The elevator is taking too long. I’m shivering. I wish I had a robe. Like the mama with the pink slippers.
I woke at five thirty. When that OB doc came to check on me. Seemed like a good time to go check on my baby. Didn’t want to wait for the wheelchair guy, so I’m walking over myself.
The elevator finally comes. I hit nine and stand in the corner. No one else gets on.
The receptionist desk is empty. I go on back. I know the way.
The hallways inside are still dark. The only lights come from the babies’ beds. It’s nice like this. Quiet. Reminds me of the room with the sonogram machine. I don’t see families. Only a few nurses feeding babies.
I turn the corner. The area where Angelo and the other heart babies are is all lit up. There’s a crowd around one of the beds. There are so many doctors and nurses I can’t tell which baby is in trouble. A plastic bag is handed up and over heads. A lady in a short white coat grabs it and runs it down the hall. Her feet slap the floor. She doesn’t look at me as she passes.
“Epi, one to one thousand,” someone says. It’s not a shout, but it’s close. A nurse standing by a red cart hands something to another woman in blue.
I take a breath. And then another. Please don’t be Angelo.
It’s foolish to wish. It’s foolish to pray. God has never listened to me before. Why would he start now?
No one notices me. I creep forward until I can see him. My baby. It’s Angelo they’re crowded around.
His color is off. He was pale before, but a pinky pale. Now he looks gray. Like his skin is turning to clay.
A doctor is standing above his head. She has her hands around him, like she’s gonna pick him up upside down. Her thumbs are pressing his chest in. She’s counting. His chest goes in so far it’s almost touching his spine. She’s going to break him. The lady doc is going to break him. The tube in his nose is not connected to the machine. It’s connected to a blue balloon. Someone else—a guy—is squeezing it. His head is bobbing like he’s counting, too.
The monitor beeps, shrill, nonstop. A nurse hits a button, once, twice. She smacks it. The alarm goes off. But the red lines that used to show my baby’s heartbeat, his breathing, his oxygen levels—all the readings Maggie showed me yesterday—they’re flat.
“Blood gas result, seven-point-one, twenty-four, eighteen, forty-five!” A woman shouts it next to me.
A phone slams down. “Dr. Moses is here. They’re prepping the OR.” A different lady doctor stands at the counter with the computers. She shakes her blond ponytail off her shoulder. Her mouth is an angry slash in her face. It’s Goldie. “Give another round of epi. Anesthesia’s on their way up.”
What does that mean?
Goldie sees me. Before she can say anything, a blur of blue goes between us.
“I’ll take over respirations.” It’s Maggie. She takes the balloon from the guy who’s been squeezing it. “We need to switch out compressions. You’re looking tired, sweetie.” She’s talking to the doctor whose hands are around my baby’s chest.
“Ms. Pujols.” Goldie is speaking to me. But I can’t take my eyes off Angelo. Off his little, stone-gray body. His chest caving in. His closed eyes. The bandages around his umbilical stump are oozing blood. “Your son has had a cardiac arrest. We’re going to take him to the operating room to put him on ECMO, the heart-lung machine. I need you to sign this consent.”
I remember Petite Doc and the cath. In an emergency, they don’t need my permission.
“Is he going to die?” I look at her then. Afraid if I don’t, she might lie and I won’t be able to see it.
Goldie looks back at me. She doesn’t blink. “He might. But not if we can help it.” Her eyebrows are pulled close. Her jaw is set. “I need you to tell me if this is still what you would like us to do. To try to save your baby.”
I don’t understand the question. Who would say no to that?
I nod. I say it out loud, in case a nod don’t count. I reach for the pen and papers she’s holding out. “Yes. Please. Please save him.”
I’m sitting in the rocking chair by Angelo’s empty bed. Maggie keeps coming to check on me. She only has one other baby to care for since Angelo’s not here, a baby that’s due to go home in a few days.
Pink Slipper Mama comes in. Only she’s not wearing the pink slippers. She’s in street clothes.
“Hi.” She waves to me as she finishes washing her hands in the sink. “Good morning, Amelia,” she burbles at her baby. “You are just too cute. Yes you are. You are Mommy’s cute little munchkin.” She makes faces and blows a kiss. The baby’s eyes are open, watching. But the baby don’t make any sound.
“Did your baby go for surgery?” Pink Slipper Mama is looking at me.
I nod. I don’t want to speak. Not right now. Not to her.
“That’s good. I’m glad even with the holiday they were able to take your baby so quickly. Amelia had to wait five days for her surgery. But now that’s behind us, isn’t it?” She’s gone back to using her baby voice. “And maybe today they’ll take the rest of your tubes out. And we can go home for New Year’s? Right, Amelia?”
