Page 110 of Hold the Pickle
“I didn’t even think to text him,” Mom says. “We could have all come together.”
“Anthony’s not in Boulder at the moment,” Sherman says. “There’s a cooking event in Vegas. I told him to finish up and come tomorrow. Baby’ll be here all the same.”
“It will be nice to see all the boys,” Mom says.
Uncle Sherman nods, his hands nearly white from his tight grip. His eyes are red. Has he been crying?
“I’ll go get us all some coffee,” I say. “It might be a long night.”
Mom nods. She takes Sherman’s hands.
I figure they might want to talk about Aunt Pat. I hurry down the hall when a long, guttural cry from a nearby room startles me.
Whew. That’s intense. I might stick with cats.
I keep going, assuming I’ll find vending of some sort, eventually. Every hospital show I’ve ever watched has shown people getting coffee from a machine. There’s bound to be one somewhere.
I turn a corner, surprised to see another bank of windows with a nursery. Did I make a circle?
But the baby and grandparents are gone. This one is darkened, with blinking lights on tall equipment among the rows of enclosed plastic beds.
The NICU.
There’s a small glassed-in office with a nurse inside typing on a computer. She slides a window open when she sees me. “Visiting hours are nine a.m. to four. A parent will need to escort you.”
“Oh, I’m just looking for coffee.”
She smiles. “I see. There’s a family station in every hall. It’s marked with a sign. There’s juice, snacks, and coffee for the laboring moms and their guests. You might have to check more than one to find a warm pot at this hour.”
“Thank you.” That’s nice that they have stations for us.
I’m about to walk away, but I hesitate. The woman is about to close the window when she notices. “Did you need something else?”
“Do you know Dalton Murphy? I think he’s an intern on this floor.”
“Sure. Dr. D is very popular around here. The moms love him.”
My heart swells to know he’s doing well. “Is he here tonight?”
“Sure, he’s in here. You want me to see if he’s available?”
“Oh. I couldn’t bother him.”
But she’s already getting up. She leaves through an interior door between her office and the NICU.
I walk past the secure door to the windows to watch her navigate the rows. There’s an order to them. Closest to the door and her office are low, clear beds with wiggling babies. There are moms inside, rocking in chairs, some of them holding their infants.
But as she walks, the beds get more elaborate, with more machinery. There are parents there too, but none of them hold their babies. Some of the set-ups are elaborate with handmade signs and stuffed animals atop the machines.
My throat tightens. How hard it must be to live on such a knife’s edge.
She stops, and I peer into the shadows through the glass.
Then I see him, surprised at how easily I recognize the shape of his frame, the movement of his stride.
I know the moment he sees me too, because his step falters, then he’s closer, and I can make out his eyes above a mask.
He waves, and I wonder if he’s stuck in there, locked in, if there is some procedure to keep it safe and germ free.
