Chapter 21

THE PLYWOOD stork and I kept company a few minutes while Michelle was settled into her room. I had time to notice that the stork's jacket and hat were blue and that he wore a slightly surprised expression, but I tried not to read too much into either.

Again, Michelle's accommodations were private and nicely appointed with a maple dresser, a small round table and chairs, a chintz-covered sofa and more Mary Cassatt on the textured walls. The new mother sat up in bed, looking alert and pleased.

"Congratulations," I said, squeezing her hand rather than opting for a hug. We were sharing mile-wide grins, and I didn't want to break that off.

"Thanks," said Michelle, her whole being exuding happiness in spite of her exhaustion. The battle scars, the fatigue, the litany of anxieties–none of them could ever fully overshadow the lifelong baseline of joy, not unless something went drastically, drastically wrong. Given a choice, I doubted that even the women who endured the worst of motherhood would say they'd have preferred not to have been a mother at all.

"She's a miracle, Gin, the most beautiful baby girl in the whole world."

“Do you have a name yet?”

"Probably Jody," Michelle responded, "but I'm going to let Doug decide when he sees her. Who's winning the game, by the way?"

"What game?"

"Tomcats," she laughed.

I hit my head with a palm, pretending to chastise myself for temporarily forgetting why Doug wasn't there. "Eagles were winning twenty-eight to seven ten minutes ago."

"Poor Doug."

"I wouldn't say that. Not today."

"You're right," Michelle agreed, smiling again.

"Am I allowed to go see her?" I asked.

"Of course. Come right back though, okay?"

Michelle wasn't quite finished sharing her joy; and I wasn't quite finished basking in it. No matter what else happened, I would always thank Ronnie for this day–December 14, the day his niece was born and his little sister and I cemented the bond we’d been working on all week.

The hall on the way to the Pediatric Acute Care unit wore more fresh wallpaper in a pattern that looked like painted strings. A sign on the double wooden door said, "Important! Radio Frequency ventilator in use. PLEASE No phones or other electronic devices beyond this point! Thank you." Another sign instructed me to press a button and look into a shoulder-high camera lens.

A nurse wearing magenta scrubs showed me in. She was pleasant-faced and contagiously calm, perfect for her job.

"The Turner baby?" I asked.

"Right this way." Two units down the row she stopped and flourished her hand. "Here she is."

I noted the low-sided, hip-high bed covered with a pink blanket. Lying front and center on a loose diaper lay a tiny, red/brown newborn with little hair and many wrinkles. A small clear plastic oxygen tent on a thin metal frame covered her tiny head. Barely more than a handful, Baby Jody seemed loaded down with tubes and wires.

"What does she weigh?" I asked the nurse who had remained to admire the newborn.

"Three and a half pounds, not bad for thirty-two weeks. Could've been worse."

Beside us an alarm went off, a cross between a buzzer and a whistle. I jumped and stared at the boy next door. The nurse laughed.

"He's fine. Just look at him. Those alarms go off all the time. We have to teach the mothers not to panic just because one of the babies wiggled."

I realized then that the room was full of noise, mostly mechanical in nature.

"So if the baby looks okay she probably is?"

"Right."

I breathed easier. "What is all that stuff?" I finally asked.

"Okay. See the wire taped to her abdomen?"

I looked until I identified the attachment she meant.

"That's a control for the radiant warmer, a thermostat for the bed, in other words. Warmth is especially important for a preemie, so we dry them off as quickly as we can. That stimulates their circulation, too. It's critical that they start circulating on their own, independent of their mother. If they're cold, some of them don't make that transition. The radiant warmer adjusts for whatever the baby needs."

"Looks like the thermostat in my oven."

"That's pretty much the idea."

"What about the white things on her chest?" Three patches held wires in place that led to a computerized monitor.

"Heart rate and respiration." The nurse tapped the large blue screen with its lines and blips. "The bandaid sort of thing around her ankle is for the Pulseox, this other monitor. That gives us a reading on the percentage of oxygen she's getting."

