Beauty from Ashes

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 27

“She did great.” Barb comes out just a minute or two later with a smile, as if she weren’t some sort of twisted sadist who just finished injecting my baby girl with live viruses. “She slept right through it, tired little angel.”

I assume she’s trying to comfort me.

“Oh, before I forget,” she adds, “the woman you were here with, she wanted me to tell you that she went to pick your boyfriend up from work and they’ll be back to get you in just a few minutes.”

My boyfriend. Of course, with different last names and still no ring, I can’t blame Barb for her mistake. In fact, it was probably Patricia’s fault to begin with. She’s been living with us two months. Two stinking months, and she’s never once mentioned the fact that we’re married. I swear, if Jake and I make it to our fiftieth anniversary and she’s alive and kicking, that woman will still refuse to acknowledge me as anything but her son’s live-in partner.

I plaster on a forced smile and thank Barb for telling me. No use shooting the messenger, right?

I go back in the exam room. Barb has strapped Natalie into her car seat carrier, and my daughter’s as oblivious as Sleeping Beauty. I grab my phone and lug Natalie back into the lobby to wait.

I’m not in the mood for mommy magazines anymore. I’m sick of reading about what my baby should be doing as a healthy four-month-old. Because she’s not healthy, but the idiots who publish the junk don’t know that. They think I’m the typical brand-new mom who’s worried about things like stretch marks and a diminished libido and how much longer until my little girl starts to crawl.

I wonder how long ago it was that Patricia left. How long I’ll have to wait here. After being shut up in the trailer for weeks at a time, it’s exhausting to go out. This is my first time leaving the house since Sunday.

Jake and I haven’t talked about the church service at all. I don’t know if he’s planning to go back this weekend, and if he is, I don’t know if I’m planning to pitch a fit and refuse or if I’m planning to go back with him in hopes of catching a more precise heavenly message. But I feel settled for the first time since that granny started talking. Like somehow I got the answer to my question about the vision after all. I feel really good that I canceled the DNR, and I don’t think it’s just because that’s the decision Dr. Bell wanted me to make.

Maybe in five years my daughter will look like that little girl with the missing front teeth. Chocolate skin and almond eyes. That’s how I always pictured the kind of baby Jake and I would make.

I wonder if we’ll still be together when Natalie’s that age. I wonder which one of us will be the tooth fairy and sneak into her room to hide the coin under her pillow. I wonder if she’ll run to me when she’s hurt or to her dad. I wonder if I married Jake because I was in love with him or because I was so scared of losing Natalie that I latched onto anything reminding me of her.

Sandy sent me an article a few weeks ago about grief. It’s funny because until I read it, I didn’t think I had anything to mourn over. I mean, my daughter was sick, but at least she was alive. Well, the article was written by a special-needs mom. Her baby didn’t have a traumatic birth like Natalie. I forget now what it was, but I think it was one of those chromosomal things. Not Down Syndrome, but one of the less common types that are kind of similar. And in the article, she was talking about how she had to grieve the loss of the healthy daughter she and her husband hoped to have.

So I guess that means I’m grieving too, and I know people say you’re not supposed to make any big decisions while you’re in that sort of mental state. You know, big decisions like getting married.

Live and learn, I guess.

I can’t say that I regret my choice. I’m just waiting to see how it all pans out. If Natalie dies, I really can’t picture staying with Jake after something that traumatizing. Which means I probably married him because of her, which probably wasn’t the brightest idea.

But what if she doesn’t die? And what if she’s not a vegetable her whole life? What if she really grows into that smiling girl I saw sitting on Jesus’ lap? Chocolate skin and almond eyes.

It could happen, right?

“Miss Franklin?”

I look up, and Barb’s there smiling at me. I stand automatically before I know what she wants.

“You left the suction machine in the exam room,” she tells me. I wonder why she didn’t just bring it out, but I pick up Natalie in her car seat and follow Barb down the hall back to the bumblebee room.

Dr. Bell’s in there, and I’m afraid she’s going to lecture me for not having the machine with me. I’ve been doing a good job. I mean, I haven’t forgotten it anywhere until now except for that time when we went on a walk and I left it at home, but we were never more than three or four minutes away from the trailer. I feel like I should apologize or something when Dr. Bell asks me, “How long have her secretions been that color?”

I pull back the cloth carrying case so I can see the collection canister. My face immediately wrinkles up. I try to remember when I last cleaned out the receptacle. Patricia does it, or at least I assume she does, because it’s empty every morning when I wake up. Of course, if I tell that to the doctor she’s going to think I’m the most negligent mom in central Washington, so I say, “Not that long. Maybe a day or two.”

I study the can, trying to decide what label I would give it. I’ve always admired the way crayon companies come up with so many different synonyms for the same shade, and I wonder what Crayola would call this. Maybe swamp green or marshy muck.

Dr. Bell is frowning. “What was her temperature when she came in?” she asks Barb.

“Around normal, but I’d have to get her chart to be sure.”

“99.1,” I tell them both, thankful for the chance to prove my maternal attentiveness. I glance from one worried face to the other. “Is that bad? Is something wrong?”

A nurse in Looney Tunes scrubs leads a mother and two little kids down the hall. Barb shuts the door to give the three of us more privacy.

Not a good sign.

“Is that too high?” I ask. I seem to remember one of the mommy magazines explaining that it’s not technically a fever until your temperature’s over 101. Or was it 102?

“You were planning to come back in two weeks, right?” Dr. Bell asks. I nod, even though I haven’t scheduled anything at the front desk yet.

She looks at Barb. “Let’s see if we can get her in this Monday.” She glances at the marshy muck secretions in my daughter’s canister and says, “Actually, we don’t want to wait the whole weekend.” She nods to Barb, who is poised and ready to rush out of the room and schedule an appointment for my 99.1-degree daughter.

Dr. Bell’s face is grim.

“Let’s get them back here first thing Friday morning.”