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Natalie’s got at least twenty wires taped to her little head. It’s all color-coded. Reds and greens and yellows. Like in those stupid action movies where the hero doesn’t know if he’s supposed to cut the blue wire or the red one. Except have you noticed it’s never the same color from one film to the next?
There’s some tech in here, a cute guy in his twenties or early thirties. He’s really talkative, but not in a flirty way. More like the “I’m a dude but I’d make a great BFF and you’d never have to worry about me hitting on you” sort of way. I like him. He puts my mind at ease.
“How old’s your little sweetie?” he asks.
“Four months.” I hate saying it because she still looks like a newborn. A very out of it newborn who just spent half an hour pedaling her legs in the air like she was watching an aerobics video from the eighties.
“She’s adorable.” He’s gushing, but he’s not overdoing it. I get the feeling that he’s being sincere.
“Thanks.”
“Is she part Asian?”
“Yeah.” I answer even though I don’t want to think about Jake right now.
“I thought so. You can really see it in her eyes.”
“Uh-huh.”
He plugs some of the wires into his portable machine. “Well, I’m just about done hooking her up.”
“Then what happens?”
“We watch. The EEG’ll print out a scan of her brain waves, and that will give the neurologist an idea of what’s going on in there.”
I don’t want to deal with the same neurologist I met in the NICU, but if I don’t have any choice, I guess it’s better than nothing. We’re here to figure out what’s wrong with Natalie, right?
We don’t say much once Natalie gets hooked up. The tech makes small talk every now and then, but I’m so exhausted I end up being pretty bad at conversation. I don’t know how long the test goes because I’m back on hospital mode where my biological clock completely shuts down and I have no concept of minutes or hours. I’m surprised when he unhooks my daughter and starts peeling off the tape stuck to her scalp.
“That’s all?”
“Yup.”
I eye the chart on the screen. “What does it say?”
“I have to send it to the neurologist to look at. I’m sure he’ll be here soon to talk to you.”
Be here soon. Great. I know enough hospital-speak by now to realize the guy must have found a problem but isn’t allowed to tell me himself. I don’t know why I’m surprised. I shouldn’t have let that Grandma Lucy lady get my hopes up. She’s nothing but an old bat who doesn’t know anything about me or my child. Was I so desperate I clung to the wild promises of a perfect stranger who doesn’t have a hint of medical training?
The tech leaves. Part of me wishes he would have stayed. I feel like an unwanted stray puppy, willing to shower all my love on the first person to show me the slightest hint of attention. I hate that I’m so pathetic right now. You know what I need? My foster mom. Sandy’s perfect in situations like this. That’s why she does so much foster care in the first place. She was made to nurture unwanted, needy creatures. Some people like that work at animal shelters. Others take in foster brats.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m special in Sandy’s mind. If I stand out more than some of the other placements she had. I was there for four whole years. That’s got to count for something. But on the other hand, she’s been doing this for decades now. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s had a couple hundred kids in and out her door. There’s no way she can remember all of them.
Man, I need to stop this line of thinking. If Sandy didn’t care about me, she wouldn’t have flown out to Seattle when Natalie was little. She came because I needed her. Why couldn’t Natalie have been born in Boston? Why did I ever leave home?
There’s a huge man blocking the entryway. “Mrs. Franklin?” he asks. I wonder if he’s the neurologist.
“Come in.”
He’s so tall, I didn’t see the petite woman standing behind him at first. Her black hair goes down past her waist, and I doubt she’s five feet tall even in those two-inch heels. She’s all smiles as she stretches her hand out to me. “Hi. I’m Riza Lopez, one of the chaplains here. This is Dr. Fletcher. Mind if we sit down?”