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Okay, I’m not going to fuss about this anymore, I promise….just once more. Someone’s gotta counter all the junk out there, right?
Let’s be honest, we all want to “get rich quick,” and we want to do it from the comfort of our own home. We want the largest return on investment, or ROI for those hip to the business world, we can manage with as little effort possible. We want to be our own boss, we want to make our own hours, we want to [insert your own crazy new idea here]. I’ll be honest, these are all things I desire as well, but to combat the deluge of no-effort, six-figure-income, money-making strategies clogging the internet tubes, let’s take a moment to be real.
Before I begin I must make a side note, I’m primarily talking to my fellow Americans here. In most ways these things apply to the other Superpowers, too, but I’ll let someone from those other places speak to their own people.
Right now, bumping along on the downward slope of 2009, we are faced with a global economic crisis, or is it a recession? A depression? Whichever PC term we choose the fact remains: we have come to a place in the world where greed and poor fiscal practices have put people and nations in a bind. We all have more moths flying out of our empty wallets than we would like. Unemployment is higher than it’s been in a long time, banks and major corporations are crashing, and personal and national debt is growing out of control. It is no wonder that many of us turn to Google – our wonderful, helpful friend – and say, “get rich now,” “work from home,” and “how to boil an egg.” Okay, so maybe I’m the only 27 year-old that can’t boil an egg, but the other terms get thousands of hits every day!
Boiling eggs is not the only thing I can’t do. I can’t grow anything, fix my house, change my oil, or build things. There is one thing I can do, and that is work hard. Even if I’m working at home I have to do it. I might someday turn out a six-figure year, but, no matter how many trend-leeches tell me I can do it for just three easy payments of $19.99, I know that it will take hard work and dedication. We don’t work hard anymore, though. This is Sparta! I mean, this is America! (Sorry, it’s just a ninja movie!)
I blame the unions. People were working in crappy conditions for not enough pay, got it. Scrooge was a big, fat meanie. But that particular institution is just another center of greed, no better than the big-time execs they sought to bring to justice. No matter how much we get the man to pay us, he’s always going to cut corners to make more and buy a yacht. He’s not going to cut his own pay to give more to his workers, he’s just going to have a six-year-old Indian (real live Indians, you know, South Asia type) do it for $2.00 a day. By the way, who pays the union reps?
So again, let’s buckle down and get things done. We don’t have to have a recession; we don’t have to collapse economically. We can work harder, work more, work work work. The more we work the more taxes we can pay, the more taxes we pay the more we can bail out Detroit and Wall Street. The more we bail those guys out, the more jobs we open for ourselves to find more work! See, win-win!
Again, this stuff is still very raw, not even close to what it might look like if I try to put it on bookshelves some day, but here we learn a little bit about Jack. Enjoy.
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Jack’s face is wet as he crosses the parking lot to his truck, a white Dodge pick-up. That waitress, Carol, is young enough to be his granddaughter; the thought that in another world he might now have a great-grandchild on the way is dredging deep into the old pains, old memories. As he turns his key in the driver-side door, he does not see his own despondent countenance reflecting from the night-darkened window. Jack is looking only inside, recounting, nay reliving events long repressed within a dark corner of his heart. Mechanically Jack opens the door and pulls himself into the driver’s seat. He turns his key again and the pick-up shakes itself to life, the low growl of its diesel engine echoing with the past.
Another time, another life, another truck. It was a Dodge of course, but that truck was red and carried Jack’s dreams. In the bed it carried hay, enough to carry his horses through the winter. In the cab it carried his son, his only child, who would carry on his family’s proud name. The visor carried various papers and receipts, but more importantly it carried a black-and-white photograph which in turn carried his memories of the woman who had once carried his progeny, that beautiful child sitting so happily beside him.
“Let me shift? Please Dad?”
“We shouldn’t have to for quite a while yet, this road is straight and flat you know, but I’ll let you know when it’s time.”
“OK, but don’t forget. I need to practice.”
