Orchard Grove Christian Women's Fiction Box Set (Books 1-3)

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 12

“So, this brain bleed thing, it happened while she was being born?”

I rolled my eyes. I’d been telling Jake the same thing for five days, but it wasn’t until he got to Seattle that he started to process any of it. He wanted to come right away, he told me, but he had to wait until he got his paycheck, and then he needed to wait until his buddy Marcos was driving out that way because Jake didn’t trust his beat-up lemon of a Pontiac to make it all the way over the North Cascades. I tried not to show how surprised I was just to see him at all. But I couldn’t hide how annoyed I was at all his questions. “Go to the NICU and talk to the nurses. Or go in the morning so you can catch the doctors doing their rounds. Ask them all the questions you want.”

But he wanted to hear it from me. Jake’s sort of fragile that way. It makes sense when you think about how stinking sheltered he was his entire life. I mean, his mom didn’t even let him watch The Little Mermaid growing up. I still don’t know if it’s because of the sea witch or because of that teeny seashell thing Ariel had going on, but seriously. I was watching slasher flicks with one of my foster dads when I was still missing my two front teeth. I’m the first to admit the system screwed me over at least a hundred times before I’d even started my period, but at least I’m not afraid of the truth. At least I don’t need to drive two hundred and fifty miles to hear the bad news from my girlfriend because I can’t pick up a stinking phone and ask to talk to some NICU docs.

Well, that’s Jake for you. I don’t want to complain. I sometimes wonder if I could have handled that time in Seattle if I were all by myself. I mean, Sandy came for a few days, stayed with me when Natalie was having her surgery, and that was huge. But it’s not like Sandy could drop her entire life out there in Boston and live with me indefinitely. They’re not doing foster care anymore, but she and Carl just adopted a little boy from South Korea. The kid’s a handful from what I could gather. Sandy’s not the kind of mom who would complain, so I’m sure I don’t know the half of it, but it’s not like I could have just expected her to live with me there in Seattle while I got things sorted.

So yeah, I guess I’m glad Jake showed up. I mean, we got married, right? That’s got to tell you something.

A hundred stinking stress points in one ten-minute ceremony. Maybe that’s why my back is aching in this hard pew. I glance over at his hand, wonder what kind of ring I’d get him if we had the money. Because of course, that’s the down side of him coming out to Seattle. Five weeks off work. I never expected him to stay there with me the whole time. It’s not like the Ronald McDonald House is the most sought-after honeymoon destination, know what I mean?

For a minute, I let my mind wander to another reality. A reality in which we sue the OB and get a huge settlement. Jake and I have all the money in the world and can go anywhere we want. I’ve never been out of the country, even to Canada. Not as if I’d know what to do once I got there. Eat maple syrup and watch a hockey game?

I think if I could choose anywhere to honeymoon, I’d pick something like Hawaii but out of the country, just so I can say I left the States. The Bahamas might be nice. I’m not sure. Do you need a passport to get there, or is it one of those things like Puerto Rico or whatever?

Man, I’m so stupid. Here I am thinking of a big fancy honeymoon, and Jake and I are so poor we couldn’t even buy passport photos.

Guess we’ll be staying local after all.

My daydream dies away like a cheap Fourth of July sparkler, and I realize that Grandma Lucy is still going at it. I wonder if that woman ever gets laryngitis.

“Jesus took the little child up in his lap,” she’s telling us, and I can see now that other people are fidgeting. Part of me wants to just tell Jake come on, let’s get out of here, but part of me wants to hear more. Because even though I still think she’s crazy, there’s something deep inside that’s telling me to listen. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking. Maybe I’m just hoping for some kind of heavenly message in a bottle.

That would be nice. A direct word from God telling me Natalie’s going to be just fine. Or the other way around, a message saying she’s going to die and I don’t need to feel guilty about that stupid DNR. A message that none of this was my fault, even though I might not even believe God himself on that point.

