Читать книгу The Baby Connection - Dawn Atkins - Страница 11

Phoenix, Arizona

AT 3:00 A.M., MEL woke to wet sheets and a sharp pain. Instantly, she knew. Her baby was coming. Her water had broken and she was having contractions. Game on. A few weeks early, but safe, gracias a Dios. Endometriosis could lead to premature birth, but at her last appointment, the doctor had told her the baby was developed enough to be born anytime and likely not need neonatal care.

Okay. This is it. Here we go. Excitement poured through her. Adrenaline, too, waking her up, putting every cell of her being on alert. She was a little scared, her heart pounding, but she stayed in charge, her tasks scrolling through her mind: Call the doctor. Wake Mamá. Dress. Pack a quick bag. Drive to the hospital. She pushed to her feet and got started.

The doctor told her to meet him at the hospital, so she went to wake her mother. She hated to rob Irena of vital sleep, but her mother would have her head if Mel left without her. “Mamá, it’s time.”

Irena threw back the covers. “Lista!” she said, bounding out of bed. Ready. Mel’s heart ached at how hard her mother tried to hide her pain from Mel.

Irena was still weak from a second surgery, required because her fibromyalgia flare-ups had delayed chemotherapy. Mel had moved home to be more useful to her and had been helping out more at Bright Blossoms.

Mel carried her mother’s condition constantly with her—a drumbeat in her head, a throb in her heart. What if she didn’t recover? What if she got worse? What if she died?

At least Irena would see her grandchild. Mel knew that and it filled her with relief. No matter what happened, she’d have given her mother this gift.

“Are you excited, mi’ ja?” her mother said, a happy light overriding the gray exhaustion that ruled her features. Just the sight of Mel’s growing belly had seemed to cheer her and daily Mel had been grateful for that.

“Very,” she said, going close to hug her mother, taking in the comfort, the warmth, the love that meant so much to her. “Gracias a Dios I am here to see this day,” Irena whispered, her voice urgent, her eyes gleaming with tears. It was rare for her to admit this possibility and it hit Mel hard.

She bit her lip and swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Of course you are here. You’ll be here for years and years.” She pressed her cheek against her mother’s, praying that what she’d said would prove true.

“Get dressed while I pack.”

Then, in her room, throwing toiletries into a bag, it hit: What about Noah? She’d put off calling him, not wanting to deal with his shock and possible outrage over her carelessness with birth control. Plus, she hadn’t heard from him since that first month. He’d clearly moved on. She should, too.

Oh, Noah. Her heart surged with longing for him, as it had over and over again during her pregnancy. It was weak and stupid, but at night, she’d often fantasized him with her, spooning in bed, his warm hand cupping her swollen belly, cozy in their cocoon.

Pregnancy hormones, no doubt, but embarrassing as hell.

And now? Now that the baby was here? She had to tell him. The man hated secrets. She owed him this truth.

She reached for her cell phone, where she had his number, but a contraction gripped her. Pain ripped through her insides, twisting her organs, taking over her brain and body, making her gasp. She grabbed the bureau, panting, fighting to remember the Lamaze technique. “Ow, ow, ow,” was the best she could manage. How many minutes had gone by since the last contraction?

She didn’t remember. There was no time for a phone chat, that was certain, so she settled for a text: Got pregnant that weekend. Baby coming. No need for anything. This is what I want. No regrets.

She took a deep breath and hit Send. For better or worse, Noah would know. Putting her phone in her bag, Mel set off to have her baby.

Two days after the attack

Landstuhl, Germany

NOAH OPENED HIS EYES and jolted upward. Pain stabbed his chest and his hand hit a metal bar. He saw he was in a hospital bed. Alive. Safe. At least that. He checked himself out, moving as little as he could to minimize the pain.

His chest was taped, he had casts on his left arm and right leg and stitches pulled at the skin at his shoulders and his thigh. He touched a thick bandage around his head. Okay. Got it. That was all the activity he could stand, so he closed his eyes and drifted off.