“Alright, I won’t. I am going to need you to do the driving when we pick up hay in the spring after all.” Jack smiled down at his son who had his still-small hands wrapped around the gear-shift, a serious expression on his face as he waited to execute his duty. It was going to take a lot more training than just memorizing the stick positions before he would be able to operate the truck on his own, but for now this one job was met with considerable enthusiasm.
Jack ruffled his son’s hair, increasing the potency of the smell of hay-dust in the truck as some of the small, green flakes drifted down from their former resting place. Those that remained gave David’s sun-bleached, blonde hair a pasta-and-herbs appearance. Jack laughed as he rested his arm across the boy’s shoulders.
“What’s so funny, Dad?”
“Oh nothing, I was just thinking about having your hair for dinner.”
“My hair for dinner? Why would you consider such a thing as that?”
“I dunno, guess I’ve been working with the horses too much lately, but that bale of hay you have sticking to your head is looking mighty tasty.” This sent David into a fit of giggles, the thought of his father eating his hair apparently silly enough to bend him double in laughter. So caught up was he in the exaggerated laughter that he accidentally bumped the gear shift, causing the gears to squeal and grind as he pushed it out of fourth and up toward third. His laughter turning into panic, he started pulling the stick this way and that, trying to get it back into gear.
For his part, Jack let off the gas and tried to get control of his son before the child wore the gears out. For a couple of moments his attention was downward: pushing David back, crushing the clutch, shoving the stick back into gear. By the time he returned his attention road-ward, the heavy-laden, quarter-ton truck was cresting a hill, just in time to see a sedan cruising straight at them.
It took a moment for Jack to realize the truck had drifted in his inattentiveness, a moment he did not have, but he instantly swerved right, and then left to keep on the road and in the lane appropriate for his direction of travel. On any other day the moment would be over, his heartbeat slowing after the tragedy averted, but that day was hay day, and Jack felt the off-balance hay pulling his truck hard to the right.
Everything moved in slow motion, his life flashed before his eyes, so many clichés to describe this moment because everyone has been there. That eternal split-second where the eyes get wide, adrenaline gets dumped into the blood stream, a scream gets blocked by a lump in the throat. As gravity won and the left tires lifted off the tarmac, Jack looked down at his son. He, too, was wide-eyed and frightened, but his supreme trust in his father also showed there; innocent, unwavering trust.
And then all four wheels were up.
Two brown eyes, filled with one part fear and three parts trust, burned into Jack’s consciousness, pulling him screaming out of darkness into darkness. The first complete, dead, silent, and cold; truly in the middle of nowhere. The second was the kind people are used to. It was dark, but there were little lights. A monitor with various stats displayed in green. A strip of white reflected off white linoleum below a closed door. There was feeling, too. A hard bed, a soft pillow, a wedge ripping his head apart, or so it seemed.
Jack wiggled his toes beneath the sheet, moved his hands at his sides. His left hand was connected to a bag above his head by way of a long, thick tube, his chest to the monitor by cables. Tape and bandages and a gown, all accoutrements Jack generally avoided; he never was a fan of hospitals or the fashions found therein. But he hadn’t a choice in this case, “Hello? Hello!”
Footsteps in the hall, two shadows beneath the door, and a nurse walks in. Wearing a white dress, a white cap, and white shoes Jack was suddenly taken by an irrational hope. Many times he had woken from this dream, that one day Nancy would come and take him; that she would come down from heaven in her white regalia and take his hand. This was not Nancy, though, and she did not take Jack anywhere, just asked if he was alright as she checked his pulse and IV.
“I’m fine, I’m fine, but where is David, where is my son?”
The nurse’s face, hidden in shadow, turned darker still. “Your son is alive, he’s just downstairs. You’ll be able to see him when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready, take me to him now. Is he awake? Is he well?”
“He’s still sleeping Mr. Barton, but I can’t take you there yet. You just woke up and you’ve been out for quite a while.”