Grandma Lucy’s got this Holy Spirit sway going on in her hips, which makes me wonder if she was a dancer when she was young. I’m surprised when I find she’s still harping on those thick-skulled disciples, but she says, “And he told the twelve, ‘The kingdom of heaven belongs to the children.’” As soon as she says the words, I can see it. You’re going to think I’m the one who’s batty now, but I couldn’t make this up even if I wanted to.

Even if I needed to just to prove my own sanity.

I see him. God. Jesus. Whatever you want to call him. I know the real historical person didn’t look like those illustrations in children’s story-book Bibles, except now he does. In my mind. The glowing robe, the brown beard, everything. He’s white as a singer in a boy band, too, but he’s got her on his lap. Not some nameless child like Grandma Lucy seems to think.

No, her. My Natalie. My baby girl.

Except she’s not a baby, she’s ... I don’t know. Five? Six? The age you’d be around the time you’d start losing your first tooth. Because she’s missing her two front ones. I can tell because her entire face is lit up in a smile. And when I say lit up, I’m not using a figure of speech. I mean her face is literally glowing, but when I get a better look, I realize the light’s actually coming from him. He’s got his arms around her, and he’s gazing at her. He’s not even looking down at her. He’s holding her there on his lap, but she’s right at eye level with him. If I were to tell you about his eyes, you won’t even believe me. I mean, I know there are movie stars or whatnot and everyone’s like man, they’ve got such gorgeous eyes. Well this is totally different. Those eyes, his eyes — it’s like they could gaze at her forever and never lose a single ounce of love. Admiration. Then it hits me.

He’s proud of my daughter. God. Jesus, whoever this shiny guy I’m seeing is, he’s actually proud of Natalie. I mean, I’m not surprised that he loves her so much, but that affection ... so tender.

And then she looks at me, those almond eyes. Her skin is dark like mine, but her black hair is soft and silky like her grandmother’s. If any of this is real, if I remember any of this after I’m done wigging out, I know that my stomach is going to drop those few inches every single time I think about the way she looks at me.

I can’t figure out why I’m crying, why the tears are streaming down my cheeks. They’re hot, too. Like streams of lava. Except it doesn’t hurt. Not physically. What gets me is the emotional pain. That fist-in-your-gut kind of whoosh that knocks the wind right out of you. I feel that now. I feel that when she looks at me. Because she loves me so much. I can see that. This little girl who’s never once smiled at me, who’s never once given any indication that she has a clue who I am, she’s there on his lap just beaming at me. Like I’m her favorite person in the world.

And she’s so gorgeous. So. Stinking. Gorgeous. Just beautiful, and I don’t mean the kind of girl who would wear a five-hundred-dollar dress and twirl a baton in front of a panel of judges to get a trophy. This is far more real. Far more lasting. She’s got joy and innocence and youthful energy just gushing out of her, and that’s what makes her so perfect.

I adore her. It hits me like a wall of heat when you open up the oven to pull out your mother-in-law’s golden-topped casserole. I adore this child. So much so that it’s like the feeling is being squeezed out of my chest by someone’s fist, like they’re wringing my heart out and I’m pretty sure I’m going to die but that’s ok because now I’ve seen who she really is.

Except that’s not right either, because even though I’m spun out on Holy-Ghost hallucinogens, I’m still sober enough to know that I have a sick little baby at home who doesn’t smile, doesn’t acknowledge me, doesn’t even like to be cuddled by anyone, deity or not. Then that wall of heat I just mentioned turns into something more akin to a steam roller, and I realize she must be dead.

That’s what this vision means. Natalie died while we were wasting time at church, so now she’s in heaven, where apparently she’s destined to live out the rest of eternity as a perpetual kindergartner. That’s what the verse Granny Lady quoted meant. Refusing to be comforted because her children are no more.

No more. My heart repeats the phrase with each beat. No more. No more.

My daughter is no more.

What other explanation could there be? Now it’s a different kind of tear rolling down my cheeks. The grieving kind. I know because I feel one splash onto my forearm, and it’s only the mourning tears that ever splash. So I go back to wishing I were dead. Except now it’s because my heart is dripping with so much despair, not love, and there’s nothing left for me here on earth but to go and join my daughter — now perfect — in heaven, if God will even accept me there after all that I’ve done.