Page 4 of This Life and All the Rest
The sound of beeping and whirring monitors surrounds me when I step through the door, reminding me of the last time I was in this hospital, and I have to fight off the memories of that terrible night. I never wanted to be back here.
The curtain around the bed is drawn, and I’m so grateful for that. For long seconds, I stand frozen, staring at that curtain, warring with my emotions.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself, then force one foot in front of the other.
Instead of pulling the curtain back, I slip through the opening at the edge and leave it drawn, giving us a little bit of privacy from the outside. I let my eyes fall to his chest, first. It still looks strong. It looks healthy. I watch as it moves up and down steadily. I try to ignore the fact that it’s a ventilator, and not his body making the motion. After another long set of inhales and exhales, I drag my attention to his face.
His pale, lifeless face.
The tears fall, then. One, then two, then a hiccupping sob.
I close my eyes against them and breathe in time with the beeping. I reach out and take his hand. I squeeze it, but it doesn’t squeeze back. Another onslaught of tears. I wrap my other hand around his, so it’s nestled safely between my palms. Then I open my eyes.
“Hey, Daddy.”
TWO
The crying wakes me up.
I roll over stiffly and grab my phone to check the time.
Almost three in the morning.
At least she’s consistent. I don’t even need to set an alarm when she’s here.
I sit up and drop my legs out of bed with a groan as pain radiates up the left side of my body. I turn on the lamp on my nightstand and reach for the bottle of ibuprofen I keep next to the bed. I pop open the bottle, shake four of the pills into my palm, and toss them back dry.
The crying continues.
“Shh, shh, shh,” I say softly as I push myself up from the bed. “I hear you. I’m coming.”
I fumble my way to the playpen sleeper in the corner of my room and find a very hungry, very angry little human peering over the side of it.
When she sees me, she stretches out one of her tiny hands and uses the other to steady her wobbly body while she bounces. Her face, wet and splotched red from her wails, now shows off the happiest little four-toothed smile.
I fucking love that smile.
“C’mere, Squirt.” I scoop her up and prop her on my hip. “Let’s get you some num-nums.”
“Babababababa,” she chants, nuzzling her face into my chest and shoulder.
“Yeah, yeah, we’ll get you your baba,” I tell her with a tired laugh. I shuffle out of my small bedroom and into my small kitchen, flipping on the hall light as I go.
“I thought you things were supposed to be sleeping through the night at this age.”
She lets out a happy little squeal that I can only assume means,yeah right, sucker, no sleep for you.
Quickly, with sleep-drooped eyes and a squirming baby in one arm, I fix a bottle, then take the hungry little monster to the couch.
I change her first, then prop her on my lap and laugh at her little grabby hands before popping the bottle in her mouth. She can hold the bottle by herself now, but I like to do it. I like the way her little fingers grasp onto mine as she eats, and I like the way she watches me.
Sometimes, I’ll sing to her or tell her stories, but tonight, I’m too beat.
Tonight, we just stare at each other.
She’s got such long eyelashes, and these gray-green eyes that I swear can see right through me. She’s fucking fascinating, actually. She’s a work of art.
I watch her until she finishes, then I set the bottle on the coffee table, put her on my chest, and close my eyes to get a few more hours of sleep.