“It can’t have been that long, I’m fine, it was almost sun-down when it happened, and it’s still dark, just take me to him, I’ll be fine.”
“And what day was it when you crashed Mr. Barton?”
“Today of course, Wednesday. We were heading home after gettin’ hay. You see, I’m quite alright. I remember it all just fine.”
“Yes, you seem to remember well enough, and that’s a good sign, but today is Friday Mr. Barton. In a couple of hours it will be Saturday.”
Two days, two days since it happened. For two days Jack had slept, and for some reason they had not seen fit to put David in the same room with him. “Where is David? Why is he not in here with me?”
“David is in ICU Mr. Barton. We were not sure if you would wake up, but you were at least stable. We brought you here where we can keep an eye on you and wait for you to wake up. For now you’re going to have to sleep, just sleep like normal. In the morning we’ll take you to see David, I promise.”
“ICU? Still asleep? What is wrong with him? He’s going to wake up too, right?”
The nurse was silent for a minute, busying herself with checking Jack’s bandages and vitals. She removed the sensors from Jacks chest, pulled out the IV. At length she replied as best she could, her own voice choking in the effort to remain positive and not make Jack worry. “He’s just fine Mr. Barton. Please, try to get some sleep and we’ll all go down to see David in the morning.” Then, finishing her checks and hiding her tears, the nurse walked out of the room, leaving Jack in the darkness with naught but his fears.
To his credit, he tried to go to sleep. He lied on his back, turned to his right side, and returned to his back. He counted slowly, forcing his breath to slow and trying to clear his mind, but every time his eyelids closed he was faced again with those two brown eyes. Trusting eyes, scared eyes. Jack had failed many things, but he had never failed eyes before. He had failed his son’s.
Unable to bear it any longer, Jack got up from the bed. Feeling the air on his backside he searched the room, finding his Jeans in a closet with his boots. His shirt was not there, but Jack did not care. He pulled on the jeans, set the buckle, and let his gown fall around them, and then he padded to the door.
Listen. Nothing. Crack the door. The hallway was empty. With no one to witness his escape, Jack shut the door to his room silently and walked quickly down the hall. The elevator was just ahead, but the stairs came first so Jack took them, careful again to let the door close without a sound. With his watcher left behind, Jack hurried down the stairs and out onto the first floor. The ICU is where Nancy had worked, Jack knew the way. He passed a few other people, hospital staff rushing wherever for whatever, but he paid them no mind, only continued along the austere, white halls.
Once within the ICU, Jack returned to caution. It was common for patients to be wandering the other halls of the hospital, but the intensive care unit was reserved for the worst cases, and people might not appreciate his presence there. He glanced quickly at each name board beside the doors along his course until finally he saw the one he sought, the one that read “David Barton.” Jack’s breath quickened to match his racing heart as he looked both ways down the hall and then crept into his son’s room.
David had more gadgets and tubes connected to him than Jack had been adorned with by far. A respirator hissed as it pumped air into David’s lungs via a mask secured to his face and a wide tube between machine and mouth. There were sensors on David’s chest, too, but just below those a catheter ran from a bandage on his stomach to a container beside him. The IV was there, too, along with a few more tubes and wires that Jack had not the experience to identify.
David had more bandages, too, and all were more red than white. His face was still, the skin a glaucous hue. Jack wrapped his right hand around David’s left. His hand was cold and as lifeless as the rest of him. Beside the bed was a file, which Jack opened. He did not have the education to understand much of the information inside, but words like “coma,” “hemorrhage,” and “organ failure” popped out at him, each twisting in his heart, wrenching his soul.
So, for the first time in nearly two years, Jack knelt.
Jack walked to the song of spring; that joyful, colorful cadence humming a counterpoint to the pallid tune in his own heart. Six months it had been. Six months without a sound, without so much as the flutter of an eyelid. Every day he had come, every day hoping his son would stretch, yawn, and ask for pancakes. But none of those things had happened yet, and none ever would. That is what the doctor said, anyway. He said there was no hope; he said Jack should let his son go. Jack said a father should not have to bury his son, he said he couldn’t let go.