She looks over at me again. “What’s your baby’s heart problem?”
I’m not going to say anything, but Maggie is watching me from across the room, where she’s reorganizing a supply closet. I don’t want her to think I’m rude.
“HLHS.” I use the fancy word. Maybe Pink Slipper Mama won’t know what that is.
“Oh, that’s what Amelia has, too!” She says it like it’s a luck thing. “She had her Norwood with Dr. Moses. Is that who is doing your surgery?”
Goldie had used that name. I don’t know if Angelo is having his Norwood or if he’s just getting that EC-thing though. I nod.
“He’s the best, you know. Out of the three of them, he has the most experience. Would you like a croissant?” She goes over to her purse, takes out a white paper bag. “I got a few extra. Sorry, I didn’t bring you coffee. I didn’t know if you’d be here so early. Do you drink coffee?”
I shrug-nod. God, is she a talker. But I am hungry.
“Here, take one.” She points the bag’s opening at me. I stick my hand in, grab something warm and crusty, and pull it out. Maggie’s not looking at us anymore.
“Dr. Moses says we’ll be able to take Amelia home soon. It’s amazing, isn’t it? That they can take these teeny hearts and fix them.” She pulls her rocker to the other side of Amelia’s bed so it’s next to mine. “I’m Helen by the way.” She holds out her hand.
“Mari,” I say, shaking it.
“Mary?”
The woman’s as white as they come. Freckles. Blond hair, but it’s gray at the roots. She’s got a diamond ring that’s more grape than raisin.
“Mari as in Maribel. My dad’s Dominican,” I say.
“That’s pretty. I like that.” She sips her coffee. She stares out over the beds of diapered babies. “I never thought I’d be here.” She says it like she’s surprised. She leans toward me, like we’re friends or something. “I never thought I’d be a mother, much less a mother to a baby with special needs. Howard said he didn’t want children. Until we turned forty and all of a sudden he was like, ‘Honey, let’s have a baby!’ Two years and four rounds of IVF later, here we are. Well, here I am. Howard’s at work. I took a leave from the firm, so they’re not expecting me back until April. A nice long maternity leave so Amelia and I can get to know each other. I’ve been waiting for you for a while, little miss.” She brushes the top of the baby’s toes with her hand. “A long time indeed. How about you?” She rocks her chair, takes another sip of coffee, and looks at me.
I’m still chewing. I’m trying hard not to think of how good it tastes, all buttery and soft on the inside, crunchy on the out. The crap that comes on the hospital tray isn’t even food compared to this. “Pretty much same thing,” I say, swallowing. “Except I’m fifteen. And we didn’t do that VF thing. But I’ve waited a long time for Angelo, too.” Like my whole life. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t lonely.
“Angelo is his name? That’s darling. How did you decide on that?”
“He’s my angel.” I take another bite real fast.
Helen reaches across the space between us. She puts her hand on top of mine. “Angelo will be okay. You’ll see. Dr. Moses is going to take care of him.”
I don’t look at her. I don’t want to see the lie on her face. I just chew and swallow.
“Mari, someone’s out front to see you. Are you up for visitors?” Maggie holds the phone against her shoulder, waiting for my answer.
“Sure,” I say, looking over at Amelia’s bed. Howard, Amelia’s dad, came for lunch. He brought a whole mess of sandwiches from the deli. Enough for the nurses and some of the parents. I think Helen has taken on fattening me up as a personal goal of hers. She kept telling me about how important it is to eat so my body can heal. I took a chicken parm just to make her happy. I’ll eat it later. Ever since the pastry, my stomach’s been in a tangle. Still no update on Angelo. And Maggie’s called down a couple of times.
I’m expecting Yaz. She told me she’d be here in the morning. But Yaz doesn’t come around the corner. Heavenly and Teri don’t either.
Coño.
My visitor shuffles forward slowly. He looks at a notecard in his hand. He looks at the numbers of the bed spaces on the walls. He’s wearing dress pants, not jeans. He’s got on a white button-down. His mouth hangs open. He looks like a Catholic schoolboy who lost half of his uniform. Except he’s still got his earring in. No matter it’s a gold stud instead of the ring. And his Yankees cap is on his head.
Bertie stops when he sees me. I wonder what he sees. A deflated girl in a gray hospital gown. Fear sits on my back like a nasty bird, hunching my shoulders. At least my hair is clean.
Bertie lifts his hand. Hi.
I lift my hand back at him.
He doesn’t come any closer. He looks around the room at the different beds. He looks at the card in his hand. The card is shaking.
I feel like I gulped a plum whole, pit and all. And it’s stuck in my throat. I want to swallow, but I can’t.
What if he missed his chance to meet Angelo?