After that, he slipped in and out of awareness for a while, hearing voices, beeps, clicks, the whisk of curtains, feeling his body being shifted, getting jolts of pain, the stab of injections, hearing groans, seeing lights go bright, then dim.

Eventually, he was alert enough to understand that he was in the medical center at the Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany, where military personnel and some civilians were cared for when injured overseas.

The neurologist explained that Noah had suffered a traumatic brain injury. His language center had been damaged, so speech and attention span would be compromised, but they were hopeful he would recover. They were hopeful. Okay. He’d hold on to hopeful. He was so foggy he could barely form a thought, let alone ask many questions.

Not long after that, he awoke to find an officer in a dress uniform at the end of his bed, hands crossed at his crotch, chest loaded with medals.

“I’m Brigadier General Wade Nelson,” the man said, “here to extend the Army’s best wishes for your recovery. What happened over there was regrettable.”

“What about…the men?” Noah croaked out, fighting the gaps in his brain for words. “Daggett was…hurt. Others…?” Every thought was a battle.

“Private Daggett is recovering in this facility,” Nelson said. “Sergeant Fuller, killed in action, yourself and PFC Daggett were the only casualties incurred during the incident in question.”

Noah nodded, relieved no more men had been hurt.

Nelson then rattled off a military description of what had occurred. Noah concentrated as best he could, fighting to understand, though words kept dropping through holes in the sieve his brain had become.

In essence, Nelson told him that Fuller had acted against orders by allowing a civilian to join the patrol, that Noah had forced a detour to an unsecured area, where Fuller’s men initiated unprovoked combat resulting in Fuller’s death and the capture of Noah and Emile by the Iraqi soldiers who believed themselves under attack by U.S. troops.

Noah and Daggett had been “secured” some time later. There would be an investigation…disciplinary actions taken…and serious consequences.

“It was…me…” he managed to say. “I’m at fault.”

“We are well aware of that fact,” the brigadier general said, his mouth a grim line. He moved to the side of the bed and looked down at Noah, his eyes dark with anger. “Your irresponsible actions have jeopardized our status with the Iraqi military, its government and its people, Mr. Stone.” The words hit like hammer blows, pounding straight through Noah’s mental fog. He would remember each one, he knew.

“On behalf of the U.S. Army and the American people, I urge you, in any reporting you may do, to respect the men who risked their lives to save yours and be utterly clear about your culpability in what transpired on that ill-advised patrol.”

My duty…is to…the truth. The words slowly lined up in his brain, but refused to become speech. The most he could manage was, “The men…were…brave.” That was one truth he knew.

The remainder of Nelson’s words became a meaningless jumble. After he was gone, Noah tried to recall the attack. All he got were flashing images: Chuy and Emile hassling each other…Bo spitting tobacco…goats in the road…spiderwebs of cracked glass in the HMV’s windshield….

Why couldn’t he remember? He tried not to panic. The neurologist had warned him that he’d likely experience something called retrograde amnesia and be unable to recall anything around the time of the trauma, at least for a while, though it sometimes became a permanent loss.

Abruptly, a scene flashed into his mind—slowed down like a movie dream sequence. Pings…pops…a blast from behind…his body frozen…Daggett yanking him from the vehicle… Stumbling forward… Fuller:

Get Stone under cover… The black spot between Fuller’s eyes…Fuller on the ground.

Then the screen in Noah’s brain went blank.

The horror of what he’d done rolled over him like a semi. Fuller had assigned Emile Daggett as Noah’s bodyguard. Protocol said that reporters got babysat. Noah ignored that, believing it unnecessary in his case. But he’d been given a guard all the same and that fact led directly to Fuller’s death and Daggett’s capture.

Noah had caused this. It was on him. He gripped the sides of the bed, shaking with anger at himself and regret—so much regret.

Those soldiers. What they’d risked and lost.

All because Noah needed a hot story to impress his editor.