So David slept and Jack sat. He brought books and pictures, flowers and Matchbox cars. He brought hope and prayer and sadness, but David slept. Jack had become an expert at caring for his son. He turned him to prevent bedsores and bathed him with a sponge. He sent for the nurse when the fluids and constituent pabulum were low or anything else abnormal happened. Every day he kept his vigil, every single day, but nothing ever happened, and the doctor said nothing ever would.
But Jack could not quit, could not give up on his son. The brown eyes haunted him still, he simply could not tell those eyes there was nothing more he could do. So every day he sat, every day he waited, and every day he hoped. It was a small hope, a faithful hope that burned low in his disbelief. There had been a time when hope had burned bright. A beautiful wife, a wonderful son, a prosperous business, and faith had all fueled that fire. Jack lost faith when he lost his wife, but his hope still burned brightly in his son.
But his son was gone, the brown eyes lifeless and cold. Even so Jack’s hope lingered, despite his Laodicean faith, despite his rational thoughts, despite the doctor’s words. Jack could do nothing but wait; he certainly could not end his son’s life. Doing so would extinguish what flame remained. It would be a homicide-suicide case.
Summer burned hot and the hospital’s AC burned out. Still Jack returned, every day. Something had changed, though. Jack could feel it but he could not describe it. It had started on David’s twelfth birthday when Jack wandered the shops downtown looking for a suitable gift, finding nothing utile for his lifeless son. It was a shift in thought, a new idea for his soul to grasp.
At a store hawking various toys and goodies for children, Jack came across a woman and her teenage son. The boy was about David’s age, he probably even went to the same school. This boy looked rough, though, wearing haggard clothes and arguing with his equally drawn mother. Apparently there was something he wanted and apparently she could not afford it.
Jack listened curiously for a moment, and then approached the shop owner, a bespectacled and rounded man seated behind his counter and cash register. He gave the man a bill and instructions to let the woman know the item her son wanted was on the house. The owner looked confused, but he complied and approached the pair as Jack walked out of the shop.
So in the hospital, washing the sweat off of his son’s clammy skin, eyeing the new infection on his side despite the constant turning and washing, Jack made a decision. He finished his work and called for the doctor. There were forms to sign, waivers and such, but Jack remained resolute despite the tears that came to his eyes unbidden. When all was done, the doctor started flipping switches.
Jack watched as the doctor finished and left; the room suddenly and strikingly silent. No hisses, no beeps. Jack watched as the last artificially provided breath left his son’s lips. Jack watched his son turn blue and turned dead, though he had not really been alive. Jack watched and that little flame, that last hope, snuffed out, but another flame was there, small and new, but enough to support Jack, enough to keep him going.
Okay, this series is something I’ve wanted to do for a while. Eventually I might collect, expand, and tie-together these for a novella, but for now I’m going to present them here as flash stories. Between my practically-sister Jess and a blog by my friend Maggie, this particular topic has come up twice in the past couple of weeks, so I felt it fitting to make the first volume a tribute to them.
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Carol is in her bathroom, hands on the white sink and the top of her head reflecting from the unadorned mirror, a curtain of shoulder-length brown hair hiding her face. Lying beside her atop the toilet are three separate white plastic devices: one with a plus sign in a small window, the other two with two bright red strips. She had been three weeks late when she purchased the various tests, and it took another week before she could work up the courage that brought her into the bathroom today.
The instructions for each of the tests were also lying atop the toilet, each below its respective test device. Carol had read and reread each, not believing, not accepting that they could be true. They had to be wrong, they just had to! But she was late, and the tests said she was pregnant; each of them nodding at her in their own way, sagely reminding her that she should have been more careful. Now she just leaned there, had done so for over an hour, arms trembling and lip quivering as she tried to figure things out.
