Mothered (75)

No wonder she didn’t want to be part of my life.

Grace mashed her fingers against the tiled wall, needing its support. Suddenly she had to consider her past through a different lens. Had Jackie been more than a mother in mourning? Had she also been a mother with a terrible secret about her surviving daughter? Could Jackie have felt uncomfortable around her because of what she knew—thought she knew?

It was like watching The Sixth Sense for the second time, seeing all the earlier scenes with a new understanding. Grace reminded herself that Jackie could believe something that wasn’t true. Yet it fascinated her to contemplate the possibility that for all these years, Jackie might have been protecting her by never admitting her suspicion.





48


Grace wouldn’t let herself nap. Once upon a time, her mother had suggested such a strategy, staying awake during the day so she could go to bed in a state of utter exhaustion. She busied herself with tasks: cleaning, doing laundry, brushing Coco’s fur, putting away the groceries when they arrived. When she felt composed enough to handle it, she tracked down Miguel’s ICU nurse. It took some doing, and she was put on hold multiple times and transferred around the hospital. She apologized to the nurse for “misplacing” the number (and chastised herself for not having made more of an effort during the morning’s call).

Miguel’s nurse, Kerry, put Grace at ease almost immediately. She sounded so assured and competent. When Kerry told her that Miguel was stable, it didn’t annoy Grace like it had when he was in a regular room; now it meant something crucial. Kerry explained that it was important for Miguel’s blood oxygen level not to drop below a certain number. His numbers had gone up and down when he’d only had a nasal cannula, but now that he was intubated, his level was steady.

“How long will he have to be intubated?” Grace asked.

“That’s the million-dollar question. Everything about his recovery will be easier the less time he has the breathing tube, and the less time he’s sedated and in the ICU. Dr. Bihariya will assess him at least once a day to see if he might have improved enough to be extubated.”

“Is that . . .” Grace wasn’t sure how to ask her question. She’d heard too many recent news stories of someone’s mother or husband who got a breathing tube and never recovered. For so many, the breathing tube was the start of an irreversible decline. “It’s not just . . .” Her voice cracked. “The beginning of the end?”

“No no, it doesn’t mean that. For older patients it can be harder to stop the downward spiral, especially if they already have chronic issues. But Miguel doesn’t have any other health problems, and he’s otherwise young and strong. While the machine is helping him breathe, the rest of his system can focus on beating the virus. Don’t lose hope.”

“Okay.” She hadn’t thought of it that way—the machine as a helper, giving his body a break. It was a better image to focus on. Coco crawled onto her lap. Maybe she knew they were talking about her daddy. Grace stroked her, and the cat’s soft fur helped her stay calm.

“You’re designated as Miguel’s only visitor. His family isn’t in town, and it sounds like they’re dealing with a lot right now. We are permitting ICU visits with full protective gear—gown, gloves, mask, and goggles.”

“I’d like to, I will, but I was exposed. I’m still in self-isolation.”

“Oh okay. How are you feeling?”

“Not great. My mother’s pretty sick, she lives with me, but I don’t know if it’s the virus.”

“You can both come in and get tested, if you’re concerned.”

“We’ll see. We’re both breathing okay, so.”

“That’s good. You know we’re here. We have iPads and we can FaceTime with you—that’s another option.”

Grace was glad Miguel was in Kerry’s hands; Kerry had solutions. For days Grace had had only the sense of encroaching doom, but maybe the nurse was right: Grace couldn’t lose hope.

Kerry explained how the nursing shifts worked in the ICU and encouraged Grace to call the direct number whenever she wanted an update. “There’s always someone here.”

“Thank you. Maybe next time we could use the iPad, just in case Miguel can hear me? I could just tell him I love him.”

“Of course!”

Even though it had been a productive call, concluding with more thank-yous, Grace burst into tears after they disconnected. It seemed even more real than it had before. Now it was a waiting game, and there were only two ways his oxygen levels would ultimately go—up or down.



Jackie was ready to eat late in the afternoon. Grace brought her more water and single-serve containers of applesauce and yogurt. She stood by her mother’s bed and watched her spoon the easy-to-eat foods, gauging her overall health to the degree that Grace’s observation allowed. Jackie’s hair was plastered against the sides of her head; sleep had given her a mohawk. There was a tremor in her hand. Her skin had that translucent quality again, the bruise-like softness she’d arrived with.

“Do you feel like you have a fever?” Grace asked. Jackie shook her head. “My thermometer is dead, but I ordered a new one. I can call a doctor and see if they think you should go in to be tested.”

“I don’t have the virus.”