Beauty from Ashes

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 24

It’s Wednesday morning, and I’m at the pediatrician’s office with Natalie. Roberto screwed up Jake’s schedule, so he’s at the store working day shift. Again. Which means I had to wake up at 4:45 to drop him off so I’d have the car. It also means I’m here with Patricia because it takes two people to haul Natalie anywhere, one to drive and one to sit in the backseat with the suction machine ready in case she chokes.

Dr. Bell’s running late, but there’s no surprise there. She’s the only pediatrician in Orchard Grove, and unless you’re filthy rich or your kid has a complicated medical history, you have to see one of the family doctors instead. I like Dr. Bell, though. She’s pretty young. Low thirties I would guess, but she’s got nice skin, so she could easily pass as a twenty-something. She’s thorough and methodical, which is nice when you’re in the office with her but a real pain in the butt when you’re stuck in the waiting room.

At least she keeps a lot of magazines out here. Right now, I’m skimming an article called Ten Hot Tips to Spice up your Love Life ... Even after Baby! Unfortunately, the writer doesn’t mention anything about intrusive mothers-in-law or apnea monitors prone to go off at all hours of the night.

Patricia’s reading a food magazine, which strikes me as mildly ironic. With as many cooking experts as that woman follows, you’d think someone would have introduced her to the concept of salt by now.

I’m still mad at Jake for rushing to the store just because Roberto needed him. I know he wants to work as many hours as he can get, but it’s been two weeks since we’ve seen Dr. Bell, and he should have known that Patricia’s the last person I’d want to tag along on a trip like this. Today’s the day I’m going to tell the doctor I’m taking Natalie off the apnea machine, and I could use Jake there to back me up.

Jake texts me while I’m thumbing through the winners of the last month’s photo contest. One of the babies is only a month older than Natalie but can already sit up on her own in one of those funny little rubbery chairs. She’s smiling too. It’s no wonder the editors picked her. I should send them a picture of Natalie just to see what they’d do. Find them a photo from one of her first few days, when she’s got an IV in her forehead and tubes shoved down her throat. I’d like to find that printed up and put alongside all these fat Gerber babies who’ve never seen the inside of a medevac jet.

Talked with the Dr. yet? Jake wants to know. I roll my eyes. If he expects Dr. Bell to be on time, he’s even dumber than his mother thinks he is. I don’t even bother to answer. I remind myself of all the things I want to talk to Dr. Bell about. The fact that Natalie hasn’t gained a single pound since we’ve had her home. The fact that she still hasn’t cried. The fact that the apnea monitor we’ve got is a waste of everybody’s time.

Or is it?

I don’t like to admit it even to myself, but I’m still thinking quite a bit about that weird thing that happened to me at church on Sunday. That hallucination or Jesus trip or whatever it was where I saw Natalie on God’s lap. Even now, I have no doubt it was her, just like I have no doubt that if it weren’t for her brain injuries she would look exactly like that image in five or six years, missing teeth and all.

The problem is I still don’t know what it means. Is she going to be healed? Or will she die? How am I supposed to figure out anything when that’s my range of possible explanations? I can’t shake the feeling that the vision is supposed to tell me something. Am I too stupid to figure it out? Too scared? And what if I get it wrong? What if the vision means she’s going to be just fine, but I don’t have enough faith, and so I take her off the apnea monitor and something bad happens?

But then there’s the other side of it too. Like what if the vision means she won’t be healed until she gets to heaven, but I hold on too long and make her suffer when I’m supposed to let go so she can see Jesus sooner or whatever? I’ve been thinking about Sandy too, wondering what she’d say the vision means. I should talk with her, but how do you start a conversation like that? Hi, Sandy. I’m calling because some Holy Ghost lady stood up in church, and while she was talking, I was wigging out and saw my daughter on Jesus’ lap, only now I don’t know if that means I’m supposed to take her off her apnea monitor and let her die or if it means that she’s going to be just fine and I need to have patience.

