I cover my mouth and start to cry. Miracles do happen, I want to tell Jean. But now isn’t the time to gloat. “Can we see Sanquita?”
“She’s being transferred to the ICU. By the time you get up there she should be settled.”
“Intensive care?” My eyes search the doctor’s. “She’s going to be okay, isn’t she?”
Dr. O’Connor gives a tight-lipped smile. “We’ve witnessed one miracle today. We can hope for another.”
Jean and I take what seems an interminable elevator ride to the fifth floor.
“C’mon,” I say, punching the button again and again.
“There’s something you should know.”
The gravity in Jean’s voice alarms me and I turn to her. Under the fluorescent light of the elevator car, every line on her face is visible and pronounced. Her black eyes stare at me, unflinching.
“Sanquita is dying. Her baby is likely to die, too.”
I turn away and study the numbers above the elevator door. “Maybe not,” I whisper.
“This morning she told me if she dies, she wants you to keep her baby.”
I slump against the wall, and put my hands to my head. “I can’t … I don’t …” My face crumbles and I choke on my tears.
She shakes her head and stares at the elevator tiles in the ceiling. “I warned her you might not want a child of mixed race.”
A jolt of electricity zaps me. Suddenly, every fiber and nerve ending is firing simultaneously. “That child’s race has nothing to do with it. Do you understand? Nothing! I’m honored beyond belief that she’d even consider having me raise her child.” I take a deep breath and rub the knot in my throat. “But Sanquita’s going to live. They’re both going to live.”
The curtain around Sanquita’s bed is pulled shut, along with her blinds, creating a murky den filled with wires and tubes and blinking lights. She’s asleep, her chapped mouth slack and her breath catching in short jerky spasms. Filled with fluid, her face is stretched tight, like a blister dangerously close to popping. Her eyes are closed, but her puffy eyelids look like they’ve been blackened with charcoal. I take hold of her limp hand and brush back the hair from her lifeless face.
“We’re here, sweet pea. You rest now.”
The faint smell of ammonia fills my nostrils. Uremia, a buildup of waste in the blood, just like I’d read about. Dread fills me.
Jean trots around her bed, tucking in blankets and smoothing down her pillow. But once she’s exhausted her to-do list, she simply stares at Sanquita.
“Go home,” I tell her. “There’s nothing we can do. I’ll call you when she wakes up.”
She checks her wristwatch. “I need to get back to the shelter, but first, you run down and check on that baby girl. I’ll wait with Sanquita until you get back.”
——
A pair of locked double doors prevents my entrance to the NICU. Beside the doors, an attractive nurse with strawberry blond hair sits behind a walled reception area. She smiles when I approach.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes. I’m here to see …” It strikes me, this baby doesn’t even have a name. “I’m here to see Sanquita Bell’s baby.”
She scowls, as if she’s never heard of Sanquita Bell, then slowly nods. “Her baby just came in, right? The homeless baby?”
My gut clenches. Born less than an hour ago, the child has already been labeled.
“Sanquita’s baby, yes.”
She lifts a telephone, and almost instantly a short, dark-haired woman appears, a medical chart in her hand. Her purple scrubs are decorated with Disney characters. “Hello. I’m Maureen Marble. And you are?” she asks, flipping open the chart.
“I’m Brett Bohlinger. Sanquita’s teacher.”
She studies her chart. “Ah, yes. Sanquita designated you as her support person. I’ll meet you inside.”
A buzz rings out and the doors click open. I step into a brightly lit hallway. Nurse Maureen reappears and leads me down the corridor. “We have nine nursery rooms in the NICU, each one houses eight isolettes. Sanquita’s newborn is in room seven.”
I follow her into room seven, where an older man and woman stand gazing at what I’m guessing is their new grandchild. Eight incubators, or “isolettes,” line the perimeter of the large room. Above almost every isolette, I notice brightly colored banners taped to the walls, or whimsical letters spelling the baby’s name. Isaiah. Kaitlyn. Taylor. I spy family photos displayed inside several isolettes, and soft, hand-knitted blankets that clearly didn’t come from the hospital.
