Читать книгу Born in Syn - Beth Kander - Страница 10

Big.

That would be one word to describe the hospital. It was big on the outside, big on the inside, bigger than any other place Howie had seen. But “big” was an easy word. A baby word. He needed something better.

Enormous was better.

Howie silently ran through the list of all the alternative words he knew for “big.” Huge, enormous, gigantic, massive. Those were all good words to describe the place. Scary was another good word, with all the strangers and people in masks. But he wasn’t too scared, since Daddy would protect him. That made it less scary (creepy, frightening, terrifying).

Smelly, that was another accurate word for this place. Howie tried to think of another word for smelly. He’d heard a fancy one the other day. Putrescent. Yes. The big, scary hospital was putrescent.

“Was I born here, too, Daddy?” Howie asked his father as they walked down a long hallway.

“Sure were, buddy,” his dad confirmed.

“Was the hospital putrescent back then, too?” Howie asked innocently.

His father stared at him, then said slowly: “Yes. Yes, it was.”

They arrived at the room where Howie’s mother was recovering. Howie was so glad and excited (exuberant) to know that she would be coming home soon. He was thrilled for his own sake but also for hers—who would want to be stuck here?

His father pushed open the door, and Howie ran in.

“Mommy!”

“Howie!”

His mother smiled at him and he beamed back at her. She was so beautiful. (Gorgeous.) He held up his arms for her to lift him, like she always did.

“Easy there, buddy,” his father said, scooping him up from behind, momentarily startling Howie. “Mommy can’t pick you up just yet, big boy. But I got ya. Here, I’ll even bring ya in close for a kiss.”

Daddy held Howie close to his mother, within inches of her face. Howie grabbed her face in his hands and gave her a kiss, a big loud smackeroo. She kissed him back, nuzzling his neck. She smelled familiar, warm and good and Mommy-like. Howie beamed.

“You don’t smell putrescent, Mommy.”

“Putrescent,” she laughed. “Biggest word yet, Howie. Where’d you pick that one up?”

“I don’t remember…”

“Think hard, Howie. You can always remember if you think really hard.”

Howie scrunched up his little face, thinking hard. “It was when we went out to dinner. The lady at the next table said her toilet got all clogged and overflowed and her whoooooooole house was ‘absolutely putrescent’!”

He imitated the old lady’s quavering voice, which earned him another tinkling, incredulous laugh from his mother. His father chuckled, too, before kissing Mommy.

“We make smart babies, my love.”

“We do,” she agreed. “Should we all go visit the new one?”

“Yeah!” Howie yelled, earning a shush from his parents, who reminded him there were sick people in the hospital, and he had to use his indoor voice. He nodded, putting a finger to his lips and mouthing sorry.

His father put him down, and helped his mother ease herself out of the hospital bed. His mother gripped his father’s arm, and he led her out into the hallway. Howie walked right next to them, careful not to trip them and careful to only use his indoor voice.

“Where do they keep the babies?” Howie stage-whispered.

“Well, some of the babies are just in a regular nursery unit,” his mother explained, walking carefully and talking slowly. “But the really little babies who came early and need extra-special care, like our baby Nathan, are in something called the neonatal intensive care unit.”

Howie worked through which words he knew and which he didn’t. Intensive meant serious. So intensive care must mean really serious medicine. But he didn’t know the other ones.

“What’s neonatal?”

“Neo means new,” his father answered.

“Natal means baby,” his mother added.

“So it’s for new babies who need serious medicine?”

His parents nodded, proud and pained.

When they reached the neonatal intensive care unit, the nurse on duty greeted them with a smile. She donned a pristine white uniform, and her hair was neatly flipped out at her shoulders.

“Hello, Mrs. Fell,” she greeted them. “Mr. Fell. And you must be Howard.”

“Howie,” said Howie.

“Howie, of course,” said the nurse. She had a nice face, wide and friendly. “I’m Nurse Nancy. Your parents talk about you all the time. They tell me you’re a very good boy. Is that true?”

“Absolutely,” Howie confirmed.

“‘Absolutely!’ What a big word for a little boy!”

His parents smiled politely, exchanging a subtle glance; you have no idea.

“Which one is my baby?” Howie asked Nurse Nancy. He liked how her name had two Ns. Nurse Nancy. Three Ns: Nice Nurse Nancy. Howie adored alliteration.

“I can show you. We’ll all go look—” Nurse Nancy began, but then a doctor entered the observation area, clipboard in hand.

“Mr. and Mrs. Fell? If you have a minute, I’d like to speak with you.”

“Of course, doctor,” Howie’s mother replied, looking worried.

“I want to see my baby,” Howie insisted, looking nervously at his parents, afraid that they’d all have to follow the doctor into another room and he wouldn’t get to meet Baby Nathan.

“I can take him to see, if you like?” Nurse Nancy smiled, and looked to Howie’s parents for permission. They nodded, and she picked him up. “We’ll be right over here when you’re done talking with the doctor.”

“Thanks,” said Howie’s father. “Be right back, buddy. Tell your brother hello for us.”

His parents followed the doctor back toward the hallway. Howie didn’t watch them go; he was too eager to see his baby. Nurse Nancy carried him to the observation window.

Howie’s eyes widened. There were lots of babies on the other side of the glass. He counted quickly, one, two, three… nine, ten… seventeen, eighteen. Eighteen babies, each one in their own little environment, some of them with tubes, some with wires, all tiny.

Nurse Nancy pointed to the center of the room. Howie followed her finger, all the way to the very smallest baby.

To Howie’s surprise, he almost looked purple. His eyes were closed, there was a tube in his mouth, and all sorts of equipment, wires, and labels all around him. He was encased in a box, surrounded by plastic and metal. Caged.

“Is that Baby Nathan?” Howie whispered, suddenly scared.

“Sure is,” Nurse Nancy confirmed.

Howie’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t like him being in there.”

“Oh, now,” the nice nurse said, gently. “He’s safe here. The doctors and machines and medicines are all helping him get bigger and stronger.”

“I want him to come home. I don’t like him here.” Howie shook his head, huffing and crying quietly, not throwing a fit but obviously upset. He kept his voice low, because it was a hospital and he had to use his indoor voice and didn’t want to upset the neonatals. But his request was dead serious: “Take him out.”

“We can’t do that, honey,” Nurse Nancy said.

Howie realized his mistake; he didn’t say the magic word. Gulping for air between sobs, he said desperately: “Take him out, please.”

“We can’t do that.”

“PLEASE!” Howie bellowed, unable to keep his voice down any longer. “PLEASE!”

Alarmed, Nurse Nancy turned to look for assistance, and was relieved to see the Fells hurrying toward her.

“Is everything all right?” Ernest asked, taking his sobbing son from the nurse’s arms.

“I think seeing the baby in the incubator upset him,” Nurse Nancy said apologetically. She conveyed concern, but also seemed a little bit irritated.

Not-so-nice Nurse Nancy.

Howie nodded, then buried his face in his father’s chest. He wanted to forget seeing Baby Nathan like that, tiny and purple and in that incubator-thing. He wanted him to just be a baby. Just a regular, normal, healthy baby. His brother shouldn’t be kept in a box like that. It was wrong. (Incorrect, unnatural.)

It scared Howie in a way he had no words to describe. He didn’t like that feeling at all.