Baby, Baby. Roz Fox Denny
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“I…found his address and dr…ove there.” Tears flowed from the corners of her eyes.
Wanting to save her sister pain, Faith wiped the tears away with her thumbs. “Please don’t do this, Lacy. Some men are just jerks. Forget him.”
“I…I…parked and was admiring his house. His…his wife came out to…see if I was lost. I didn’t know he was m-m-married.” Tears rolled over Faith’s thumbs and onto Lacy’s pillow.
“The bastard!” Faith couldn’t help herself. She wished she could have five minutes alone with the man responsible for causing her sister this agony.
“The…irony, Faith. Kipp and his wife separated because she couldn’t conceive. They ar…gued over adopting. His dad, a bigwig on Wall Street, wants a grandson to carry on the family name. Kipp…dropped by later. To apologize. Seems his wife heard of a new fertility treatment. He felt obligated to l-let her try it.” Lacy’s thin body was racked with sobs. “I…he…doesn’t know about the baby. I don’t want him to.”
Straightening, Faith adjusted the oxygen hoses. “Oh, sweetie, don’t do this to yourself. You’re getting all worked up and it’s sapping what little capacity you have to breathe. I’m going to get a doctor.” Increasingly worried because Lacy’s skin felt clammy and her face now had a waxy cast, Faith sprang up and hurried across the room.
She yanked open the door and bumped into someone coming in. “Dr. Finegold!” she said, tugging him inside. “Faith Hyatt, sir. I’ve assisted you on post-op rounds. This is my sister.” Letting go of his sleeve, Faith waved toward the bed. “Lacy is a post heart-lung transplant patient,” Faith whispered. “At the onset of pregnancy, she quit taking her anti-rejection meds. Please, she needs help.”
The doctor walked to the bedside and swiftly began an exam. Each time he paused to write in the chart, his scowl deepened. “Who did her transplant?”
“Dr. Cameron. Michael Cameron,” Faith added, darting a guilty glance at Lacy.
“I only know him by reputation. Get him on the phone. Stat! Meanwhile, see if our staff cardiologist has ever assisted with a post-transplant delivery. And while you’re at the desk, Hyatt, order a sonogram.”
At each barked order, Faith nodded. Everyone on staff knew Finegold expected blind obedience. Still she dragged him aside. “You wouldn’t know, but Lacy is Dr. Cameron’s ex-wife,” she murmured. “She won’t authorize calling him.”
“She’s been assigned to my care, Nurse. I’m making the decisions.”
“Yes, sir.” As Faith turned and grasped the door handle, Finegold swore ripely. She felt the flap of his lab coat as he hurtled past her and bellowed into the hall. “Code blue. Get me a crash cart, on the double.” Racing back to the bed, he tore away blankets, sheets and the flimsy oxygen lines and started CPR.
Faith’s senses shut down totally until a cart slammed through the door accompanied by a trained team whose purpose it was to restore a patient’s vital signs. For the first time since she’d become a nurse, Faith didn’t see a patient lying there. She saw her baby sister. Pictures swam behind her eyes. Lacy as a newborn. Taking her first steps. Starting school. Going on her first date. A hospital-room wedding that had somehow led to this debacle. If Michael Cameron had been more of a husband, Lacy would be well and happy and living in New York. Lacy might not blame him, but Faith did. He’d promised to care for her sister in sickness and in health—until death parted them. Panic filled her as Finegold ordered the paddles applied to Lacy’s thin chest.
Lacy’s body jumped and so did Faith’s. She didn’t breathe again until a technician gave a thumbs-up sign, meaning Lacy’s heartbeat had resumed.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit,” Finegold cursed, yanking the stethoscope out of his ears to let it flop around his neck. “We have a pulse but it’s thready. Clear me for an O.R. This woman doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in the tropics if we don’t take the baby. How the hell far along is she? What kind of prenatal care has she had? Get Epstein, Carlson and Wainwright to scrub. Round up an anesthesiologist.” Finegold all but foamed at the mouth.
As he barked orders, Faith grabbed his arm. “My sister hasn’t had any prenatal care, but I’m familiar with her heart problems. Let me scrub with you.”
The doctor shook her off, never slowing his steps toward the door. “I know you’re qualified to assist, Hyatt, but you aren’t in any shape. Take a seat in the OB waiting room. I’ll find you when I’m finished.”
“But I want to help!”
“Pray,” he said, spinning on a heel. With that, he flew down the hall.
The hardest thing Faith had ever done, outside of burying her mother or maybe waiting anxiously through Lacy’s long and tedious heart-lung transplant, was to step aside while they wheeled her out of the room. Even though Faith heartily disliked clingy relatives who impeded the progress of staff readying a patient for surgery, she doggedly kept pace with the squeaky cart. At the elevator, she elbowed aside a technician and kissed Lacy’s cheek.
Weighted eyelids slowly opened. Oxygen tubes from a portable tank pinched Lacy’s nose. IVs ran in both arms. “Take c-care of my b-baby. L…li-like you did me.” The dark pupils of her eyes swallowed all but a narrow ring of blue. It took every ounce of her energy to breathe. Still, she reached feebly for Faith’s hand.
Faith closed the icy fingers between her palms. “We’ll take care of your baby together.” Hardly aware that the elevator door had slid open and someone on the team had roughly disengaged their hands, Faith’s wavering promise bounced off a rapidly closing door. “You fight, Lacy. Hang in there,” she cried in a fractured voice.
THE WAIT SEEMED INTERMINABLE. At about five in the morning, Faith walked to the phone to call her father, just to hear his voice. He and she were all that was left of Lacy’s family. But Dwight Hyatt had escaped into a dreamworld when his beloved wife died. Though only fifty-six, he resided in an assisted-living facility. He played checkers with other residents, watched TV and occasionally went on supervised outings. He recognized Faith at her weekly visits, but he rarely asked about Lacy unless prompted. More times than not, he didn’t know Faith when she telephoned.
Fighting a sense of disorientation, Faith did as Dr. Finegold ordered. She prayed—until she ran out of words and tears. Three hours had passed when she wandered over to the waiting room coffeepot and poured a third cup of sludge. Through the window, she noticed that pale golden threads had begun to erase a solemn gray dawn. The promise of a sunny day lifted Faith’s spirits and gave her hope, the first she’d had throughout her long, lonely vigil.
Muffled footsteps intruded on her optimistic moment. Glancing up, she experienced another rush of relief at seeing Dr. Finegold striding toward her. He untied his mask and dropped it wearily as he drew closer, still wearing full blue scrubs. The cup of muddy coffee slipped from Faith’s fingers and splashed across her feet.
Even at a distance, she recognized the look on Fine-gold’s face. “No, no, no!” The scalding coffee seeped through her socks, but Faith felt nothing until a crushing pain descended and great, gulping sobs racked her body. She stumbled and fell heavily into the nearest chair. She wasn’t aware that tears obscured her view of the approaching man or that they dripped off her cheeks when she stared mutely up at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said brokenly. “We did everything we could. Her heart and lungs had been overtaxed for too long. Without anti-rejection drugs…” The doctor shut his eyes and massaged the closed lids. “God, I’m sorry,” he repeated, as he continued to loom over Faith’s shuddering frame. “This part never gets easier,” he said quietly, shifting from one foot to the other.
“And the baby?” she finally asked in a wooden voice.
“Babies,” he corrected, pulling out an adjacent chair and sinking into it. “A boy and a girl. Both under-weight, but scrappy as hell. My best guess is that your sister was seven to eight months along. The male baby weighed in at four-two.