Sickness washed through him and he fumbled for the kidney-shaped dish on his tray to puke up bile. The spasm made his injured ribs seem to split wide-open, a punishment he welcomed.

A rattling sound made him notice his cell phone vibrating on his bed tray. Seemed someone had gathered the gear he’d left at FOB River Watch when he went on the fateful patrol. He scooped the phone close enough to see the call was from Hank.

His editor would want the story, of course, though Noah remembered little beyond what Nelson had told him. It didn’t matter. He was a reporter. He had a job to do. Fighting pain, he answered the call.

It did not go well. Words failed him over and over. There were long gaps where he could only breathe and struggle for language. Finally, Hank said, “We’ll get the basics and come back to you for a comment. You just get better.” His tone was gentle, as if Noah were a child or a volatile mental patient.

“Yeah.” He fought the helplessness, the frustration, the shame. He was a writer, but words were lost to him.

He still held the phone when a wave of terror washed over him. His heart pounded so hard he grabbed his chest, causing more pain. Was he having a heart attack? He was shaking and sweating and terrified. Of what? He was safe in a hospital bed. What the hell was going on?

Then he remembered the neurologist describing a panic attack, a common aftereffect of a trauma. They hit out of the blue, scary as hell, mimicking a heart at tack, but are essentially harmless.

The terror and pain had barely released him when his phone buzzed again. He checked the display. A number he didn’t recognize. He saw he had dozens of texts and voicemails, some from before the assault, he was sure.

People would want to know he’d survived. He couldn’t deal with their sympathy or questions. He deleted all the voicemails, then highlighted batch after batch of texts to delete in groups. On the last set, as he clicked Delete, he saw Mel Ramirez.

Mel.

Her name sent warmth pouring through him. She’d been in his mind a lot in the months since they’d met—her face, her smile, her fire. He’d been thinking he would look her up when he got back. But that could never happen now. Not after this. Just as well that her message was gone, unread, like the rest.

He decided to write one general “I’m okay” message. It took forever, the words elusive, his spelling hopeless, but he managed the equivalent of, Minor injuries. Be in touch. He ticked “all contacts.”

At the last second, he unchecked Mel, then hit Send. He owed her a personal note. She was probably doing great, living the life she’d been poised to launch that weekend. He mangled words and skipped letters in his communication, but the gist was: Not sure where I’ll end up. I know you’ll do great. I wish you every happiness.

Corny, but true. Thinking about her was a momentary escape from the hell of his thoughts. There was her number on his screen. He could hit Call and talk to her. Her voice would be like medicine. But he didn’t deserve to feel better. Not for a long, long time. He pressed End until his phone went black.

He would answer the questions he had to for the National Record story, then get out a media statement expressing regret for his irresponsible actions and gratitude for the soldiers’ bravery. The main thing he wanted right now was to get well enough to wheel down to Emile’s room and say how sorry he was he’d put him in harm’s way. If the soldier was well enough to punch his lights out, Noah would be happy to have him slug away.

Phoenix, Arizona

MEL STARED AT THE BABY she held, hardly able to believe they were home, in the room she’d prepared for him, painting and papering it in circus colors and accents.

Daniel Marco Ramirez, named for Irena’s father and grandfather, had been born tiny, but healthy after twelve hours of labor the previous day. “Welcome to the world, mi’ jo,” Mel whispered to him, her throat tight with joy.

She was so lucky and so happy.

Tired, too, of course. And worried. Now that the excitement had died down and reality set in, she was concerned. Would she be able to juggle caring for a new baby and her fragile mother? Irena had gone straight to bed when they got home from the hospital that afternoon. Mel had brought her soup on a tray for supper. There was a lot to handle now and it was all new.

Mel sighed. There was something else in her heart, too. She felt a little, well, sad. Her life had changed completely overnight. She already missed News Day. She would return to work after three weeks, but if her mother needed more help with Bright Blossoms, Mel would have to give up the job.

