We take turns sleeping and watching over Angelo. Bertie makes me go back to my room since he just woke from a nap. We’re kind of lucky. I thought the night nurse was nasty, but she pretends she don’t see when one of us dozes off in the rocker.
I come back at five thirty. Right after the OB doc’s visit. She said I’d be good to go home today. They let me stay an extra day as it is. I don’t think she noticed how scared that made me. I don’t want to leave Angelo. My place is with him. Plus, I don’t even know where I’m gonna go.
Bertie looks like a mess when I shake him awake—clothes rumpled, hair sticking up all over, face all pasty and confused. I send him to my room, tell him no one should bother him for a few hours.
Angelo looks more swollen. I didn’t think it was possible. Now even his face is all pooched out. The night nurse is wearing a blue paper gown and getting out a tray with bandages on it. Someone else is sitting in Dave’s spot. He says his name is Francisco and he goes back to arranging the heck-no heart-lung machine. Amelia’s asleep. The chairs around her are empty. Helen and Howard must be home. I bet they have a nice big bed and they sleep holding on to each other all night long.
I settle into the chair, the high one so I can see Angelo. Since night nurse is here, I don’t try to touch him. Though I really want to. The monitors are all quiet without any beeping, so Angelo must be all right. Though he looks less like a baby and more like a weird blow-up doll than ever.
I’m about to ask the nurse about the bandages when a team of docs in blue pants and white coats come over. Someone flicks on the overhead lights, making me blind for a moment.
“Are you the mother?” one of them asks.
“Uh-huh,” I say, giving him the evil eye. Why do I have the feeling he’s gonna tell me something I don’t want to hear?
“I’m Dr. Mitchell. I work with Dr. Moses. We’re going to change the dressing on your son’s chest. Gloria will give him some extra pain medication so he won’t feel a thing. Would you mind waiting outside for a few minutes?”
“But I just got here.”
They’re swarming around Angelo like bugs. Picking at him, touching him. I don’t know what they’re doing, but I don’t like the way they’re doing it. Like Angelo is just a toy and not a real baby. My baby.
“Miss Pujols, this won’t be good for you to see. We have to expose his chest. Now, please.” He pauses and points to the door. “I’ll come find you when we’re done.”
I stomp away, trying to make as much noise as possible. I don’t like being dismissed like I’m a little kid or a dog or something. Coño. I stop at the oven with the blankets, grab a few, slam the door closed. But no one’s looking at me. They’re putting on blue gowns and masks and circling around Angelo so tight I can’t even see him anymore.
The waiting room is empty. I’ve just settled onto one of the plasticky couches when the elevator dings. Helen walks out, a big bag from the bakery in one arm and a smaller bag from Starbucks in the other.
“Mari? Don’t tell me you slept out here.”
I sit up. I can’t help but smile seeing as she’s so concerned about me.
“Nah, I still got a room. Was visiting, but they kicked me out. They’re doing some dressing change thing.”
“Oh, really?” She looks down at the bag. She slides her bottom lip back and forth against her upper one. “Do you want some coffee?”
I nod, though I don’t drink coffee. Not really. I mean, I was pregnant, and you’re not supposed to have caffeine when you’re pregnant. Not that I ever really started before that. But something hot to drink would be real good right now.
Helen reaches in the bag and hands me a cup. I’ve never had one of these fancy coffee drinks before, the ones with whipped cream and sprinkles of spice on top. I take a sip. Warm gingerbread with milk. It tastes exactly the way Starbucks smells. I lick the cream off my upper lip. I want to thank Helen, to tell her how much the drink rocks, but she’s still chewing on her mouth.
“Why do you look like that?” I ask, nervous all of a sudden. “Is the dressing change dangerous?”
“Oh no.” Helen gives a quick smile. She puts down the other bag and runs her hand along the sleeve of her blouse, smoothing out a wrinkle I hadn’t noticed. “It’s just, I know when they do procedures like that, they won’t let other parents back either. Guess that’s what I get for coming so early.” She gives a little laugh as she sits next to me. Her hair is done pretty and her face has makeup. The dark smudges that were under her eyes when I first met her are gone. I wonder how she had time to do all that—sleep, do herself up, and get breakfast for everyone—seeing as she was here so late. Maybe she didn’t sleep. Maybe it’s just all makeup.
“Sorry,” I say, feeling guilty that Angelo’s keeping her from Amelia.
“Don’t be silly.” She taps my thigh, like she’s brushing off a flying bug. “It’s not your fault. Or Angelo’s.”
She’s doing that mind-reading trick again.
“Here, take one.” She hands me the pastry bag. Muffins. I grab a carrot one and dig in.
“Thanks,” I say, crumbs falling out of my mouth.
Helen takes a book from her backpack, Child-Rearing for the Special Needs Child. She rests it on the sofa while she adds sugar to her coffee and stirs.
“Want something to read?” she asks.
I kind of do. But I don’t want her to think I haven’t done any reading.
“This one’s really good.” She hands me one with a picture of a papi lifting a baby in the air on the cover. Both baby and papi are laughing. I feel a little jealous of that baby. Of how much her papi loves her. I open to a random page and pretend to read. But really I just look at the pictures. I still don’t want to jinx myself.
It seems like forever before Dr. Mitchell comes out. Helen stands and touches my arm before excusing herself. The doctor doesn’t say anything useful. Just that they did what they said they was gonna do and it went fine.