Maureen points to a lone incubator in the back corner, unattended and empty of any display of love.
“Here she is.”
The crib card on the front of the isolette reads, BABY GIRL. I close my eyes. It may as well say BABY DOE.
I peer inside the plastic crib. A miniature baby about the length of a ruler lies sleeping, wearing only a doll-sized diaper and a pale pink cap. Three patches adhere to her chest and stomach, delivering wires to various monitors. An IV needle affixed with clear plastic tape protrudes from a vein in her foot, and a thin tube delivering white liquid snakes into her nostrils. Surrounding her apple-sized head are two elastic straps, holding in place a clear plastic apparatus that covers her mouth and nose.
I lift a hand to my chest and turn to Maureen. “Is she going to be okay?”
“She should be just fine. The mask you see is called a CPAP,” Maureen tells me. “It provides continuous positive airway pressure. Her lungs aren’t fully developed. The CPAP will assist her until she’s able to breathe on her own.” She turns to me. “Would you like to hold her?”
“Hold her? Oh, no. No, thank you. I’d probably unplug something.” I try to hide my nervous laughter by clearing my throat. “I’ll let Sanquita be the first to hold her.”
She gives me a sidelong glance. “You take your time getting acquainted with Baby Girl. I’ll be back.”
I’m left alone, staring at this wrinkled newborn, a virtual pincushion with the plethora of needles and tubes. Her round face is pinched, as if she’s a bit peeved about being away from her mommy. Caramel skin, still covered with downy hair, looks as if it’s several sizes too big for her. She stretches and splays her fingers, and I see five little matchsticks. My throat swells.
“Baby Girl,” I whisper, but the words sound cold and impersonal. I’m reminded of the heartbreaking story of Sanquita’s brother, a boy too sensitive for the world he was born into. I kiss my finger and place it on the glass where I see Baby Girl’s sleeping face. “Austin,” I whisper. “Welcome, beautiful Austin.”
For a little boy’s past and a new baby’s future, for reasons known and for reasons yet to be revealed, I close my eyes and weep.
Jean bounds from the reclining chair when I return to Sanquita’s room. “How’s that baby?”
“Perfect,” I say, trying to sound more optimistic than I feel. “Go see her.”
Jean shakes her head. “Sanquita had to choose one support person. She chose you.”
I look for signs of disappointment or, worse, disapproval. But to my surprise, Jean’s face shows neither. I step to Sanquita’s bed. She lies sleeping on her back, exactly as she was when I left her, her bloated face a cruel caricature of the once lovely girl. “Your baby is beautiful, Sanquita.”
Jean grabs her purse. “You’ll be okay here by yourself?”
“I’ll be fine.”
She swabs her eyes with a handkerchief. “Call the minute she wakes.”
“I will. I promise.”
She leans in and rubs her cheek against Sanquita’s. “I’ll be back, baby cake.” Her voice breaks. “You hold on, you hear?”
I turn to the window and clap a hand over my mouth, gulping back my own tears. Then I feel Jean beside me. She reaches out a hand to touch me, but draws back before she makes contact.
“You take care of yourself,” she whispers. “I’m afraid that baby’s going to need you.”
——
; Every thirty minutes a nurse comes in to check Sanquita’s vitals, but nothing seems to change. The hours pass like sand through molasses. I scoot a wooden chair next to the bed, so close to Sanquita I can see each shallow intake of breath. Weaving my hand through the bed’s metal bar, I find her hand. While she lies sleeping, I tell her all about her precious child and the wonderful mother she’s going to be.
It’s late afternoon when a young woman enters the murky room. She’s wearing a white smock, with strands of stringy blond hair dangling from her blue bonnet. She rummages around Sanquita’s bedside table and startles when she sees me on the opposite side of the bed.
“Oh, I didn’t see you there. I’m looking for her menu. Did she fill one out?”
“She won’t be eating tonight, thanks.”
Her eyes search out the lifeless form of Sanquita. “Think she’s gonna need any more menus? I mean, I can leave one each day, or I could just wait …”
Blood races past my temples. I rise and snatch the menu from the woman’s hand. “Yes, she’ll need tomorrow’s menu. Leave one every day. Do you understand? Every day.”