Carol’s parents had told her, told her she should take things slower. They said she should not be shacking up. They said it was sin, she said they didn’t understand. She told them she loved Jimmy with all her heart, and that they were adults and able to take care of themselves. She told them that he loved her, too. Jimmy said so himself, he said he would marry her, he just needed time to save for it, but that was before he left with the not-Carol. Maybe she should have noticed he only said he loved her while they were sleeping together, and all of the excuses came at other times.
A thousand thoughts raced as she considered all of the things she had not considered before. She was not particularly religious, but the thought of abortion was not something she could do. She could not say she had not considered it, she only knew it went against what she believed. She is not ready to tell her parents, but she will have to sometime. Their told-ya-so looks and how-could-you-let-this-happens were just not something she could handle just yet.
Her studio apartment, almost bare despite the limited space, was reminder enough that her part-time Denny’s income was not enough to raise a child on. The mini-fridge ran all day to keep a pizza cold, her cupboards holding naught but a table setting for one, a jar of peanut butter, and a quarter loaf of week-old bread. Diapers, clothes (baby and maternity), food, and blankets were going to be expensive, not to mention the doctor’s visits, hospital costs, daycare and everything else. She doesn’t know where Jimmy is, and he doesn’t have a job anyway. Dead-beat, that’s what Carol’s father called him, “but I love him Daddy.”
Carol needs another job, but she’s tired. Leaving the tests and instructions on the toilet, she turns and leaves the bathroom. Her blankets and sheets are rumpled, lying with her single pillow atop her torn mattress and box-springs, the latter flat on the linoleum. Carol doesn’t bother to undress; she just collapses on her sheets and cries, her pillow muffling the sniffles and whines until she falls asleep.
Week 12. Baby is growing fingernails, but its name is still Baby. It is learning to swallow, but it is too early to tell what color of clothes to buy. Of course the two dollars Carol just picked up off of the table of a pack of 3:00 a.m. drunks is not going to be enough for clothes anyway. Setting the bus-tub against her hip, she carts the dishes toward the kitchen, holding her breath to keep from gagging when she gets there, a lesson she learned a couple weeks prior.
Returning to the dining room, sweep vacuum in hand, she catches her only customer looking at her again. Gray hair surrounding a lined, leathery face, the old man had been watching her all night, an odd expression on his face. It wasn’t lust, Carol is quite familiar with that look, rather it is somewhere between longing and sorrow. She’s barely starting to show, but Carol is certain the man is looking at her tummy.
Carol returns to the mess and gets to work. Wipe, sweep, separate the tables, sweep again. Her parents handled the news better than she thought they would, only talking her down and reminding her what they had said for two hours. Then they were all business. What’re you going to do this, and how will you manage that, yak yak yak. Carol had nothing to say, she had no more answers than they. Pray they said, only God can help you now.
Finishing, she pulls the chairs back around, the legs catching on the tears in the greasy carpet. She takes the sweep vacuum back to the service line, and, grabbing the coffee pot, goes to check on her customer. As she approaches the table he speaks, “Why they have you doing all that work? 13 weeks is it? Your boss needs to have someone else do the heavy lifting.”
“12 actually, and there’s no help for it. We don’t get enough customers Wednesday nights to work more than a skeleton crew.” She fishes the man’s bill out of her apron pocket with her left hand, placing it face-down on the table.
“You always work these shifts?”
“I work whatever shifts they’ll give me. I’ve nothing else to do, and this baby is coming whether I’m ready or not.”
“Aren’t you excited?”
“I guess, maybe, I dunno. It wasn’t planned, and I’m not ready. I think I’ll have to put it up for adoption. Want me to warm that up for you?”
The old man covered his cup with his hand, “No, thank you. I’ve been up late enough at is, it’s time for me to head home.” Looking at the bill, he pulls out his wallet and produces a twenty-dollar-bill. “Mind taking care of this for me darlin’? Go ahead and keep the change.”
