Chasing Abby(5)

But as I watch her lying in the hospital bed, lost in the haze of sedation with a tube buried in her throat, I almost wish it were her heart. At least then I’d know that there’s some kind of surgery that could fix her.
There is no surgery that can fix Abby’s liver. They attempted to reverse the toxicity with corticosteroids, but she’s only gotten worse. If she doesn’t get a new liver, she could be dead in days. Her best chance at survival, due to her heart condition, is to find a genetic liver donor.
I squeeze Lynette’s shoulder and she sniffs loudly. “We have to contact them. We have to at least try,” I whisper.
She shakes her head. “What will she think of us when she knows we lied to her?”
“She won’t think anything of us if she dies.”
“Stop that,” she whispers, her voice strangled by the truth of these words.
“It’s true. We need them whether we like it or not, and… she needs more from them than a piece of their liver.”
Just saying these words aloud fills me with a level of regret so heavy and palpable I feel as if I might collapse from the realization. I grit my teeth and attempt to swallow the lump that forms in my throat. I’m no longer the one person my little girl needs more than anyone.
Reaching forward, I pull a few strands of hair away from the tape holding Abby’s breathing tube in place. I want her to look her best for the photograph I’m about to take, quite possibly the most important photograph of her life. And she’ll be sleeping right through it. The moment I touch her warm cheek, her head twitches and Lynette pulls my hand back. She doesn’t want me to touch Abby’s face. She thinks it introduces germs into her nose and mouth and she’s afraid of what will happen if they have to give Abby antibiotics.
“I thought we wouldn’t have to tell her until she’s eighteen. I just don’t think I’m ready,” Lynette whispers as she reaches for the camera, which rests on the chair beside her. She holds the camera out for me to take, but she doesn’t let go when I attempt to grab it. “Wait. Let me fix her hair.”
I can hardly breathe as I watch Lynette smooth down Abby’s blonde hair. As similar as Abby’s hair color is to Lynette’s, she doesn’t really resemble either one of us. She has brown eyes while Lynette’s and mine are blue. She noticed this a few years ago and when she inquired about it, Lynette’s response was “Because you got all our best traits. That’s why you’re so much prettier than us.”
You don’t have to share DNA with your child to know when they’re suffering. Whether Lynette admits it to herself or me, the truth is that Abby knows she’s different. I read about adopted children who grow up feeling unwanted even when their adoptive parents make every effort to show them they are loved. This is one of the main reasons why I was so adamant about not allowing Chris and Claire Knight to have any contact with Abby after her first birthday. I knew that if there were a chance that Abby ever felt unwanted or unloved, she would go running to them. Now, I just want her to feel normal. If meeting them is what will save her life and give her back the sense that she is loved, I’ll do anything to give her that.
Lynette wipes tears from her face as she steps away from Abby and I take a step back to get a wider angle of the hospital bed. The lighting in this critical-care room is terrible. This isn’t something I ever imagined I would care about in the countless days we’ve spent in hospital rooms.
I take a few shots, feeling sick with myself as I walk around the bed to see which angle makes her look best. Every year, a few days before Christmas, we drop a memory card containing pictures of Abby into a joint safe-deposit box in Raleigh. The Knights also leave a memory card with pictures of themselves, and I can only assume it’s because they haven’t given up hope that we’ll introduce Abby to them. This is the first year we’ll be handing them the pictures in person as we beg them to save our girl.