"How about the belly button one?" An IV cord seemed to go from the baby's umbilical stub to a drip bag over on a hook.

"We don't feed the babies right away, so that's for fluids–and antibiotics if she needs them." Then the nurse seemed to read my mind. "She's doing great. It may take awhile, but I think she's going to be fine."

"Really?" Tears had sprung into my eyes, and I wiped them away with a knuckle.

The nurse blinked at me then looked back at Michelle and Doug's tiny child. "None of the stuff you're looking at is unusual for a preemie. Plus she's a little girl. Girls have better statistics than little boys."

Surprised, I blurted, "Why?"

The nurse shrugged. "We don't know. They just do. Little black girls fare the best; little white boys do the worst."

I told her “thanks” as she moved down the row. She nodded and picked up a chart, smiled as she reached for a diaper.

I spent a final lingering look at the baby imagining what her life might be like–rattles and applesauce, crayons and ABCs, boyfriends and proms and before you knew it a wedding and a family of her own. Maybe.

Then I wondered what would happen if her father got accused of murder even before they released this precious new person from Pediatric Acute Care. Fear of that had already threatened her well-being, and for better or worse I’d been asked to do whatever I could to help. Maybe my agenda wasn’t precisely what my relatives had in mind, but maybe in the privacy of their hopes and prayers it was. Not that that mattered. As my husband found out the hard way, getting me to quit something I’d taken on was like trying to loosen a pit bull attached to your arm with super-glue. My cousin Ronnie put best. “Stubbornness isn’t one of our family traits, it’s our only trait.”

Telepathically, I promised our newest member to do my best, sealed the deal with an air-kiss, and tore myself away.

When I got back to Michelle’s room, I assured the new mother that she had indeed given birth to the most beautiful baby in the entire world.”

That decided, there were plans to make. "Doug's going to be here tonight..." I began.

"Yes, about seven-thirty. We just talked.” My cousin’s cheeks pinked up with anticipation.

"That's great," I said. "Soooo you really don't need me here anymore."

Doug's mother, Rene, would surely come east to help Michelle with the baby, neighbors would rally, the women from the shower were nearby and willing.

“Well...” Michelle waffled.

"So, if you don’t mind,” I pressed on. “I'd like to catch a plane back to Philly.”

Michelle reached her hand toward mine. "You've been great, Gin, and I'm sure you'd like to get home to Rip and the kids. Go ahead. Do whatever you need to do."

I certainly did miss my family, but first I intended to meet with her brother. The Norfolk police would still be all over Doug the second they heard the story behind Coren's suicide, and the only way to prevent that disaster I was to hand them an even more likely suspect. Reviewing Ronnie's game film was my best and perhaps only hope.

Michelle and I parted with teary promises to keep in touch, and I found my way back to the telephone cubbyhole near the waiting room. There I made my flight reservation and arranged for the airport shuttle to pick me up back at Michelle's house. I also called home.

Garry answered.

"It didn't work," he complained as if our last conversation had never ended.

"What didn't?" I asked, scrambling to catch up with his thoughts.

"The audio. I thought I could mix the sound with the movie like Uncle Ronnie does, but you need more than one tape recorder. So I'm gonna just play music for the whole thing. It's pretty cool, but not as cool as it would have been." The ultimate frisbee game he filmed. Oh, to be an eleven-year-old.

"Sorry, Gar," I sympathized. "Is Dad home?"

"Picking up Chelsea. You wanna talk to the grannies?"

No, I did not; Garry took better messages.

"Listen," I said, "I've got to catch a plane, but..." I told him about Michelle's baby, "way cool," and that I'd probably be home tomorrow. Tonight I was staying in New Jersey either with my cousin or Aunt Harriet. "Got that?"

"Yup. You'll be home tomorrow night, so you can see my movie then."

"Uh, right." Maybe I should have insisted that he write everything down.