The night nurse, Gloria, is still cleaning up, her gloved hands fisted with blue towels stained with blood. I didn’t need to see that. Maggie is back. She’s talking with Gloria, taking notes in a notebook. Angelo, my little puffed-up baby, has clean, white bandages on his chest. He’s been moved a few inches lower in the bed. I go and wait for my turn at the sink behind other parents. They rush down the hall in the other direction, smiling and holding hands. Folks are lining up behind me to wash, too.
“Excuse me,” I say, pushing past a woman as I try to get to my baby.
“Mari?”
I turn around. My breathing stops. Abuela is next to one of those sonogram machines, holding on to it like it’s keeping her from falling. Her other hand clutches a yellow notecard with Angelo’s bed space written on it.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. They must have let her in while I was talking to the doctor. You can’t see all the elevators from the waiting area.
Abuela’s standing there, her face wrinkled, purple-brown hair dye almost all washed out. She looks scared and lost, like a mangy mutt out in a thunderstorm.
She’s Angelo’s bisabuela. Parents and grandparents are allowed 24/7. Guess that goes for great-grandparents, too. She don’t need my permission to be here. But when I look at her, I see the person who told me to get rid of Angelo. To give up on him. I see the person who gave up on me.
“We was going to come yesterday, right after we heard—”
I hold up my hand. Don’t want her excuses. Don’t even want her here. If I open my mouth, something bad’s gonna come out. I keep it closed. For Angelo’s sake. I turn to my son.
“How’d he do?” I ask the nurse. “With the changing thing?” “Fine,” Gloria says, not looking at me. “Is that your mother?” Maggie asks, motioning to Abuela. “No,” I say. Helen’s holding Amelia in the rocker. She’s humming to her. The look on her face is pure happiness.
That’s how it’s supposed to be. Mamas are supposed to love their daughters. They’re not supposed to dump them and cut them out of their lives when they become inconvenient. Same goes for abuelas.
“I don’t have a mama.” I put my hand on Angelo’s bed, looking at Maggie to make sure this is allowed. I don’t have a papi neither. Everything about him was lies. All lies. Especially those letters. And I most definitely don’t have an abuela.
Maggie’s watching me, her forehead all creased. She gives me a nod when she sees what I want to do.
I put my finger against Angelo’s palm. When he grabs on, it’s like he’s squeezing the tears out of me.
I don’t have anything before me. No family. No love. But I have something after me.
I have a son. I have you, Angelo.
“So are you going to tell me who that lady was or do I have to call Veronica at the front desk and ask?” Maggie’s holding a plastic see-through box connected to one of Angelo’s tubes. She opens something on the bottom and dumps the liquid in another container.
I look behind me. Abuela’s gone. Maybe the sight of Angelo scared her off. Good. It’s not like I was gonna welcome her with abrazos y besos.
“That’s my papi’s mama.”
“Your grandma?”
“Yeah.” I’m staring at Angelo’s feet. They look like miniature versions of Bertie’s. Except for the puff.
“She didn’t want to stay and visit?”
I shrug. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”
Maggie goes for another bag. “Was she the one you were living with before?”
I nod. There’s some truth there.
“So who are you and Angelo going to live with after he gets out?”
I’m surprised how she brings it up like it’s a done deal. Like he’s definitely going to get better and go home. But the way she talks makes it seem like he’s in jail. Like he’s serving some sentence. How could babies go to jail? They’re innocent. Unless they serving time for the sins of their families. I don’t want to think about that. I don’t want to think about how what’s happening with Angelo may be God’s way of getting back at me.
“They’re gonna stay with me.” Bertie’s back. His hands are in his pockets. His shoulders are humped over like he’s preparing for a blow. “I mean,” he looks at me, eyes all nervous, “if they want to, they can.” His clothes are even more wrinkled, but he’s awake. His pants are hanging off his hips. His hands are probably what’s holding them up. I should’ve saved him some of the muffin. I feel bad I didn’t even think about it.
“How’s he doing?” Bertie chin-nods at Angelo, shuffling closer. He’s not looking at me. Maggie waits to see if I’m gonna talk. When I don’t, she tells him about the bandage change.
Bertie’s staring at my hand holding Angelo’s. “Can I do that, too?” he asks, eyes still nervous as they lift to Maggie.
“Sure can! You washed your hands, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Angelo’s other hand is on the board, wrapped in bandages. The only holdable hand is the one I’ve got.
Bertie licks his lips and looks at me. “You don’t got to,” he says. I know he’s talking about living with him and his mama. Not about letting go of our baby’s hand. I nod my head, telling him I know, but not giving him an answer.
I take my hand away. Bertie reaches out, real slow. Like he’s afraid to touch him.
Maggie chuckles. “He won’t break.”
Bertie smiles. Real brief. “Yeah, but he was born broken.”
“I know,” she says. “But we fixed him for you.”
’Cause it looks like this is going to take a while, I grab Bertie’s hand. I press it on top of Angelo’s.
Bertie sucks in air, real quick. He opens his hand, lets it cover Angelo’s. His hand is bigger than mine. His fingers reach all the way up to Angelo’s elbow.
“He’s warm,” he says. He smiles. And it’s not slow. It’s not fake. It’s not lazy. It’s a real smile. And it lasts for a long time.