“That’s OK,” I said, as if I was letting him off the hook.
In fact, he wanted to come, I could hear it in his voice. And he could come. Our Durham babysitter, Denise, was living with us for exactly this reason: to be home with Gabe when one, or both, of us needed to be at the hospital. Or, in Brian’s case, working in New York. So Gabe was covered; we could both return. But I wanted to be alone. I wanted to drive through a perfectly quiet North Carolina night, with the windows down, letting the snowy air pour through the car.
In Gracie’s room my mom was in the sleeper chair. I climbed in beside Gracie. Her hair—her silky thin toddler hair that curled, gently, at the nape of her neck—smelled like plastic ponies. I breathed in the whole of her, the faint medical sourness, the high note of plastic, and beneath everything, my girl, earthy, ordinary.
My mom stirred. “Why are you here?”
“How’s she been?”
“Fine, good.”
“Did she eat?”
“Mac and cheese. Did you guys eat?”
“Not really.”
“Sweetie…”
“We were so tired, and food is … so foody.”
“Does Brian also think food is too foody?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You know, if you want to talk about how things are, I will listen. Just listen, no opinions.”
“We’re fine.”
“Because it is totally natural to be stressed when you have a sick kid. Both you and Brian are going through something monumental.”
“OK, Mom. I’m not one of your clients.” I’d been saying this to her, in more or less the same tone of annoyance, since I was ten.
Then again, I was no longer ten. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “Sorry, I’m not up for talking.”
My mom reached across the minuscule space from the chair to the bed and grabbed my wrist. “Gracie is going to be fine. And you’re my girl; I’m worried about you.”
“Thanks.” There were tears in my voice. I felt a surge of relief to feel something, anything. At the same time, I felt as if I was betraying Brian. Here were actual feelings, rushing to the surface, but not with him.
41
The next day, Gracie’s first words were, “Can I get unhooked? Go ask Bobbie!”
Brian was reading; Tolstoy open on his lap. He gave me a short, sympathetic smile. “You look like a person who slept.”
“When did you get here?”
“A while ago.”
Brian kissed Gracie and me, both on the forehead, and went in search of Bobbie who we were pretty sure had the day off. We hadn’t yet told Gracie that Bobbie wasn’t on duty every day. When Brian returned, he punted on the Bobbie question.
“Lovey,” he said, “you can get down and go for a walk, but you have to take this guy with you.” He gestured toward the pole.
“He wants to stay inside my room,” Gracie said. “The hall is too cold for him.”
“We could put a hat on him.”
Gracie didn’t exactly smile, but she climbed down from the bed, on the same side as the pole, and gave him a pat, “He’s a tough guy, he doesn’t need a hat.” And with that, the pole was domesticated, named. Turned into her pet.
She suited up for the hall: gown, mask, shoe covers. Out in the hall she was the only kid. Sixteen beds on the unit; one patient walking. Most of the others were farther along in their treatment and too sick to get up. Gracie said, “Mama, I wanna see who’s inside. Open their windows.” I explained that the shades were controlled from the inside, the people in each room had to choose to open them. “Why don’t they choose?” she said.
In the room beside ours was a girl Gracie’s age, Mia. Her mom was the pretty brunette with the updo. We hadn’t yet met Mia, but Bobbie had given Gracie some details, which Gracie recited, like a commentator providing color, as we passed Mia’s room: Mia comes from California, Mia loves dogs, Mia has brown curly hair, Mia has a sister but no brother. The way she said, “no brother,” as though it were a terrible fate, touched me.
Gracie walked past Mia’s door several times, hoping for a sighting. No luck. She’d given up and seemed ready to climb back into bed, when an idea dawned on her: “I can ride him.” She pointed at Tough Guy.
She planted her feet on his wheeled base, clutched the center pole, and commanded, “Run!” I pushed, tentatively. Brian stood behind her, ready to catch, fretting. “Faster,” she shouted, until I broke into a jog.
“More faster!” We got several raised eyebrows, and some pursed lips at the nurses’ station, but sped up. It felt impossible to deny her any stumbled-upon happiness.
At the end of the hall, a new thought occurred to her: self-volition. She dropped one foot and propelled Tough Guy forward with a quick thrust. Then she leapt off, as if to race him. I dashed after the two of them. The lines connecting girl to pole could pull taut, pull loose. If she moved too fast, the lines could dislodge from her chest. Catastrophe. Brian was right there. Ready if she needed him, but not interfering. Helping pace her. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Sweetie,” he said. “Slow down. Mommy and Tough Guy have to keep up with you.”
Gracie looked back with annoyance. “Then keep up.”
Farther down the hall was an open door. A mother stood with her infant son against her chest in the doorway. IV lines and monitor cords ran from the bottom of his blanket back into their room, their pole. The mother had a quiet, serious aspect. She said nothing at first, but carefully watched Gracie ride Tough Guy. I paused to chat with her.
She introduced herself, “I’m Ramya.” Her baby son, who’d had his transplant before we arrived, was Varun. “He’s doing very well,” she said in the elegant, elongated syllables of a British education. She’d grown up in India but emigrated to the United States with her husband years ago. Their home was in New Hampshire; like us they’d relocated for the transplant. Varun had been born with a lethal autoimmune disease for which transplant was the only cure.
Varun stirred on Ramya’s shoulder and looked at me, evaluating a new face. His eyes were outsized and luminous. Large, brown eyes that met mine in a steady line of attention. He couldn’t yet talk, but it felt as if we were conversing. “Varun,” I said. “Hi.”
I pointed to Gracie, “That is my daughter.”
“I know,” Ramya said. “Only the new kids have so much energy.”
“Have you been here long?”
“Day three. But we’ve been here almost two weeks.”
Two weeks but day three, whatever that meant.