At five o’clock I dash back down to the nursery to check on Austin. After being buzzed into the NICU, I make a beeline to room seven and scrub in. Striding straight to the back corner, I gasp when I discover Austin’s isolette, lit up like a tanning booth. The CPAP still covers her nose and mouth, and now her eyes are hidden beneath a pair of blindfolds. What now? My heart thunders in my chest.
I wheel around. “Maureen?” But Nurse Maureen is across the room, busy talking to the elderly couple I saw earlier.
I spy a woman in a lab coat crossing the room. “Excuse me,” I say, trailing her out the door. “Could you tell me what’s going on with Austin—Baby Girl? Her isolette—”
She lifts her hand and strides away. “I’ve got an emergency. You’ll have to speak to one of the nurses.”
I dart back into the room. Finally, Nurse Maureen pulls herself away from the doting grandparents. “What is it, Brett?”
“What’s wrong with Sanquita’s baby? Her crib is all lit up. And she’s wearing blindfolds.”
A machine from across the room beeps like an ornery alarm clock, and Maureen jumps to attention. “She’s undergoing bili light therapy,” she tells me as she scurries across the room.
I return to Austin’s crib, no closer to knowing what’s wrong with her. The older man I presume is Grandpa sidles up beside me and peers in at Austin. “Is this little one yours?”
“No. Her mother is one of my students.”
He scowls. “Your student? How old is she?”
“Eighteen.”
He shakes his head. “What a shame.” He shuffles back to his wife and whispers something I can’t hear.
Is this how it’s going to be for this baby? People treating her like she’s a mistake, the unfortunate result of a reckless teen? People overlooking her because she’s poor and homeless? I rub my temples, horrified at the thought.
A pretty, dark-skinned redhead with NURSE LADONNA on her name tag appears at a neighboring isolette. “Excuse me,” I say, this time with the authority of someone’s caretaker.
She looks up. “How can I help you?”
“Sanquita Bell’s baby,” I say, pointing at the isolette. “Why is she in the tanning booth?”
Nurse LaDonna grins, revealing a friendly, gap-toothed smile. “She’s under bili light therapy for hyperbilirubinemia.”
“Hyperbili …?” I stop, unable to reiterate the unfamiliar word. I clear my throat. “Look, I don’t care if it’s hyper … billythekid.
I just need to know what’s wrong with Austin. In plain English, please.”
I see humor in Nurse LaDonna’s eyes, but she just nods. “Fair enough. Hyperbillythekid”—she winks—“is typically referred to as jaundice. It’s very common in preemies. We treat it with special blue lights that help their little bodies eliminate the excess bilirubin. The lights aren’t harmful, and Baby Girl isn’t in any discomfort. Her bili levels should stabilize within a day or two.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Thank God.” I look at her. “And thank you.”
“My pleasure. Anything else?”
“No. Not right now.” I start to turn back to the baby, but stop short. “There is one more thing,” I say, returning my gaze to LaDonna.
“What is it?”
“Can we please call her Austin, not Baby Girl?”
She smiles. “Fair enough.”
The evening sky is dark now. I walk to the window and call Herbert. While I wait for him to answer, I gaze out over the busy city. Outside, people go about their lives, buying groceries, walking dogs, preparing dinner. Suddenly everyday life seems miraculous. Do these people know how lucky they are? A day of shopping with Herbert seems so frivolous, so greedy now.
“Hello there,” he says. “Where are you?”
“At the hospital. Sanquita’s in ICU. She’s developed heart failure.”
“Oh, sweetheart, that’s distressing news.”
“There’s nothing I can do,” I say pinching a Kleenex to my nose. “Her baby’s critical, too.”
“Let me come get you. I’ll make you dinner. We’ll watch a movie later, or take a stroll along the lake. I’ll drive you back first thing in the morning.”
I shake my head. “I can’t leave her. She needs me. You understand, don’t you?”
“Certainly. I’d like to see you, that’s all.”
“I’ll call you later.” I start to hang up when I hear him speak again.
“Brett?”
“Yes,” I say.
“I love you.”
