His Bundle of Love. Patricia Davids
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wrong.”
“I do love him, you know. It’s just that we’ve waited so long for a child. I’m almost forty. He was going to be our only one,” her voice trailed into silence.
A moment later she patted the nurse’s arm. “You’ve all been wonderful. Thank you. And you.” She looked at Mick. “Your mother’s saying pointed out to me that God knows what He’s doing. My son wasn’t meant to be an angel in heaven. He was meant to be an angel here on Earth, like your little girl.”
Gazing at Beth’s frail form, surrounded by everything modern medicine offered, he could only pray the woman was right.
“You look like death warmed over.”
Mick closed the door of his locker and cast Woody an exasperated glance. “Thanks. I could say the same about you.”
Towering a head taller than Mick, Woody Mills, a Kansas farm boy turned Chicago firefighter and a close friend, grinned. He pulled his cowboy hat off and ran a hand through a blond crew cut that closely resembled the stubble of the wheat fields he’d left behind. “Tough night?”
Mick nodded. “I never made it to bed.”
He wasn’t looking forward to staying up another twenty-four hours. Maybe they’d have a quiet shift, and he could grab a few hours in the sack.
“Woody!” They both turned at the sound of the shout. Their watch commander, Captain Mitchell, appeared in the open doorway. “Ziggy needs help in the kitchen. Give him a hand.”
Mick groaned, and Woody laughed. “That’s right, Mick’O. It’s Ziggy’s week to cook. So guess what we’re having?”
Mick leaned his head against the locker. “Spaghetti. Why can’t he cook something—anything—else? He knows I hate spaghetti.”
“Then it’ll be a good week to go on a diet. Besides, the rest of us like it, so you lose.” Still chuckling, Woody left the room.
The gong sounded suddenly and Mick raced for his gear along with the other men. He never found the time that day for a nap or for a plate of spaghetti. Two structure fires kept the company out for most of his shift. It was late the following morning when he found the time to call the hospital to check on Caitlin and the baby.
Caitlin’s condition was unchanged, but the news about Beth was less encouraging. She was requiring higher oxygen and higher ventilator pressures, and she’d developed a heart murmur.
“Her murmur is due to a PDA,” Dr. Wright explained to Mick over the phone. “It’s a condition that often occurs in very premature infants. Before a baby is born very little blood goes to the lungs. As the blood is pumped out of the heart, it passes through a small opening called the ductus arteriosus and goes back to the placenta for oxygen. After a baby is born, this artery closes naturally, and blood flows to the lungs. But in many premature infants, it doesn’t close and that’s a problem. We can treat her with medication, but if that fails, she’ll need surgery.”
“Isn’t surgery risky for such a small baby?”
“PDA ligation is a routine procedure, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It may close after the drug is given. I’m optimistic but this is one of the complications I mentioned. I’ll keep you informed. Also, our social worker needs to talk to you about signing paternity papers.”
It was the perfect opening to admit that he wasn’t Beth’s father. Only, he didn’t take it.
Inside the odd darkness, Caitlin drifted all alone. Sometimes it was as dark as midnight, other times it grew vaguely light, like the morning sky before the sun rose, but never light enough to let her see her surroundings. Voices spoke to her, telling her to open her eyes or move her fingers. She tried, but nothing happened. When the voices stopped, she was alone again.
It was pleasant here. No pain, no hunger, no cold; none of the things she’d come to expect in life. The urge to remain here was overwhelming, but she couldn’t stay. She had to find her baby. Once she found her baby she’d never be alone ever again. She would always have someone to love and be loved by in return.
At times, a man’s voice came. Deep and low, mellow as the notes of a song, it pulled Caitlin away from the darkness. He spoke to her now, and she knew he was watching over her little girl. Her baby wasn’t lost at all.
The voice told her all kinds of things—how much the baby weighed and how cute she was. Sometimes the voice spoke about people Caitlin didn’t know, but that didn’t matter. Sometimes, he spoke about God, and how much God loved her. He spoke about having faith in the face of terrible things. His voice was like a rope that she held on to in the darkness. If she didn’t let go, she could follow the sound and find her way out.
Now his voice was saying goodbye and she hated knowing that he was going away. She felt safe when he was near.
Something soft and warm touched her cheek gently. The fog grew light and pale around her. She opened her eyes and the image of a man with deep auburn hair and a kind face swam into focus for an instant, then the fog closed over her again.
“She opened her eyes!” Excited, Mick stared at Caitlin and prayed he hadn’t imagined it.
“What did you say?” The nurse, who’d just entered the room, looked at him in surprise.
“She opened her eyes! She looked at me.”
It’d been five days since Caitlin had slipped into a coma, and for the last two days Mick had divided his waking hours between sitting with Beth, whose condition was slowly worsening, and sitting with Caitlin. This was the first sign of any spontaneous movement from her.
“Caitlin, open your eyes,” the nurse coaxed. Nothing.
Mick leaned close to Caitlin’s ear. “Come on, Sleeping Beauty. I know you’re in there. Give me a sign.”
Again nothing. The nurse pinched the skin on the back of Caitlin’s hand, then lifted her eyelid. Turning to him the nurse asked, “What were you doing when she moved?”
A flush heated Mick’s face. “I was getting ready to leave, and I kissed her cheek,” he admitted, feeling foolish.
Giving him a sad smile, the nurse touched his arm. “Sometimes we see the things we want to see, even if they’re not really there. How is her baby doing?”
Mick glanced at Caitlin’s still form and motioned with his head. The nurse followed him from the room. Once outside, he raked a hand through his hair and said, “Beth isn’t good. Her heart hasn’t responded to the medication they’ve given her. It looks like she’ll need surgery.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Are you Mr. O’Callaghan?” Mick turned to see an over-weight man with thin gray hair standing in the hall. His ill-fitting, dark blue jacket hung open displaying a wrinkled white shirt stained with a dribble of coffee. He held a scuffed black briefcase in one hand.
“Yes, I’m O’Callaghan,” Mick answered.
“I’m glad I finally caught up with you. I’m Lloyd Winston, the social worker for the NICU.”
“What can I do for you?”
Mr. Winston glanced at the nurse, then said, “Why don’t you come to my office. We can speak in private there.”
Mick held out a hand. “Lead the way.”
“Have you got a minute to help me change this bed?”
“Sure.”
Caitlin heard voices clearly this time—they were right beside her. Cool hands touched her body. She struggled to open her eyes, and for a moment, the blurred forms of two women came into view. Abruptly, they pulled her onto her side, and the movement sent waves of dizziness and pain crashing through her.
“Isn’t she the saddest case?”
“No