As for her goal of moving on to another paper in a bigger city? Out of the question for years, at least. In the ever-tightening market, news jobs would only grow scarcer.

She’d made the right choice, and she had no regrets, but she couldn’t help missing the dream she’d worked so hard for and barely had a chance to taste the rewards of.

She hadn’t heard from Noah yet.

She knew he was safe in a military hospital, recovering from his injuries. She’d been deep in labor when CNN on the TV in her hospital room scrolled the news of his rescue in Iraq. From what she could figure of the time differences, her text about the baby had reached him the day before the attack in Iraq.

Obviously, he had other things on his mind now. Her heart went out to him for what he’d been through. Eventually, he would respond to her.

Oh, Noah. Selfishly, foolishly, she wished he were here in the golden glow of the circus-seal night-light, sitting on the edge of the recliner, his arm around her, looking down at the brand-new person they’d created.

Daniel was so perfect, with ten tiny fingers and toes, two delicate shells for ears and his whole soul looking at her from huge, wise eyes.

It was ridiculous, of course, to even picture Noah in such a sappy, domestic scene. He would no more be here than sprout wings and fly. He never wanted kids. He’d been clear about that. He was too selfish, too restless, too career-focused. And she respected him for knowing what he wanted, for not playing games about it.

Still…

Maybe she would send a quick get-well text. She’d tried when she first saw the news, but hadn’t been able to get through.

Shifting the baby slightly, she reached her purse, then her phone. She had to turn it on, since she’d had it off in the hospital. She was startled to see she’d received a text from Noah.

Hope soaring, she clicked it.

Nt sure whr I’ll end up. I kno ull do great. I wish u evry happiness. N.

That was his response to the baby? I’m in the wind.

Good luck, be happy.

She felt…abandoned…alone…lost…and so very hurt.

Get a grip, chica. What did she expect? She’d said she didn’t want anything from him, so he’d only stated the obvious. They were both getting on with their lives. They wished each other well.

But how it hurt. Waves of lonely pain washed through her. She wanted him to care. She wanted him to come. She wanted him to wrap his arms around her and tell her it would be okay.

She scrunched up her face to keep from bursting into foolish tears. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Had to be a postpartum hormone dump, right? Mel was a sensible, sturdy and self-reliant woman, dammit. She and her mother and Daniel were plenty enough to make a wonderful family and an amazing life.

She looked at her sleeping boy to remind herself it was true. He had a mass of curly hair and a tiny dimple in his left cheek. Above one ear was a pale, but unmistakable beauty mark. Just like Noah. She had to laugh.

The bittersweet truth was that even if she never saw the man again, Noah would be with her every day of Daniel’s life.

One year later

Albuquerque, New Mexico

“I’LL BE THERE AS SOON AS I can, Eleanor. Don’t worry,” Noah told his mother over the phone, running a towel across the battered bar of Jake’s Hut. A patron entered, backlit, so Noah couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. Either one would want a drink. “Got to work now. Enjoy your trip. I’ll handle Grandma fine.”

He hung up and sighed, shifting his weight to ease the strain on his bad leg. He’d told his mother he’d go to Phoenix to help his grandmother transition to an assisted-living place and empty out her home for the new buyers. His mother could have canceled her cruise and done it herself, but she and her mother fought like cats and dogs, so Noah’s help was a good solution.

Nothing held him in New Mexico. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

He would get a job in Phoenix, since he was cash-strapped. He hoped to start reporting soon. He’d only recently been able to read an entire newspaper without losing focus. And he was still having nightmares and migraines.

“Noah? Jesus. What are you doing here?”

Instantly, Noah recognized the voice behind him. The backlit customer was none other than his friend Paul Stockton. Dread sank in him like a boulder in a lake. He figured he’d see the guy in Phoenix, but he’d have time to get his story nailed down. He forced a smile, then turned to face his friend. “Serving you a drink, looks like. What’ll it be?”

