off. And he’s got the hots for you.”

  “Please,” Briana said. “The cat is nauseated, your wife is nauseated. Don’t make it three of us.”

  Larry shrugged. “Easy to love a rich man as a poor man.”

  She didn’t answer. She carried the crackers to Glenda, who forced herself into a sitting position and began to nibble.

  Briana put her hands on her hips and surveyed the living room. “Where’s the cat?”

  “Hiding from Neville,” Rupert said. “Neville dragged Zorro out from behind the washer and held him upside down and shook him.”

  Glenda gave an apologetic smile over the cracker. “I told him not to.”

  “Boys will be boys.” Larry shrugged. Then he squinted at Briana. “Who you talking to for so long on the phone?” he asked. “The whole family’s here.”

  “It was personal,” said Briana, getting disinfectant and cleaning cloths from the pantry.

  Larry shrugged again and said, “Poppa figured it was Josh. He said he knows that look you get on your face when the phone rings and it’s Josh.”

  “I said it was personal.” Briana set about cleaning up the mess the cat had made. The boys were chasing each other around the dining room table.

  “You boys be quiet,” Glenda said from the couch.

  “Ah, let ’em alone,” Larry told her.

  The boys chased on.

  “Don’t those sons of guns got energy?” Larry said with a proud laugh.

  I can last until they’ve all gone home, Briana told herself. It became her mantra for surviving the rest of the night. Till they’ve all gone home.

  AT LAST, the little house was empty of its guests. Her father returned to the main farmhouse, where he had lived all his life. Her brother and his family went home to the neighboring house Larry had built when he’d married.

  Briana lived in the house that years ago had belonged to Uncle Collin, her father’s bachelor brother. It was far smaller than the others, only two bedrooms, but it was set nicely apart from the main house, and its simplicity suited her.

  Now it was quiet, blessedly so. She washed the last of the dishes and put them away. Still restless, she got out the ladder and took down all the balloons and the crepe-paper streamers.

  There. It was her normal, peaceful little house again. She made herself a cup of hot chocolate and sat down on the couch to savor the hush that had at last settled.

  Zorro came padding soundlessly from behind the washer. He leaped to the couch and settled heavily into her lap, thrumming with his almost silent purr.

  “Poor Zorro,” Briana whispered. “Neville got you, hmm? Poor kitty.” She scratched him between his black ears.

  Briana loved her family, but she was glad they were gone.

  She could not tell them of Nealie’s illness. She could not. She knew some of this was simple, cowardly denial. Every person who knew Nealie was sick made her sickness seem more real.

  Nobody would treat Nealie the same, or Briana, either. The boys would not understand, and they might say wounding things to Nealie. Glenda would be too sympathetic, and Larry wouldn’t want to talk about it at all. He wouldn’t know how to deal with it.

  And her father—her father’s heart would break. He was a sentimental man, especially when it came to his family, and he worried incessantly over his loved ones. Larry was big and strong and a hard worker but, unlike Briana, he’d never done well in school. Neither was he skilled with people. He talked too loudly, made inappropriate jokes, and he could be chauvinistic.

  Glenda, his wife, was sweet and docile. This was her fourth pregnancy in s
ix years, and she was always exhausted. Leo Hanlon wanted his son to hire a woman to come in and help Glenda, but Larry said it was her job, she should do it.

  And although Leo was proud of his big, sturdy, handsome grandsons, he fretted about their rowdiness. He could by God control them. So could Briana. Why wouldn’t their parents? Leo fumed and grumbled at Larry, but nothing changed.

  Leo’s favorite grandchild was Nealie. Larry couldn’t understand this. After all, Nealie wasn’t big, strong or good-looking. Worse than that, she was only a girl.

  But Leo had never been able to resist his granddaughter’s spirit or smile. He fondly nicknamed her Funnyface. He was proud of her intelligence and imagination—he adored her. To know how ill she was would destroy him.

  No, Briana wouldn’t tell them. How could she? She wouldn’t say anything until another child was clearly on the way.

  For two months her daughter’s sickness had been her secret. Soon Josh would be here. She would no longer be alone with it.

  She lifted Zorro from her lap and set him on the floor. She shut off the lights and went upstairs to bed, Zorro waddling silently behind her.

  She opened the door to Nealie’s room and peered inside. The child stirred and rose on her elbow. “Mama?”

  “Hi, sweetie. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “My clothes woke me up,” Nealie said. “I want my jammies.”

  Briana switched on the bedside lamp.

  “How come I still have my clothes on?” Nealie squinted at the sudden brightness. Her big glasses lay beside the lamp.

  “You fell asleep on the couch,” Briana said, going to the dresser. “I brought you up to bed. I didn’t want to wake you up.”

  Nealie rose on both elbows, frowning. “I remember. Rupert gave me a nosebleed.”

  “Yes, well, he likes to roughhouse. I scolded him for it.”

  “Ha!” crowed Nealie. She knew how Rupert hated Briana’s scolding.

  Briana rummaged in the drawer for pajamas. “Do you want the ones with cows or the ones with flowers?”

  “Cows,” said Nealie with a yawn. Then she fell back against the pillow. “Why do I have so many nosebleeds?”