I’m trying to guess what Sandy’s reaction would be when Dr. Bell’s middle-aged nurse calls me back. I can never remember her name. Trixie or Marge or one of those other names you’d expect to call a waitress at an old-school diner. But she’s all smiles, and she even takes the suction machine so I have both hands free to carry Natalie in her car seat.

“How’s the little miracle baby?” she asks. I try to remember how long it’s been since I’ve had a face-to-face conversation with anyone besides Jake or his mom.

“She had a really good day Monday,” I tell her.

Nurse Smiles beams down at my daughter. “Good for you, little angel.”

We get into the room, and I see her name tag now. Barb. That’s right. She flips through some pages on a clipboard. “Oh, she says. “They must have given us the wrong forms.”

I can’t figure out why she’s fidgeting so nervously as she takes out some stapled pages and tosses them on the counter. “Never mind,” she says and holds her pen ready over a blank page. “Why don’t you tell me how she’s been since the last time you brought her in?”

I frown. “Not too many changes, really. I’m a little worried she hasn’t gained any weight.” I go on and wonder why I bother since Dr. Bell is going to ask me the exact same questions in a few minutes. While Nurse Barb scribbles away on her pad, I steal a glance at the discarded packet on the counter.

Four month well baby check. There are Natalie’s name and birthdate written on the top in curvy feminine handwriting where you’d almost expect to find a heart dotting the i in Natalie’s name.

I look at the questions on the form. Does your child sleep through the night?

Yeah, and ninety percent of the day, too.

Does your child transfer a toy from one hand to the other?

She might if she had any clue what her hands were for or how to use them.

Does your child smile and make eye contact?

Screw this.

Nurse Barb’s telling me what vaccinations Natalie’s due to get today. Poor thing. I have to step out of the room whenever they do it. I can’t stand to see the way she scrunches up her little face, her own silent version of crying.

Barb wraps up all her questions, and she leaves me and Natalie alone to wait some more. There’s a mural of sunflowers and cute oversized bumblebees on the wall. Each room has a different theme. Last time we came here, our room sported an underwater setting with little orange Nemos and blue Dori fish. All the paintings are signed J. Bell at the bottom, but I don’t know if that’s the pediatrician or maybe a relative of hers or something.

I gave Natalie her tube feeding right before we came here. I hoped it would give her a few extra ounces on the scale, except now she’s making that grimace like she’s uncomfortable, and her breathing’s gotten really noisy. I power up the suction machine, wondering if the family the next room over can hear it.

Ever since we got out of the NICU, I’ve only met one other mom with a suction device like ours. It was when we were still in Seattle, still getting set up with specialists and making sure Natalie would be healthy enough for the drive back to Orchard Grove. We were in the waiting room at the lung doctor’s, and this boy with glasses shuffled in. He was older, maybe nine or ten, and he looked perfectly healthy except he kind of rocked side to side when he walked. Anyway, his mom was lugging a suction machine with her. Exact same make and model as mine. Even the same gray carrying case.

She sat down right across from me, and I made it a point to give Natalie a suction even though her airway was clear at the time. I don’t know what I was expecting. This strange woman to reach over and give me a hug and tell me how everything would be just fine. It was stupid of me, but when I first saw her I thought maybe we could become friends. Not the kind to get together for play dates or anything. Her son was way too old for that, and Natalie and I were headed back to Orchard Grove in a day or two. But maybe we’d connect online. Maybe I could ask her some of those things the nurses don’t think to tell you, like how to keep the collection canister from reeking when you use the machine fifty times a day but Medicaid only lets you order one replacement a month.

Well, she didn’t say anything to me. It’s funny because I’d been worried about taking Natalie out into the real world, worried about all the strange stares we’d get when people saw me shoving a tube down her throat. They’d be curious. They’d gawk. They’d feel sorry for me and my baby.

I learned that day there’s something I hate even more than being pitied.

It’s being ignored.