Beauty from Ashes

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 26

The pediatrician spends another half an hour asking me questions and examining Natalie. I feel pathetic when I realize it’s the most relaxed I’ve been in weeks, and I’m not at a spa or a five-star restaurant or even the mall. I’m at the stinking doctor’s office.

When Dr. Bell acts like she’s ready to wrap our meeting up, I realize I don’t want to go home. It’s time to pick up Jake from work, so at least I won’t be stuck alone with Patricia. But it’s not like he adds much to the family dynamics. He’ll run straight to the couch and be glued to his phone until dinnertime, I’m sure of it.

I wonder sometimes why I’m still with him. If I could afford a place of my own, would I have ditched him by now?

Dr. Bell gathers up all her papers. “Well, if you don’t have any other questions ...”

I’m wracking my brain. Anything to get her to stay with me, even if it’s only another two or three minutes. I feel so pathetic, starved for friendship. It reminds me of the NICU and how I could go a full week with the nurses the only people besides Jake I talked to face to face.

“Oh.” She’s staring at my intake paperwork, and my heart lodges itself near the base of my throat. I know what she’s going to ask, and I don’t want to hear it.

“It says here you wanted to talk to me about the apnea monitor?”

I feel my face flush and hate myself for it. I glance at the clock behind her head. Natalie still has to get her shots, and Jake can get grumpy if I’m late picking him up.

“Are you having issues with the monitor?” Dr. Bell prompts.

“No, it’s not that.” My hands are clammy. This isn’t the time. She’s been so nice, so patient listening to me talk about my daughter. She’s the only person in the world besides Sandy that I feel so comfortable with.

I can’t tell her I want my daughter to die. What was I thinking?

I swallow. It’s so loud I can hear the saliva work its way past the lump in my throat. “We’re just having a lot of false alarms and I was wondering if that was normal.”

Dr. Bell smiles. “Unfortunately, it is.” She sighs. “I can only imagine how hard that must be, especially when you’re trying to catch up on your sleep.”

She has perfectly round eyes. Doe eyes, except the kind that make you look warm and feminine. Not the kind that make you look stupid or too trusting.

“Some parents with DNR forms decide that the apnea monitor isn’t worth the hassle ...” Her voice trails off. She’s inviting me to agree with her without actually forcing me to say the words. God bless her.

“No.” I try to make myself look confident, put together, even though I’d never pull it off as convincingly as she does. “But you know, speaking of the DNR, my husband and I decided that we don’t need it after all.”

Her eyes have softened even more now, and I know I’ve said the right thing even though I’m lying through my teeth.

“So, umm, I was just wondering if there’s anything we need to do. You know, to cancel that order or whatever.”

I can’t meet her gaze. She’s the kindest woman I’ve met in the state of Washington. I can’t believe I wanted to tell her my little girl would be better off dead.

She’s hugging the clipboard. She reminds me of Sandy right now. Of course, Sandy’s a few decades older, but she and Dr. Bell both have that same kind of quiet gentleness that hangs around them like a halo or one of those beautiful crocheted shawls you can buy online.

“Well.” She’s talking slowly, and I think that maybe we’ll get an extra ten minutes out of this interview, not just another one or two. “If you and your husband both agree that this is the way to go, I’ll make a note here in your chart, and that’s as formal as it needs to be.”

I meet her smile this time, certain I’ve made the right choice. It’s a good feeling, one I’m not sure I’ve experienced since Natalie was born.

Dr. Bell’s hand is on the door knob. “Why don’t you make an appointment to come back and see me in two weeks, and I’ll let the nurse know she’s ready for those shots.”

I’m a little disappointed she doesn’t use Natalie’s name, but I gush out my thanks and feel stupid afterward for being so sappy. So needy. When did I grow into such an emotional sponge that I’ve latched on to my daughter’s pediatrician, some woman I only see twice a month?

Natalie’s half awake, but she’s not fussing at all, so I leave her in her car seat and wait. I hate when she gets shots, I really do. Maybe if she was healthy to start with I would have become one of those anti-vaxxers. I don’t know. It would sure beat putting her through so much torture every month or two. But she’s so sick I figure she needs all the immunizations the clinic can give her. It may not be ideal, but I guess a baby with a little mercury in her bloodstream still beats a baby who’s died from whooping cough or that RSV virus that sounds so scary.

I glance at the time. Knowing the way this clinic works, it will be another twenty or thirty minutes before we see the nurse, and by then I’ll be late to pick up Jake. He’ll be in a bad mood, and Patricia will blame me. Make her sour-lemon face and comment something about how she always made sure the house was clean and a hot meal was on the table when Jake’s father came home from work. Of course, they’ve been divorced now for twelve or thirteen years, and there’s been another failed marriage between then and now, so I’m not about to take marital advice from the likes of her.

I flip on my phone. None of my friends have posted anything interesting online, so I switch to YouTube. I’d be embarrassed to show you my video feed. I’m way too addicted to those talent shows, you know the ones where people sing in front of famous judges or things. I don’t have time to watch them on real TV, so this is how I get my fix.

There’s a new video today, a twelve-year-old girl belting her little heart out. She’s doing a Whitney Houston song, the one from that really old Bodyguard flick. Gutsy move. Didn’t someone say the song was forbidden now that Whitney’s dead or something like that? I study the girl’s face, wondering how someone so young could pretend to know about that degree of loss and heartache.

She does a knock-out job though. Gets the confetti and everything. Of course she starts crying, and her mom backstage starts crying, and I just wonder if anyone in this happy little universe knows about babies who could die from a simple flu virus because their lungs are so compromised and their frail little bodies so weak.

Another video pops up in my recommended list, a clip from Dancing with the Stars. It’s that adorable teen girl from the hillbilly show, and she’s dancing a routine to some of the old-school Disney movie songs.

A whole new world ... I swear there’s a lump in my throat the size of her right dimple. It’s the hormones. It’s got to be the hormones. I’m biting my lip or else I swear I’d start blubbering. It’s just that she’s so young. Young and pretty and healthy.

The tears are still streaming down my cheeks when Barb comes in with her tray of torture devices. “Is the little angel ready?”

“Yeah.” I wipe my cheeks when she isn’t looking. “I’m going to step out of the room. Just let me know when you’re done.”

She doesn’t make me feel bad that I have to bail. If I were a good mom instead of a wimp, I’d be in there with my daughter. I’d hold her and comfort her while the nurse injects her with poisons that all the anti-vaxxers are convinced will cause autism or cancer or sterilization.

But I can’t. It’s not that I can’t handle her crying.

It’s the fact that I know my daughter won’t even make a sound.