The Queen of Hearts(86)

    THE IRONY OF TRAUMA


   Zadie, Present Day


I regarded the small penis in front of me. Its owner had been restrained in a supine frog-legged position on a board, his torso and arms tightly wrapped in a blanket, with Velcro straps tying him down. My friend Mary Sarah seized the opportunity to inject lidocaine around the circumference of his penis—three o’clock, six o’clock, nine o’clock—which understandably pissed him off. Quick as a flash, her assistant placed a sip of sugar water in his mouth, and he brightened, greedy sips replacing his outraged yowls. His little eyes squeezed shut, cheeks working hard, as the rest of him relaxed.

“Here we go,” Mary Sarah remarked, yanking his foreskin up, clamping it, and slicing it off. “Okay, little dude, you are circumcised.” As she began to remove her instruments, I cupped his tiny thigh under the sterile drape, unable to resist a surreptitious squeeze of his baby fat.

Mary Sarah snatched the drape away, exposing my hand. “Getting your fix?”

I grinned. “Squeezing baby fat releases endorphins,” I said. “It’s science.”

“Okay.” She gently squeezed his other thigh. “Oh, you’re right. That’s fantastic. I think I can skip my run today.”

I was smug.

She whacked me on the bottom. “There’s some more endorphins for you. Now quit molesting my patients and get your echo done.”

The nurse wheeled the circumcision baby away, replacing him on the procedure table with another tiny, pink-faced bundle, this one for me. Involuntarily, we both glanced in the direction of the doors just beyond the newborn nursery, which led to the NICU. This baby had no recognizable abnormalities on the prenatal ultrasound, but his twin brother had not fared so well: he’d been diagnosed with tricuspid atresia, a condition incompatible with life without a series of major surgeries.

The ultrasound tech appeared and set up her machine with silent efficiency. The infant, who’d been sleeping, wakened with a squall of outrage as the tech placed the ultrasound probe on his chest. His cries started somewhere in the piercing range and progressed almost immediately to an earsplitting wail.

Mary Sarah tried a pacifier. Quickly rejected.

The ultrasound tech grimly soldiered on but stopped after a moment. “This,” she said, “is a really pissed-off baby.”

Mary Sarah concurred, hands over her ears. “I can pretty much guarantee the echo is going to be normal. That’s quite a workout he’s getting.”

“I hear babies cry all day,” said the tech, “but this is intolerable. How is he so loud?”

“We may need to sedate him.”

The baby’s face was now a lurid shade of purple. “No worries. I got this,” I said. I picked him up and cuddled him to me, forgetting about the ultrasound goo, which immediately melded my shirt to my chest.

He cried louder.

I began the universal side-to-side rocking motion adopted by all life-forms confronted with a screeching baby, to no avail. I turned him around, so his back pressed against my now-slimy chest, and nodded at the tech. “Go ahead.”

“You know I need him flat, Dr. Anson.”

I laid him down again, lowering my head next to his. He screamed.

“Let’s go, le-eh-et’s go,” I sang. “Don’t take it back anymo-or-ore.”

The crying got fractionally quieter.

I increased my own volume. I twirled in place.

The baby stared in my direction, a perplexed expression on his face. The crying dwindled.

“And HERE I am, and HERE I go . . .”

Next to me, Mary Sarah and the tech were convulsed in silent laughter.

I flung my head back and my arms out. “Da da da NOW . . . I . . . SAY . . . the snow never gets to me anywaaaaay!”

In the background, other people had joined their voices to mine, a swelling chorus filling the newborn nursery, most of them undeterred by my mangled lyrics. We finished with a spectacular crescendo, proclaiming our unified resistance to the cold, the last note echoing with a theatrical flourish. The baby hiccupped one last little protest and then peacefully closed his eyes, snorting a little as he drifted back to sleep.

After bowing to a round of sustained applause, I read his echo—normal—and found his battered parents to give them the good news. This was the last of my Monday morning newborn echos, so I decided to head to the physicians’ lounge to grab a quick latte before walking down the street to my office. The second I set foot in the room, I wanted to pivot and go back out, but it was too late: she’d seen me.

Emma wore scrubs and a green surgical cap, her sculpted cheekbones thrown into high relief without strands of hair to soften her face. I pretended to study the bulletin board next to the coffee machine, half reading a bossy notice instructing us not to consult a local urology group that had somehow incurred the wrath of the hospital administration. I sensed Emma looking at me and felt my cheeks flame up. This was silly; I hadn’t done anything wrong.

I marched toward the door, clutching my hot cup. Emma intercepted me just as I reached it; she placed a cool, long-fingered hand on my arm. I wrenched away.

“I have to go.”

“Please,” she said. “Five minutes.”

I wavered. Emma realized this and pounced, drawing me outside the lounge and into the empty hall. “I’ll walk you to the garage.”