Neighborly(66)

Besides, she’s not Katrina anymore; she’s Kat, like some sassy little sprite. Ha! She looks just the same, though. I’d know her anywhere.

She hasn’t recognized me, which is both an insult and a blessing.

It’s also my life plan. New name, new hair color, cosmetic surgery, some colored contacts, and voilà.

Now I have a new plan: Operation Get Katrina the Hell Out of My Neighborhood. It’s not going to be derailed by her daughter being in the hospital, though I do feel bad about that. No one wants to see a baby suffer. But she’ll recover. The vast majority of us make it to adulthood, scars and all.

Oh, and I have a motto, too: don’t kick Katrina when she’s down; kick her out when she’s down. There’s no better moment, really. Katrina couldn’t be any more vulnerable than she is right now, subject to disorientation and rash decision-making. Sadie will be fine, but she’ll be raised somewhere else, so I don’t have to look at her mother’s face ever again.

It won’t be easy, though. I was lucky enough to never have an emergency situation on my hands with my own child, and seeing Sadie in any kind of pain, seeing all those other kids . . . But the thing is, Katrina’s misery is only fair. There was a time when I was consumed by the idea of vengeance. I let that go, with difficulty, but I still believe in justice.

Word traveled fast about Sadie’s illness. I volunteered to go to the hospital first and find out what the family needs. If we all went together, I said, we’d overwhelm them. Instead, I’d do reconnaissance and return with a full report. They agreed that was the best way.

Now, I just need to make sure I keep Katrina isolated.

The PICU is one large room segmented by curtains, and Sadie’s in quarantine. That means that yellow-and-black hazard tape has been laid down on the floor around her curtained area, and everyone who comes into Sadie’s sphere has to wear latex gloves and a gown over their clothes. There are face masks, too, but when I draw back the curtain, I see that Katrina and Doug aren’t wearing theirs. See, what kind of parents are those? I’ve never trusted Doug. For one thing, he married her. Also, there’s just something sketchy about him. You can tell he’s used to being liked all the time, he needs it like air, and I never trust those people. He can tell I don’t buy his act, and that makes him nervous. Good.

“Hi,” I whisper through my mask. “The neighbors sent me to check on you guys.”

“Hey!” Doug says, too loud. “Thank you for coming!” Like he’s throwing a party. We’re already assuming the weekend barbecue is canceled. Down, dog. Down, Doug.

His only concern should be Sadie, not pleasing me. He doesn’t have to be a good host by his daughter’s ICU bed.

But Sadie, that poor kid. She’s in what looks like a small Plexiglas box, raised on a platform, wearing a baby-size hospital gown. A tangle of wires, lines, and tubes runs from her to the hissing, beeping machines. A light is taped to her finger, and plastic tips are inserted in each tiny nostril to deliver oxygen. There are round, flesh-colored patches affixed to her chest and upper leg and stents in her hands that are attached to boards; I assume it’s so she won’t remove the IVs, similar to how dogs wear cones around their necks so they won’t pull out stitches. She’s just so restricted. She’s also eerily quiet, motionless. Her skin has a decidedly yellow cast to it.

Katrina follows my eyes. She must like what she sees in them, and she must trust my tears, which are genuine. I never wanted this to happen. Sadie’s so innocent. I want to think she’s dreaming of being somewhere else, sucking from some giant boob in the sky.

“The nurses say it’s good for her to sleep,” Katrina says softly. “Her body’s working so hard to fight the infection.” Her voice is hoarse. I can tell she’s been crying a lot. Doug’s hair is disheveled, but other than that, you wouldn’t be able to guess he has a sick baby.

“I’m sure she’s a fighter,” I say. Katrina gives me a sharp look, while Doug smiles, like he appreciates my intent.

As if he has any idea of my intent.

Katrina starts to speak in this weird spacey voice. “Sometimes I think about who has a better prognosis, the screamer or the sleeper. Do you hear her?” I shake my head. “There’s this little baby even younger than Sadie who’s been crying the whole time we’ve been here.”

“She’s not crying now,” I say.

“Oh. She’s not?” Katrina looks confused.

She’s cracking up so easily. I thought that’s what I wanted, but it’s hard to see anyone go through this.

“I’m hoping both babies will be OK,” she says, “but I worry there’s a quota. Like, a certain number of people in here have to die to make room for others.”

I look to Doug. It seems like he isn’t even listening to her. There’s no outward acknowledgment of how peculiar she sounds. Maybe he’s heard it before and he’s just tuning her out at this point. I can’t exactly tell what’s transpiring between them.

“Like there’s a quota from God. A big cosmic ledger. I don’t want Sadie to be pitted against the others like that. I don’t want to compete with the other parents to see who can pray the hardest.”

You can’t compete with other parents, Katrina. With what you’ve done, they’ll win. In a great big gladiatorial arena, with God pointing his scepter to decide who lives and who dies, Sadie’s a goner.