“Draft… Whatever’s on tap…” Paul sounded stunned.

“You got it.” While he filled the glass, Noah steadied himself, so that when he pushed the beer forward, his smile was decent. “So what brings you to Jake’s Hut?” The ancient bar was well off the beaten track.

“I’m speaking at a seminar at the college. Someone recommended this place. How did you end up here? You dropped off the map. I called National Record and they said you’d quit.”

“They wouldn’t run my story.” Despite his brain’s deficits, he’d pecked out an apology about his foolhardy quest for bloody headlines, damn the human cost. Hank called it self-indulgent moralizing and refused to print it.

He’d probably been right.

“Truth is, the head injury made it hard to think or write. I was deadweight.” The first months his speech had been so faulty, he couldn’t deal with the phone. Email gave him time to look up words, but wore him out. Mostly, he preferred to be alone.

“You’re better now?”

“Getting there.”

“You broke bones, too, right?”

“All healed up.” His arm and leg were still stiff in the morning, coughing hurt his ribs and he would always limp. But he was alive and kicking, unlike Reggie Fuller.

“Well, you look good,” Paul said, clearly lying.

“I look like shit. It’s a hangover,” he said, not wanting to get into the truth—he’d had a flashback the night before, waking up crouched beside the bed, trembling and sweating, the echoes of gunfire in his head, the smell of motor oil and blood in his nose. He’d numbed himself to sleep with tequila, so he was hungover on top of that.

The flashbacks weren’t as bad as the nightmare—he remembered every detail of the nightmare. In it, he was carrying a wounded man to safety, while soldier after soldier got shot between the eyes, dropping dead so that he stumbled over their bodies, until he looked down and saw he held a machine gun, realizing to his horror, that he’d been the one mowing down the men. Every time he had the nightmare, the horror hit just as hard.

The flashbacks happened less often. At first, he’d had them even in the daytime, triggered by sudden noises or quick movements—even smells. In crowds, he’d start sweating and shaking, his heart beating so fast he thought he might black out.

The doctor he’d seen when his leg flared had prescribed an anti-anxiety med, but Noah wasn’t willing to fog his brain any more than it already was. He coped day-to-day. Small spaces and dark rooms still sent his pulse pounding, but he could fight it off better every day that passed.

“So you’re bartending now?” Paul was clearly trying to hide his bafflement.

“Here, yeah. In Denver, I sold newspaper ads. I washed cars in Sacramento, parked them in Vegas. Whatever got me grocery money.”

“But no reporting?”

“Soon, I hope.” Besides, needing time for his brain to heal, he’d needed some soul-searching about the grievous harm his single-minded drive for copy-inches had caused. The thought sent a wash of shame through him. It always would. Steady, man. “How’s the family?” He dispensed seltzer over ice from the gun to wet his dry throat.

“Great. Cindi’s pregnant again. Surprise! Never take birth control for granted, bro.” He gave a sheepish smile. “It’s wild this time. She’s had morning sickness from day one and Princess Emma, three-and-a-half going on fifteen, has started acting out big-time.”

“Of course. Her kingdom’s under siege.” Jesus. Another kid to raise and worry about and send to college. “But you two were born to be parents.”

“No one is, trust me. It’s on-the-job training. Day one, they let you walk out of the hospital with this innocent being who depends on you for everything. You’ll see.”

“You know me better than that.” He couldn’t imagine a less-likely fate.

“One day, you’ll get your gills caught in some poor girl’s net and she won’t have the sense to toss you back.” He was joking like the old days, but his tone was faint. He was clearly disturbed by Noah’s condition, which made Noah realize he maybe wasn’t as improved as he’d imagined.

“You’re catching me on a bad day. I’m in good shape. In fact, I’m headed to Phoenix to help my grandmother get moved. I need a job if you know of anything.”

“Yeah? I bet I could get you on as an adjunct professor.”

“I’m the last person you want teaching J school.”