Carol kept the surprise inside, 20 dollars for a cup of coffee? Aloud, “Yessir, thank you and you have a wonderful night.” He just nods and smiles. Carol turns, returns the decanter to the warming plate, and then closes out the man’s bill at the cash register, pocketing the extra $18 and change. Walking slowly, she then carries her thoughts back to the kitchen to wash some dishes while the cook-manager takes a smoke break.
After two loads of dishes and one trip to the bathroom, Carol walks back to the dining room. The old man’s coffee-cup is sitting lonely on the table where he had been sitting. Carol walks up to grab the cup, only to find that the cup is in fact accompanied by a folded piece of paper with her name on it. As she unfolds the paper, a bill falls free, twirling as it drops toward the floor. Carol bends to pick it up, only to be met by the last face she expected; that of the venerable Benjamin Franklin. Shaking, she returns her attention to the paper, a letter actually.
The letter was scrawled quickly and hasmore than a few wet spots. It says the old man lost his son David when he was but 12 years old. It says there is nothing like your own child, that anything is possible. It says to have faith, to have hope, to have love. As Carol reads, her own tears splash next to the old man’s, and though her eyes are wet a small flame kindles in them. A flame of hope, one she has kept buried. It is small, weak flame, but it will grow and Carol will be happy. The letter is signed, “Jack.”
Week 20. Lying on her mattress, twilight fading behind the squalid apartments decorating her bedside view, Carol has her hands on her womb, feeling the little bumps of the squirming little man growing inside of her. She saw him just two days prior, shifting shadows on the monitor in the ultrasound tech’s room. There is a stack of baby books beside her humble bed, all worn by the hands many fellow expecting library-goers.
Jimmy called earlier. He said how are you, she said getting along. He said he misses her, she said I bet. He said please baby take me back, she said speaking of baby. He said well I hope you’re happy with him, she said she’s 20 weeks along it’s his child. He said yeah right he knew she was cheating on him, she said she’s never been with anyone else. He said she said he said she said, but still Carol is lying alone, and she is quite alright with that.
Taking a deep breath Carol turns her attention inward, feeling as the baby begins to settle. He is falling into a rhythm of wake and sleep, and Carol is taking mental notes. They say the way a baby sleeps on the inside is much like how they’ll sleep on the outside, so Carol is trying to get used to the same pattern. Though she has yet to choose a name, she is bonding with him, talking to him like he’s already there, like he was her best friend. She tells him about his grandparents and describes his future home. She tells him everything will be just wonderful, or maybe she’s telling herself.
The weak flame has grown, making Carol’s green eyes sparkle and her face glow. This seems to be having an effect on her customers, despite having to add extra blush to cover her new acne problem. Though she has yet to get another tip to match Jack’s, she has been taking more home each day. To make things better, the GM has started giving her some morning shifts. He told her that two a week is as much as he could give her for now, but that she was at the top of the list if any more should open up.
As the squirming stops and the baby falls to sleep Carol sighs in contentedness and relief. Yes, things are going to be alright. She will make things work, he will lack for nothing. Carol breathes in, then she too drifts off into her dreams.
Week 34. His name is Zachary but Carol calls him Zach. Riding on the bus in her Denny’s costume, she plays her favorite game with her son. She pokes him and he pokes back. Chuckling, she pokes him again; unaware of the businessman looking up from his paper, annoyed at the interruption of her insolent bliss.
The doctor, in her white coat and sporting a shiny stethoscope, said little Zach is developing wonderfully. She said his heart is beating strong and mom was gaining plenty of weight. Carol, eyes afire, told the doctor that she was happy and feeling great. The doctor, Dr. Kendrick, said that’s wonderful and she would like to see Carol again during the 36th week and every week thereafter. She said to keep up the vitamins, and try to stay rested.
After work today Carol will go to Wal-Mart, hopefully the $50 she had set aside for the trip will be enough to finish supplying Zach’s crib with toys and blankets. Carol loved shopping for her baby, and it took great restraint not to overspend her budget.
