LEXIE
When I arrive at the hospital the next day, I find my sister sitting up in the chair by the window with her daughter in her arms. She barely moves when I open the door. Her gaze is fixed on Daisy, and I’m anxious that I might be interrupting a private moment between my sister and her daughter. I hesitate and almost leave the room to give her privacy, but as I take my first step back she looks up. Annie smiles at me, a serene, proud smile—she’s a completely different person today.
“Hey,” she whispers. “Come on in.”
Despite the rough farewell we had the night before, I asked Sam to stop on the way into the hospital so I could pick up coffees and more sweet treats for Annie. I set all the gifts on the bed and approach the chair.
“She’s so perfect,” Annie whispers, awestruck. “I can’t believe how much I love her. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. No one told me it would feel like this.”
“I’m amazed you’re already out of bed. Are you feeling okay?” I ask gently, and I sit very carefully on the arm of her chair. I still feel like I’m interrupting—but then Annie angles the baby toward me and very gently slides her into my arms. Suddenly, this isn’t their moment—it’s ours. As I nestle Daisy against myself, an involuntary smile crosses my face. “Hi there, Daisy.”
“I’m actually feeling okay,” Annie says. “I thought I was going to die when they made me get out of bed, but I took a shower, so I’m feeling even better now. And I slept like a log last night, but the nurses woke me up a few times so I could try to give her the colostrum.”
“So you decided to breastfeed her after all?”
“For the next few days, yeah. That hurts, too, but they said it’ll help her with sucking and stuff so... I’ll make it work.” She clears her throat and says, “I’m going to be okay, you know.”
“Of course you are,” I say. “And this little one...well, I think she might be the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen.”
“I thought that, too...” Annie says. “I thought the hormones had made me blind. She could have two heads and I don’t think I’d notice this morning.”
We both laugh softly, and then I press my forefinger against Daisy’s palm. Her fingers contract too stiffly around mine, and I wonder about her muscle tone.
“Do you know what her NAS scores have been?” I ask Annie.
“They were great yesterday, three and four, I think they said. But this morning was seven, and a while ago it was nine. They said if her score is over eight for three checks in a row they’ll medicate her. I know it’s pretty much inevitable.”
“Some babies skip it. But it’s pretty unlikely.”
“I know. And I know I’ve already asked a lot, but I’m really going to need your help, Lexie.”
“Anything, Annie,” I promise her, and she bites her lip.
“I need to go to rehab, and I need to make it work this time.”
“I know.”
“I tried, all of the other times. I really did. But this time, she needs me. I think that will make a difference. I’ve never loved anything in this life as much as I love that baby. I’m going to make this work. I’m going to give her a better life—I have to.”
I can see the determination in Annie’s eyes again, and I’m comforted by it. It’s funny, because I’ve always seen the potential in her. It was there all along, buried under a pile of chaos, hidden from the world—but I caught just enough glimpses of it to keep on believing in her, at least on some level. This is another peek at a future that I have always seen in my mind, another glimpse of the woman whom I have always believed in. I haven’t put up with Annie’s shenanigans for all these years because I’m an idiot, I have put up with them because I just couldn’t give up on the person I knew she could be.
We stare down at the baby together for a moment, and then, I glance at my sister again and I whisper, “Whatever you need, Annie. Anything you need.”
* * *
Tuesday is a nice day—a peaceful day. Annie is content, and Daisy is well. But that brief glimpse of peacefulness is gone by the time I arrive at the hospital the next morning. A nurse directs me to the NICU, where I find Annie in a silent, dark room off the main nursery. She’s rocking in a rocking chair, and Daisy is in her arms. The baby’s cry is weak, but high-pitched—the kind of cry that hurts to hear.
“Hi, Annie,” I whisper as I enter the room. I notice the tray of breakfast that sits untouched beside her. Annie looks up at me, and her face is streaked with tears.
“Her NAS scores were too high. They started her on morphine last night, but she’s still unsettled this morning.” I lift a piece of toast and bring it near Annie’s face. She looks at me incredulously. “I’ll eat when she settles,” she whispers, and she stares down at her daughter again. “Yesterday I kind of thought that she was going to be okay. But last night...her whole body was shaking and she broke out in a rash and she wouldn’t drink. And then she wouldn’t stop crying... She went all floppy, and then she was too stiff, and it was just...” Annie shudders, then pulls the baby right up against her cheek. “I can’t even explain to you how much withdrawal hurts. To know that I have put my own baby through this, I don’t know how I can live with myself.”