“It would be a coup to have you.” Paul stopped as though sensing Noah’s resistance, and because he was a good friend, letting it go. “Public affairs needs writers for the web, I think. I’ll check the in-house postings. Where will you stay?”

“Camping at my grandmother’s place out in Apache Junction until I get it emptied out, then renting somewhere, I guess.”

“That’s way the hell out there. Why don’t you stay in our guesthouse?”

“Seriously?” They had a great location, which would help with whatever job he got. “That would be great.”

“Absolutely. You’ll be doing us a favor.”

“How’s that?” he said, taking a drink of the seltzer water he’d poured.

“Isn’t it obvious? Emma needs a babysitter.”

Noah choked on the water, but he was smiling. Smiling big.

“OOOH! OOOH! CAN I HAVE a Popsicle, Uncle Noah?” Emma asked from the backseat of his Jeep. He’d offered to drop her off at day care to save Cindi time, since he was headed to the downtown ASU office. “You get one and only one. After school. Your mom said.”

“Pullleeeeze, Uncle Noah?” Hanging out with the pint-size tornado two nights ago so that her parents could have a date, he’d unknowingly broken Cindi’s one-Popsicle-a-day rule. Now the little terror figured him for an easy mark. She was correct.

He swung over to the ice cream truck she’d spotted. “What flavor?”

“Grape! Purply-purple! Yay! I love you, Uncle Noah!”

“Food does not equal love, little girl. That’s half the reason we have an epidemic in childhood obesity. You’ll have to bite it down, no licking, so it’s all gone by the time we get there, or the other kids will feel left out.”

She nodded, eager to please now that she’d wrapped him around her pinkie. He was a sucker for those big eyes of hers. When she smiled, they lit up like two blue flashlights in her elfin face. Had to be some biological wiring to make sure you didn’t leave your offspring in the dust of the veldt when lions were on the prowl. Whatever it was, it worked like a charm.

He parked in the strip mall where the day-care center was and went to open Emma’s door. “Good lord, look at you.” Her mouth was purple and two rivulets of juice streaked her arm to her elbow. “We’ll clean you up inside so they don’t report your parents to Child Protective Services.”

“What’s protector service?”

“Sort of the police who look out for children in trouble.”

“I’m not in trouble, Uncle Noah,” she said, giving him a look of pure disdain. “You are if Mommy finds out.”

“Then let’s keep it our little secret.”

She made a crisscross over her heart, then undid the belt on her car seat—she was better at it than he was. He set her on the sidewalk, then grabbed her glittery pink backpack, which weighed twenty pounds because she’d crammed half her toy chest into it before they left. You never knew when you might need a plastic pony or a comb the size of a toenail.

He pushed open the glass door of the place. No one stood at the reception desk and he spotted the restroom sign, so he headed that way, Emma clacking in the wooden shoes her mother had reluctantly let her wear.

The place was bright—painted yellow and purple with jungle flowers. One side of the hallway was a photo studio behind a glass wall. Eyes of a Child was lettered in gold on the door. He glanced inside. Huge framed prints of babies, toddlers and young children were everywhere. The photos were strikingly good.

The photographer, her back to him, was snapping a close-in shot of a little boy sitting on a giant ABC block in front of a bright blue backdrop. The woman rose and turned his way. He did a double take.

It was Mel Ramirez. Mel? He’d expected she’d be in Uganda by now, taking world-stopping photos for a wire service, but here she was snapping kiddie candids. How odd.

She looked startled to see him—her eyes wide, her lips parted.

They stood, staring at each other through the glass, neither moving for long seconds. Mel. Melodía. The fired-up angel he’d spent that last weekend with. He’d pictured her a million times, dreamed her twice that. He wasn’t sure he wasn’t dreaming her now. “Uncle Noooo-aaaah, I want to gooooo.” Emma leaned back hard, struggling to escape his grip. He released her, his gaze still glued to Mel. He had to go in and talk to her. What the hell would he say?