Page 9 of Without You, Scotch and Sammy 2

“Not our problem.”

I nod, because he’s right. He’s not our problem. Shari isn’t even our problem. Just the baby.

Ed nods and pushes the file back across his desk. “Get over there and let me know what you find.”

An hour later, I walk into the air-conditioned lobby of the same hospital Shari was in last month – and the month before that – and I go in search of the nursing staff I know and have a friendly relationship with.

Barbara Landow, the nurse in charge of obstetrics today, meets me as I exit the elevator on the fourth floor, and her ghostly white face has my stomach dropping instantly. I practically run to keep up with her fast pace as we move down the sterile hall. “What happened?”

“She’s in labor.”

“No! It’s too soon.”

“She’s dehydrated, she’s hungry, she’s tired… And she’s most definitely contracting.”

“Barbara.” I snatch her arm and pull us to a dead stop. “It’s too soon.”

“She’s six and a half months.”

“That’s too soon!”

She impatiently pulls her arm from my grip and begins walking again. “I can’t change it, Sam. I can only deal with it. The OB is already in with her. We tried to stop it, but she’s already almost fully dilated.”

“How long?” I can feel the blood whooshing in my head. I feel like I’m going to be sick. Maybe that poor sweet baby won’t even have a chance to experience withdrawals. Six and a half months in the womb, especially Shari’s womb, is not enough time.

“She was already at nine centimeters when we checked. It’s happening now. Come on, I’ll take you in.”

“In?” We come to a screeching halt. “I’ve never been in before.”

“She asked for you. She said you were adopting her baby.”

“I’m not!”

She shrugs her shoulders. “I already told you, I can’t change what’s happening. I can only deal with it. She asked for you. Her husband isn’t here. She’s scared and she specifically sent me out to find you.”

“Jesus.” What the hell is happening? “I don’t think I can come in. I can’t watch that baby die.”

Barbara takes my hand anyway and leads us forward. “I’m not saying twenty-six weeks is ideal. It’s absolutely not. Two or three weeks ago, she wouldn’t have had a chance, but I’ve watched premature babies survive before. Twenty-six weeks sucks, but it’s not a death sentence.”

“I can’t watch her die. I can’t do this.”

We stop outside gray double doors and Barbara swipes her ID across the screen. “I have to go in. You have two seconds to make up your mind, after that I’ll be too busy to come back to get you.” She steps through the doors and I hug my files to my chest. I can feel my heartbeat even through the several inches of paperwork. She makes a point of looking at the watch clipped to her breast pocket. “One second.” The automatic motor starts whirring and the doors begin closing me out, but as though possessed by someone else, my feet propel me forward and I crash into the inner sanctum of the obstetrics ward. “Alright.” Barbara starts walking at a fast pace again as we pass by a large U-shaped desk manned with several more hospital staff speaking in hushed tones. “This won’t be a regular birth. That baby won’t be able to survive without immediate medical help. She’ll be small.” Her eyes meet mine to emphasize her point. “Really small. Barely more than a pound. Maybe two if we’re lucky. She’ll be taken to the neonatal intensive care unit immediately. She would have been going there even at full term, but this is going to be worse. The small sliver of silver in this scenario,” Barbara continues to speak as we turn another corner and move down a long hallway, “since she’s so premature, her withdrawals should actually be easier. Small mercy.”

I hurry to keep up. “What else should I expect?”

“Breathing difficulty. She’ll be sickly looking. Mottled skin. It might even still be translucent. She’s going to cry a lot, and she won’t be able to calm. She’s going to be in here a long time. A few months at least.”

“What about Shari?”

“She’ll be here a week at least. She’ll experience her own withdrawals. Her own care team will try and help her through it, but she has a rough road ahead of her too. It’s best if we can get her to start pumping breast milk as soon as possible. Even with the drugs in her system. Breastmilk will help a little. Colostrum will help. The baby will be tube fed for a while. She’ll be in the incubator for a long time. She won’t be able to regulate her temperature.”

We swing into a room near the end of the hall and I stop at the hive of activity in front of me. Shari lies in the bed in the center of the room. Her legs are in the stirrups, high and wide open for us all to see. Her hair is still clumped and messy, her face dirty, her brown tank top was probably white or cream once upon a time.

Her body is covered in random tattoos. There’s no central theme, no main design, just a hundred different random drawings that look as though a fifth grader did them.

Her tear streaked face turns to me immediately and her desperate eyes latch onto mine as she bursts out in tears. “I’m sorry!” Immediately I place my files down on the floor in the corner and approach her reaching hands. She clamps her nails into my skin immediately, bruising me the same way she did last month. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.”

I don’t answer her. I just hold her hand and watch as everyone bustles around us. Doctors in full scrubs stand at the end of the bed. Nurses race around and prepare silver instruments of torture, transporting me back to my own life more than a decade ago. I don’t remember a lot about that day, but I remember the clanging sound of metal tools on metal trays. I remember bustling nurses. I remember masked men. And I remember being so lonely, I worried the ache in my chest would never go away.

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