Before I Let You Go(53)
We stare down at the baby together for a moment, and then, I glance at my sister again and I whisper, “Whatever you need, Annie. Anything you need.”
Tuesday is a nice day—a peaceful day. Annie is content, and Daisy is well. But that brief glimpse of peacefulness is gone by the time I arrive at the hospital the next morning. A nurse directs me to the NICU, where I find Annie in a silent, dark room off the main nursery. She’s rocking in a rocking chair, and Daisy is in her arms. The baby’s cry is weak, but high-pitched—the kind of cry that hurts to hear.
“Hi, Annie,” I whisper as I enter the room. I notice the tray of breakfast that sits untouched beside her. Annie looks up at me, and her face is streaked with tears.
“Her NAS scores were too high. They started her on morphine last night, but she’s still unsettled this morning.” I lift a piece of toast and bring it near Annie’s face. She looks at me incredulously. “I’ll eat when she settles,” she whispers, and she stares down at her daughter again. “Yesterday I kind of thought that she was going to be okay. But last night . . . her whole body was shaking and she broke out in a rash and she wouldn’t drink. And then she wouldn’t stop crying . . . She went all floppy, and then she was too stiff, and it was just . . .” Annie shudders, then pulls the baby right up against her cheek. “I can’t even explain to you how much withdrawal hurts. To know that I have put my own baby through this, I don’t know how I can live with myself.”
“You’re going to live with yourself by doing better,” I say firmly. “You are going to focus on being the best mom you can be from now on.”
“Is Mom coming down?” Annie asks. Her voice is tiny—like she’s a child again.
We didn’t talk about Mom yesterday—I didn’t bring it up, and Annie didn’t ask. I hesitate before I admit, “I don’t think so. She wants me to send her a photo.”
“Don’t you fucking hate her sometimes, Lexie?” Annie sighs.
“Of course I do,” I snort, and Annie releases a surprised giggle.
“Is it any wonder the mess that I am?”
“You’ve got some problems, but everyone has problems.”
“You don’t,” Annie says pointedly, and I grimace.
“Of course I have problems. I just deal with mine in a different way.”
“A healthy way,” Annie surmises, and I shake my head.
“I don’t know about that. I mean—yes, I have a career and there’s Sam . . . and we have a house now . . . my life looks good. It is good but—I make stupid decisions. God, I’m so used to controlling things that even when someone else is doing a caesarean on my sister I want to take over.”
Annie laughs weakly.
“Tell me about this house.”
And so I tell her. I tell her about the rambling house that Sam and I have purchased, and the minor renovation that we are midway through—even the address that seemed so auspicious—Seven Neil Lane, like Dad himself had blessed it for us. I tell her how I’m getting the colors just right because we’re going to repaint it. And how one day our kids will have bedrooms there—big bedrooms that they can share if they want to. I tell her about the agapanthus we are planting along the front path, and the new weatherboard that we just had fixed to the exterior—dark gray, with a bright white trim. I tell her about the huge attic, and the office with the bay windows, and the big bifold windows in the kitchen and the adorable guesthouse. I tell her about the parties Sam and I threw over the summer last year. The whole neighborhood came, and our block is teeming with kids—they climbed the trees and ate Sam’s “famous” barbecue. Annie has always been the storyteller of the two of us, but today, telling her this story seems to be energizing her.
Maybe I shouldn’t paint this glowing picture of my life while hers is in ruins. But I can see the joy in her eyes from the distraction, and as Annie relaxes into our chat, Daisy seems to relax, too. Eventually, she falls asleep. We sit in the dark room and talk until the nurse comes to do another NAS assessment.
“Come on,” I tell Annie, when the nurse takes the baby. “Let’s go get you some breakfast.”
“I can eat this,” she protests, but I shake my head.
“It’s cold now. Daisy will be okay for a few minutes. We’ll get something fresh. A muffin and some proper coffee from the cafeteria. Okay?”
Annie shuffles out of the NICU, casting glances over her shoulder toward Daisy as we go. At the door to the main ward, she winces in pain, and I fetch her a wheelchair. As I push her along the hall, she reaches up to squeeze my hand against the chair handle and she croaks unevenly, “Lexie, will she be okay? After all this?”
“I know this is awful for us to watch, for the medical staff, too. But studies show that long-term outcomes for NAS babies tend to be positive—when all other factors are equalized.”
“Translate that into English for me, instead of doctor-speak?” Annie asks. “I just want to know if I’ve ruined her for life.”
“It means that once she’s withdrawn, if she has a stable home and a healthy mother, she’s going to be just fine.”
Annie nods, and releases my hand. She raises her chin and I see her straighten her spine.
“I’m not going to fuck up this time.”