The bus lurches to a stop, the air-brakes letting out a sharp hsst as the driver opens the door. Putting her hand on the stainless steel pole in front of her, Carol pulls herself upright and shuffles toward the stairs and today’s foot-wearying shift. Not for the first time Carol wishes that she had someone to rub her swollen feet when she gets done, but alas, no one wants to be with a pregnant woman. No bother, she reminds herself, things are better this way. She and Zach will be wonderful and happy together.
Week 37. Carol wakes with a start. Looking at the clock, she realizes she’s going to be late to this week’s appointment. More worrying is the fact that she slept in this late at all. Usually Zach has kicked her full bladder enough to wake her by now, reminding her it’s time eat breakfast and get going. Today he is still, though, so Carol hurries to get dressed and catch the bus.
She had noticed that Zach had been moving a little less the last couple of days. She called Dr. Kendrick yesterday, who told her to just monitor it closely and, unless she notices a complete lack of movement, to just come in for her regular check-up. So that’s what Carol did, fretting as she tried to fall asleep. She eventually did, and now she is late.
The what if’s, it can’t be’s, and please God’s tumble around her head from her bed to the doctor’s office. The receptionist says have a seat, here’s your form. Carol says please tell Dr. Kendrick to hurry, I’m very, very worried. He isn’t moving. The girl in scrubs looks at the appointment form, then up at the clock, and said the doctor’d be out soon, hurry indeed written plainly across her face. Carol sits down in one of the plump waiting-room chairs.
She tries to fill out the form, but cannot focus or keep her hands from shaking, so instead she just sits there, right hand on her womb, waiting for Zach to wake and for Dr. Kendrick to come down the hallway. 120 breaths pass before she hears a door close and looks up to see her doctor walking toward her. Dr. Kendrick, seeing Carol’s fear and concern, asks, “He still not moving like normal?”
“He’s not moving at all. He didn’t wake me up like usual, and I’ve not felt him move yet today.”
“Well that’s certainly not good, but we need not worry too much just yet.” Turning toward the receptionist, “Nancy, call down to radiology and schedule an immediate ultrasound, I want to see what’s going on here.” Back to Carol, “come on back, we’ll skip the weigh-in for now and see what we can hear. I sure wish you were able to get the father’s medical history to us, who knows what kind of history his family has.”
Nothing makes Dr. Kendrick look hopeful, not the listening or the seeing. She orders tests, draws blood, and schedules an emergency C-section. Carol becomes numb through it all; no longer counting breaths, no longer involved. She only continues her silent prayers. At some point her mom arrives and, taking one look at Carol’s face, simply sits beside her and holds her hand. Carol doesn’t even bother wondering how her mom knew to come, she just lies still in her white gown on her white sheets. She lies still as she is wheeled from the room. She lies still as she is masked and pumped with oxygen, lies still as she is given a local anesthetic and the sterile doctors begin their work.
Things move quickly, but Carol yet lies still, everything a blur. Though her legs and belly are numb, she still feels some of what they are doing. At one point she sees an attendant rushing off with a bloody bundle, but she can’t see what the person does without being able to move her head. She does notice, however, that no one is there to congratulate her, no one has good news, everyone looks sad.
Eventually the doctors finish with Carol, and, cleaning up, ready to move her to a recovery room. Carol shakes her head as the oxygen mask is removed, “please please, my baby, let me see my Zachary.”
The main surgeon glances at the others, who in turn avert their eyes. “Ma’am, I’m sorry. He, uh, he was already gone, gone too far for us to bring back.”
“I don’t believe you; let me see him, please.”
The surgeon looks around again for help, but finally sends someone to get the baby. “This is not going to be easy, I’m so sorry for your loss . . .” Carol isn’t listening; her attention was on the runner, now returning with a clean bundle of cloth in his arms.
The young doctor hands Carol the bundle, the still, silent bundle. Carol parts the cloth near the top. A small face comes clear. This is not the pink, screaming, kicking Zachary she had so long imagined and of which she had dreamed. This baby is purple and unmoving, and he looks just like Carol. She looks on, grief-stricken, and as she does the flame in her eyes sputters and dies.
