I thanked Him for the baby I was carrying inside me and for the happiness that filled me up from the bottom of my soles to the ends of my incorrigible red hair, and every part of me in between.
Pretty good joke on me, Lord. This is what I get for doubting You. I get everything good in the world. I am pretty sure You knew all of this, but I am more surprised than even You can imagine. How is it that I sit here, when six years ago I was full of bullet holes, stuck in a subterranean depression, barely alive at all?
I sometimes can’t be sure if this life is real. Is this a peek at my future? Am I dreaming? Or, dear God, is this my actual life? Am I allowed to have all of this?
I waited for an answer, and I heard nothing.
But I didn’t need the voice of God to tell me what was self-evident. The pews were solid cherry. The altarpiece was bejeweled gold supported by columns of marble. And a stained-glass Jesus Christ spread his arms wide open to me.
I am thankful, Lord. I will be the best wife, doctor, mother, friend, that I can possibly be. With Your help.
Amen.
I felt woozy when I got to my feet. I steadied myself with a hand on the back of the pew, thinking for a moment how nice it would be to go back to bed. If only. I flashed on my full day at BZFO, which would unfurl from the moment I stepped through the doorway.
I had just promised God that I would be the best possible doctor, despite the risks to myself and the little one curled up inside me.
I whispered out loud, “God, please watch over us.”
I crossed myself. And then I went to work.
Chapter 55
I HAD brought hundreds of babies into the world, during floods and droughts and in the black of night, holding a flashlight between my jaws.
However, because I might not be able to deliver my own child so easily, I was under the care of a superb ob-gyn at Charité, a world-class hospital.
Karl had purchased an apartment next to ours and opened a doorway between the two units, and, using our combined talents, we made the sweetest of nests for the baby we were expecting.
I continued to work the easy shift at BZFO, wearing loose clothing and shoes with good rubber soles.
Karl cooked delicious dinners and doted on me. We spent long evenings in his study writing in matching lounge chairs under the windows. This was really the best of times. I began to read more, and my writing improved in the sanctuary of a writers’ room for two as I turned sketches written in the trenches of Magwi Clinic into tight prose.
I wasn’t prepared for my water to break while I was on duty at BZFO, but, of course, that was how it happened. I said, “I can handle this.”
But I was suddenly afraid to cross this threshold.
Would my baby be all right? Would he or she be healthy and strong? What was I supposed to do now?
Dr. Maillet had Karl on speed dial.
He drove me to Charité himself, and he stayed with me while I labored and gave birth. Giving myself over to the greater wisdom of my doctor was one kind of miracle. Holding this child Karl and I had made was like a supernova of love that both humbled and expanded me.
I hugged our baby daughter to my breast, the two of us enclosed in Karl’s embrace, and I thanked God for the beautiful gift of this precious new life.
And Karl did take videos, priceless little movies of me flushed and worn out but giddy, nursing my bitty baby girl, who had red hair like mine.
We named her after St. Teresa, and we called her Tre. We both stayed at home for a month with Tre, and then, while Karl worked in his at-home studio and I went back to BZFO, a visiting nurse took care of our daughter.
I came home every night to my job as Tre’s personal stand-up comedienne, hoping to get our baby to smile. And then, at six weeks, while I wore a toy elephant on my head and made funny noises, she gave me a genuine non-gassy grin. My little girl laughed.
That laugh triggered me to send a note and photo “home” to Cambridge. I felt obligated, and I wasn’t disappointed when I didn’t hear back.
I started a new journal for Tre, Karl, and me.
This book was devoid of horror stories, completely personal, and without any commercial merit at all. In other words, it was perfect. I noted the firsts. I pressed a fine, red curl between pages. I stuck in cards from friends and took photos of gifts and opened a Facebook page for Tre.
I was having a perfect life.
God was great. What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter 56
I WAS working in the peach-colored exam room at BZFO, giving an injection to someone else’s darling baby, when Dr. Maillet appeared at the doorway. Her expression was frozen, as if she was in shock.
I excused myself and went to Dr. Maillet, who pulled me through the doorway and closed the door behind us.
I said, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry to tell you, Brigid. There’s been an accident,” she said. “It’s Karl. It’s Tre, too.”
I stared at her for a long second; then my fear caught up with her words and exploded inside me like a bomb.