“You’re going to live with yourself by doing better,” I say firmly. “You are going to focus on being the best mom you can be from now on.”
“Is Mom coming down?” Annie asks. Her voice is tiny—like she’s a child again.
We didn’t talk about Mom yesterday—I didn’t bring it up, and Annie didn’t ask. I hesitate before I admit, “I don’t think so. She wants me to send her a photo.”
“Don’t you fucking hate her sometimes, Lexie?” Annie sighs.
“Of course I do,” I snort, and Annie releases a surprised giggle.
“Is it any wonder the mess that I am?”
“You’ve got some problems, but everyone has problems.”
“You don’t,” Annie says pointedly, and I grimace.
“Of course I have problems. I just deal with mine in a different way.”
“A healthy way,” Annie surmises, and I shake my head.
“I don’t know about that. I mean—yes, I have a career and there’s Sam...and we have a house now...my life looks good. It is good but—I make stupid decisions. God, I’m so used to controlling things that even when someone else is doing a caesarean on my sister I want to take over.”
Annie laughs weakly.
“Tell me about this house.”
And so I tell her. I tell her about the rambling house that Sam and I have purchased, and the minor renovation that we are midway through—even the address that seemed so auspicious—Seven Neil Lane, like Dad himself had blessed it for us. I tell her how I’m getting the colors just right because we’re going to repaint it. And how one day our kids will have bedrooms there—big bedrooms that they can share if they want to. I tell her about the agapanthus we are planting along the front path, and the new weatherboard that we just had fixed to the exterior—dark gray, with a bright white trim. I tell her about the huge attic, and the office with the bay windows, and the big bifold windows in the kitchen and the adorable guesthouse. I tell her about the parties Sam and I threw over the summer last year. The whole neighborhood came, and our block is teeming with kids—they climbed the trees and ate Sam’s “famous” barbecue. Annie has always been the storyteller of the two of us, but today, telling her this story seems to be energizing her.
Maybe I shouldn’t paint this glowing picture of my life while hers is in ruins. But I can see the joy in her eyes from the distraction, and as Annie relaxes into our chat, Daisy seems to relax, too. Eventually, she falls asleep. We sit in the dark room and talk until the nurse comes to do another NAS assessment.
“Come on,” I tell Annie, when the nurse takes the baby. “Let’s go get you some breakfast.”
“I can eat this,” she protests, but I shake my head.
“It’s cold now. Daisy will be okay for a few minutes. We’ll get something fresh. A muffin and some proper coffee from the cafeteria. Okay?”
Annie shuffles out of the NICU, casting glances over her shoulder toward Daisy as we go. At the door to the main ward, she winces in pain, and I fetch her a wheelchair. As I push her along the hall, she reaches up to squeeze my hand against the chair handle and she croaks unevenly, “Lexie, will she be okay? After all this?”
“I know this is awful for us to watch, for the medical staff, too. But studies show that long-term outcomes for NAS babies tend to be positive—when all other factors are equalized.”
“Translate that into English for me, instead of doctor-speak?” Annie asks. “I just want to know if I’ve ruined her for life.”
“It means that once she’s withdrawn, if she has a stable home and a healthy mother, she’s going to be just fine.”
Annie nods, and releases my hand. She raises her chin and I see her straighten her spine.
“I’m not going to fuck up this time.”
“I know, love,” I reassure her, and it’s less than half a lie. “I know.”
“Hang on a second, Lexie,” she murmurs, and I stop the chair cautiously, watching to see what she does. She pulls herself out of it with a wince, then walks around the chair to throw herself at me—wrapping her arms around my neck. I’m not expecting the embrace and I startle a little, but she only tightens her grip.
“Thank you, Lexie,” she whispers, and I wrap my arms around her skinny little frame and blink against the tears that have sprung into my eyes. She draws in a deep breath and relaxes the hug, then leans back to stare into my eyes. I think she’s about to say something else profound, but a twinkle rises in her gaze and for just a split second, I can see a mischievous, childlike quality in her again.
“What was that you were saying about coffee and doughnuts at the cafeteria for breakfast?” she asks me.
“I think I said ‘coffee and muffins.’” I laugh softly.
“I’m pretty sure a doughnut is just a muffin with a hole in the middle.”
“Got a hankering for doughnuts this morning, huh?”
“Every morning. Always.”
“Return to your chariot, then, madam, and we’ll see what we can do,” I tease her gently, and I help her back into the chair, then start the long walk down the hallway.