I stand, my hands fisted. I go to reach for my belly but stop. I feel so empty, so hollow. Not to mention scared. But also mad. At Bertie. Still. That he wanted me to get the abortion. That the baby he gave me might not live. That he let me walk away and didn’t come after me. Not hard enough.
When did he figure out I was still pregnant? Why didn’t he call? What happened in Riverside Park—what almost happened—he could’ve prevented that. I could’ve been staying with him instead of Heavenly. If he’d only come after me. If he’d only apologized. I could’ve been safe. Bertie never would’ve let me go to Sing Sing. I never would’ve found out the truth about my papi. I never would’ve found out the truth that nobody in my family loves me. Except Angelo. Who might die. Who might already be dead.
I’m across the room in three steps. I shove him, hands on his chest. “THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”
“Whoa!” Maggie is between us. “I said, whoa! Step back there, young lady.”
Howard has Bertie’s arm. But Bertie’s not going to do nothing. Except look like he’s gonna cry. He wants me to beat him up.
“This is Angelo’s father, I presume?” Maggie’s pretty eyes are pissed. They’re poking holes in my forehead. Thin red hairs have loosened from her hair bun. “Nice to meet you. My name’s Maggie. I’m your baby’s nurse.” She’s still glaring at me while she shakes his hand.
Bertie’s voice is all high and weird. “My name is José Humberto Valdez. Folks call me Bertie.”
“Bertie. Nice name. Now, it looks like you two have some talking to do. I’m going to put you here in this room.” Maggie opens a door I thought led to a closet. Two green couches patterned with circles and squares face each other. Two armchairs sandwich a coffee table. “Do you need a chaperone or can you be civil?” She stands in the doorway, hands on hips.
“It’s okay. We be good.” Bertie ducks his head looking for my eyes.
I cross my arms over my chest and flop down on a couch.
“That means yes in Mari speak,” Bertie explains to Maggie.
“Okay, but I’m not going to warn you two again. Any other outbursts, and I’m going to have to call security. It’s not safe for the babies for you two to be acting like babies.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bertie says as she shuts the door.
We don’t say nothing to each other. Bertie sits on the other couch. He grabs a pillow. It has designs with shapes on it, too. He puts it behind him, then changes his mind and shoves it away.
His eyes don’t look at me. But it’s not because he’s hiding anything. He’s staring at the checked linoleum, but I can see the white parts of his eyes are white. There’s nothing bloodshot about them. Good.
“So where is he?” That’s the first thing he asks. “He’s not out there.”
“How do you know?” I say. What does he know about what his son looks like? He’s never seen him yet.
“All them babies out there look white. Don’t see no baby that looks like it come from me. Unless there’s some other secret you been keeping.” He waits for me to look at him. But I don’t. Bertie knows I wouldn’t lie about something like that. “Also,” Bertie coughs, trying to make it seem like his voice didn’t break, “there was a space next to where you was sitting. Like where a bed used to be.”
I glance at him, annoyed. Bertie’s not usually observant. “Angelo’s in the OR.”
“The what?”
“The OPERATING room.” I say it like he’s an idiot. I want him to feel like an idiot. For all he’s done to me.
Bertie leans over his legs. He smooths down his eyebrows with his thumb and readjusts his baseball cap. “So you named him Angelo after all, huh?”
“What else was I going to name him? Some alelao like José or Humberto?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. His fingers are tapping his knee. “Sometimes you change your mind.” He fake coughs again.
He’s waiting for me to look him in the eye.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he says finally. “You should’ve told me.”
“You didn’t want him.” I hurl the words at him like fists. I wait for Bertie to say something back. But he doesn’t. He’s not looking at me no more. He’s looking at the goddamn floor. Like he don’t want me either.
“I always wanted him,” I say. “I needed him. I NEED HIM.” I cover my eyes with my hand, trying to make it seem like I have a bad headache. But really, I don’t want him to see me crying.
Bertie stands. He moves to my couch. His arms hold me. I want to push him away. For some reason, I don’t.
“You might get your wish.” I’m hiccuping between sobs. “He might die. He’s gonna die. Because you didn’t want him enough. Because you didn’t want him like I did.”
“Shhh. Don’t say that. We don’t know what’s going to happen. And I did—I do—want him. I love him, Mari. I haven’t even seen him and I love him. You don’t know. You just don’t know.” He takes a breath. When he lets it out, I feel it on my neck. “I didn’t want our baby to suffer. Just like I don’t want you to suffer. It’s an unfair choice I had. Either way, someone I love suffers.”
“Angelo’s suffering?” I say. “He’s a baby. He ain’t gonna remember none of this.”