I’m stunned. He chooses this moment to declare his love? My mind races and I can’t think of an appropriate response … besides the obvious.
“Love you, too,” I finally say, before deciding whether or not I actually do.
When I walk back to my chair, Sanquita’s eyes are lucid and wide open, staring straight at me through the metal bars of her bed rail. I freeze. My mother died with her eyes open, too. But then I see the slight rise and fall of the blanket when she breathes. Thank God. I lean in over the bedrail.
“Congratulations, sweet pea. You’ve got a beautiful baby daughter.”
Her eyes lock on mine, as if begging to hear more.
“She’s doing great,” I lie. “She’s absolutely perfect.”
Her puffy lip quivers, and her body trembles. She’s crying. I brush back the hair from her forehead. Her skin feels like ice.
“You’re freezing, sweetie.”
Her teeth chatter, and she gives me the slightest nod. I look around, but find no spare blankets. What further torture must this child endure? And where’s her mom, damn it? In all the years she’s been ill, has anyone ever comforted this child? Has she ever felt a mother’s loving embrace? I want nothing more than to take her in my arms, to make her feel warm and safe and loved. So I do.
I lower the bedrail and reposition the cords and tubes connected to her hands and chest. She feels almost weightless as I carefully slide her to one side of the bed. Then, inching my way ever so cautiously, I climb in beside her.
As tenderly as if she were made of crystal, I fold her into my arms. I smell ammonia again, heavier this time. Uremia. Is her body shutting down? Please, God, no! Not now.
I wrap the blankets tighter around her delicate frame. Her entire body trembles, as if she were electrified. I hold her close against my chest, hoping she’ll capture the heat of my body. With my cheek resting on her head, I rock her, and softly sing my favorite lullaby against her ear.
“Somewhere … over the rainbow …”
I hope she doesn’t notice the quiver in my voice, or how I have to stop every few words to dislodge the knot in my throat. Midway through the song, her quaking body settles into stillness. I stop rocking, suddenly seized with panic. But then I hear a voice, so hoarse and faint it’s barely audible.
“Baby.”
I gaze down at her, past a
bald patch she’d scratched raw, and force my lips into a smile.
“Just wait until you see her, Sanquita. She’s tiny, not much bigger than my hand, but she has a strong will, just like her mommy. You can see it even now. And she’s got your pretty long fingers.”
A single tear trails down her bloated face. My heart shatters.
I dab her cheek with the cotton sheet. “The nurses are taking great care of her until you get stronger.”
“Won’t … get … stronger,” she whispers.
“Stop!” I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. I can’t let her know how scared I am. “You’ve got to fight, Sanquita! Your baby is depending on you.”
With what seems to be Herculean strength, she lifts her face to mine. “You. Take … my baby. Please.”
I swallow hard. “I won’t need to. You’re going to get better.”
She glares at me, her eyes wild with desperation. “Please!”
A sob racks my body. I no longer try to hide it from her. She knows her fate. And she needs to know her baby’s.
“I will take your baby,” I tell her, choking on my sobs. “I’ll make sure she has a wonderful life. We’ll talk about you every day.” I cover my mouth and a moan escapes me. “I’ll tell her how smart you were … how hard you worked.”
“Loved … her.”
I close my eyes and nod until I can finally speak again. “I’ll tell her you loved her more than life itself.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Sanquita’s funeral is a poor reflection of her courageous young life. She’s buried in her gold cap and gown at Oak Woods Cemetery three days after her daughter’s birth, surrounded by her friends from Joshua House, Jean Anderson, two teachers, and Herbert and me. Standing graveside, Jean’s pastor prays over the coffin and gives an impersonal eulogy to the girl he never met. Afterward, the group splinters, Jean rushing back to Joshua House, the teachers back to their jobs. I watch Tanya, Julonia, and the rest of the women walk up the grassy hill toward East 67th Street to catch the bus. Tanya lights a cigarette, takes a long drag, and passes it to Julonia.
That’s it. It’s over. Sanquita Bell’s eighteen years of life are now a memory, a memory that will fade a bit each day. The thought makes me shudder.
The Life List Page 24
