who came to our house last fall. It’s Sheila Watson.
B efore I hide, Ms. Watson looks up and sees me. She smiles, waves and heads straight to me. “Hello! You’re Susanna, aren’t you? Remember me—Sheila Watson?”
Reluctantly I nod.
“Briana’s baby is just lovely. Her doctor tells me she’s doing really well.”
“How did you know about her? About her being born?” The inside of my mouth is dry as a desert and I can hardly get the words out.
“There was a write-up in the paper months ago. Your sister was something of a medical phenomenon, you know. Then I read in the obituary column that she had died, and I heard that her baby was in intensive care.”
I hadn’t read about Bree in the paper and no one had mentioned the article to me until now. My news comes from text messaging and e-mail, and it concerns my friends and school. Once in a while I watch the TV news, but it’s usually pretty depressing, so I don’t watch often.
One thing I’ve learned hanging around the hospital is that without a patient’s approval no one on staff talks about a patient to the media, or for that matter, to anyone else who wants information. “How do you know Dr. Kendrow?” I’m bold now, asking questions I would have been too shy to ask months ago.
“I was told she’s head of this unit.”
“Why would she let you see our baby?”
“Because I was given permission to see her.”
“Who gave you permission?”
Sheila smiles, reminding me of someone being indulgent with a very slow learner. “Why, your mother, of course.”
I hit my front door with a bang, yelling, “Mom!”
She’s in the kitchen warming a casserole for our supper. “You don’t have to shout, Sissy. There’s nothing wrong with my hearing.” She glances up, sees my face and, looking alarmed, asks, “What’s wrong? Is it the baby?”
“Would you care?”
“What are you talking about? Yes, I care.”
“Then why did you let that…that
lawyer
in to see her?”
Mom’s face turns pink. “You saw Ms. Watson?”
“She was looking at Bree’s baby. At
our
baby! She wants her, doesn’t she? She’s trying to get her from us! And you…and you…” I break down.
“She called, asked if she might go see the baby. I didn’t see anything wrong with that.”
“She has reasons for wanting to see her,” I shout, “and you know what they are!”
Mom goes to the table, pulls out a chair and sits in another. “Sit down, Sissy. Let’s talk.”
I don’t want to sit and talk. I want to scream. I go to the chair, though, and sit. “So talk.”
“You have no idea how difficult it will be to raise a baby—”
“I told you I’ll help raise her.”
“You’re fourteen—”
“Fifteen in March.” I’m thinking she’s going to use immaturity as an argument against me, but she doesn’t.
“And when you’re eighteen you’ll go to college, or off to begin a job. The baby will only be four years old. Think about that. And think about this too.” She holds up her hands, the joints knotty with arthritis. “Look at me. I don’t know if I can change her diapers, much less prepare her bottles, dress her, potty-train her, bake her birthday cakes.” She shakes her head. “And Dr. Kendrow’s told me that when she comes home, she’ll need constant monitoring. She’ll have to be fed every three hours.
Every three hours
around the clock, then every four hours, and so on until she can finally switch to ‘on-demand’ feeding. This can take months!”
I see that Mom’s scared. I’m scared too. I’m scared of losing the baby, not of taking care of her. “We can’t just give her away to strangers.” My voice is quivering. “She’s
family.
”
Mom goes so quiet, I hear the kitchen clock ticking off seconds across the room.
“I’ll take the night shifts,” I say stubbornly.
“You have no idea,” she repeats. “The—the responsibility of it all.”
I feel sorry for her, but I also have to fight
B efore I hide, Ms. Watson looks up and sees me. She smiles, waves and heads straight to me. “Hello! You’re Susanna, aren’t you? Remember me—Sheila Watson?”
Reluctantly I nod.
“Briana’s baby is just lovely. Her doctor tells me she’s doing really well.”
“How did you know about her? About her being born?” The inside of my mouth is dry as a desert and I can hardly get the words out.
“There was a write-up in the paper months ago. Your sister was something of a medical phenomenon, you know. Then I read in the obituary column that she had died, and I heard that her baby was in intensive care.”
I hadn’t read about Bree in the paper and no one had mentioned the article to me until now. My news comes from text messaging and e-mail, and it concerns my friends and school. Once in a while I watch the TV news, but it’s usually pretty depressing, so I don’t watch often.
One thing I’ve learned hanging around the hospital is that without a patient’s approval no one on staff talks about a patient to the media, or for that matter, to anyone else who wants information. “How do you know Dr. Kendrow?” I’m bold now, asking questions I would have been too shy to ask months ago.
“I was told she’s head of this unit.”
“Why would she let you see our baby?”
“Because I was given permission to see her.”
“Who gave you permission?”
Sheila smiles, reminding me of someone being indulgent with a very slow learner. “Why, your mother, of course.”
I hit my front door with a bang, yelling, “Mom!”
She’s in the kitchen warming a casserole for our supper. “You don’t have to shout, Sissy. There’s nothing wrong with my hearing.” She glances up, sees my face and, looking alarmed, asks, “What’s wrong? Is it the baby?”
“Would you care?”
“What are you talking about? Yes, I care.”
“Then why did you let that…that
lawyer
in to see her?”
Mom’s face turns pink. “You saw Ms. Watson?”
“She was looking at Bree’s baby. At
our
baby! She wants her, doesn’t she? She’s trying to get her from us! And you…and you…” I break down.
“She called, asked if she might go see the baby. I didn’t see anything wrong with that.”
“She has reasons for wanting to see her,” I shout, “and you know what they are!”
Mom goes to the table, pulls out a chair and sits in another. “Sit down, Sissy. Let’s talk.”
I don’t want to sit and talk. I want to scream. I go to the chair, though, and sit. “So talk.”
“You have no idea how difficult it will be to raise a baby—”
“I told you I’ll help raise her.”
“You’re fourteen—”
“Fifteen in March.” I’m thinking she’s going to use immaturity as an argument against me, but she doesn’t.
“And when you’re eighteen you’ll go to college, or off to begin a job. The baby will only be four years old. Think about that. And think about this too.” She holds up her hands, the joints knotty with arthritis. “Look at me. I don’t know if I can change her diapers, much less prepare her bottles, dress her, potty-train her, bake her birthday cakes.” She shakes her head. “And Dr. Kendrow’s told me that when she comes home, she’ll need constant monitoring. She’ll have to be fed every three hours.
Every three hours
around the clock, then every four hours, and so on until she can finally switch to ‘on-demand’ feeding. This can take months!”
I see that Mom’s scared. I’m scared too. I’m scared of losing the baby, not of taking care of her. “We can’t just give her away to strangers.” My voice is quivering. “She’s
family.
”
Mom goes so quiet, I hear the kitchen clock ticking off seconds across the room.
“I’ll take the night shifts,” I say stubbornly.
“You have no idea,” she repeats. “The—the responsibility of it all.”
I feel sorry for her, but I also have to fight
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