Bertie doesn’t let me go though I try to pull back. “Just ’cause he don’t remember, don’t mean there’s no suffering. I see those babies out there. With them needles and tubes. You can’t tell me they’re not suffering. But now that they born, there ain’t nothing more to do than let those doctors try and save them.”
He holds me until I calm down. He’s wearing the cologne I gave him for his birthday. The one Yaz and I picked out at four a.m. after sampling the entire store during one of those Black Friday sales where they open at midnight. We smelled like perfume for days.
Bertie moves me side to side. He starts to hum, so soft I feel it before I hear it. I think it’s “Suavémente.” But then I catch the tune. Luis Vargas. “Volvió el dolor.” Bertie doesn’t sing about the man who was betrayed. He only sings about the pain and about how he still loves her. We’re still on the couch. Rocking to the thread of his voice. Bertie doesn’t just dance, he can sing, too.
“How did you find out?” I ask when I can talk without hic-cups.
“Teri’s brother,” he says.
I didn’t realize Carlos knew about Angelo. “He told you or he told everyone?” Carlos has a big mouth, but I thought my threats would hold.
“Let’s just say I beat it out of him.”
Just like Yaz said. I wonder if Teri’s mad at him for it. Carlos is a pendejo, but he is her brother. “Why did you do it? Beat him up?” I say.
“He was mouthing off about you. Bragging about your rack. I mean, I knew you was staying over at Teri’s. I thought you was still angry with Carmen. Just like you was angry with me. But I knew there was no way you would let him see you. Figured he was being a perv. Spying on you in the shower or something. Then he goes and says he only ever saw your rack through clothes. That you was so big—bigger than he thought you was—he couldn’t help notice.” Bertie’s talking like he has a sour taste in his mouth. “So I figured it out. I knew you still had to be pregnant. I asked Teri. She didn’t deny it. You know her, she don’t like to lie. Then, ’bout two weeks ago, Toto called. He told me straight up.”
“When?” I clear my throat. “When did you first find out?”
“Week after Thanksgiving.”
“And you didn’t say nothing?”
“Qué no, I was waiting for you to come tell me yourself. Figured you had a good reason for waiting.”
“Yeah. I was mad at you.”
Bertie screws his mouth up to the side. “I know. Figured that was part of it. Figured you needed time. Didn’t think you’d wait ’til after he was born.”
“Me neither,” I say, real quiet. “But he came early.”
“Babies can do that.”
I sit back on the couch, so I can see all of him better. I want to tell him he should have come. That I was mad at him, but he should have found me anyway. That I wanted him to. Instead, I ask, “You tell Toto you’re here?”
Bertie holds my gaze. “Not yet.”
I scrunch up my nose, trying to get at my lip. It’s driving me crazy. I go to scratch it, but Bertie takes my hand. I look down at his fingers pressed around mine.
“He still might die, you know. Angelo could still die.”
Bertie nods. His eyebrows pull his forehead over his eyes. “I know. But I’m not gonna leave. Not ’til Angelo is safe. Either here or in heaven. I can’t do more than that. We just have to leave it up to God and the doctors, like my mama says.”
I wince. “Don’t you go bringing her into the conversation.”
“You know you gonna have to deal with her. For Angelo’s sake. Can’t have too many people loving a baby or praying for a baby, Mar. She’s his abuela. She have a right to come see him.”
I don’t want to share Angelo. With Yaz, or Heavenly, or Teri. Not even with Bertie. And now Bertie’s saying I have to share him with Cacata Mama? Angelo’s a part of me. He’s here on this earth on account of me. For me to love. And for him to love me. Not anyone else.
I rake my teeth over my lip. I chew it a few times. I think about what Dr. Love said about Maggie. Bertie might be right. But I’m not going to say nothing.
There’s a knock. “You lovebirds make up yet?” Maggie peeks her head inside. “Oh good, looks like you did. Now, here’s the deal. They’re finished in the OR. Angelo’s on his way up. We’ll need some time to get him settled out here, so you guys need to wait in the lounge outside.”
“Can’t we stay in here?” Bertie asks. This surprises me, ’cause I was going to ask the same thing. “We won’t bother no one. Promise.”
Maggie eyes us. Bertie puts on his Catholic schoolboy face. “You’ll stay here ’til I come get you?” she asks.
Catholic Schoolboy nods.
“All right,” Maggie says, “but if I catch you sneaking out . . .”
“We won’t,” Bertie says.
Maggie leaves us. A moment later, she’s back. She tosses something at Bertie—my chicken parm—and puts two cans of soda on the table. “Helen and Howard thought you might be hungry.”
A crowd of people and beeping machines pass behind Maggie. A baby bed is in the middle of it, rolling by real slow. I feel a pulse in my gut. It’s Angelo. It’s got to be.
“Got to go,” Maggie says. The door swings shut behind her.