a sorta fairytale
As I glance out the window of the University Hospital waiting room, the memories of my daughter’s birth haunt me. I’d been so incredibly naive back then.
“Mrs. Williams?” I glance up as the nurse pulls me from my memory.
“Yes?” I sigh.
“Lily is asking for you now.” The physician’s assistant is dressed in cartoonish scrubs that are meant be soothing to the young patients of the pediatric wing. I find them mocking. You’d think after three years I’d have grown accustomed to the fluorescent lights and sickly smell that are unique to hospitals, but they do little to soothe my frayed nerves as I wait, yet again, for Lily’s MRI to be done.
God, when did I become so cynical and bitter?
I follow the PA into the belly of the MRI clinic, where I hear Lily’s shrill cry.
“Mama, Mama,” she wails.
When Lily finally started to use words in a meaningful way, her speech pathologist told me that “mama” was just a word approximation: a meaningless consonant-vowel combination that she was using to test out her voice.
“She’s getting used to how her voice sounds, Mrs. Williams. It could be ‘baba,’ ‘yaya,’ ‘dada.’ Those are sounds most babies make when they’re discovering language,” she condescended to me.
What the speech therapist didn’t understand was what the word meant to me. It resonated with me on a level no one else could ever grasp. It meant that Lily recognized me, and it was a connection I needed just as I needed air to breathe.
Now the most beautiful word in the world sounds like nails on a chalkboard. I feel like the biggest hypocrite for even thinking that.
“Is English her first language?” the PA asks.
If she’d bothered reading Lily’s chart, she’d know that Lily has profound speech delays. Her use of language is different from ours; her words sound foreign. Different. Everything about Lily is different; that’s why we’re here.
“Mama,” Lily slurs when she sees me. Without hesitation, I climb into the hospital bed and wrap her in my arms.
“Shh, Lily Pad. Mommy’s here,” I whisper against her beautiful strawberry-blond hair.
“Mama, Mama, Mama . . .” she murmurs rhythmically into my chest.
“She’ll be out of it for a little while longer, Mrs. Williams,” the nurse explains.
I know the drill; this isn’t the first time Lily’s had to be put under general to have an MRI. It’s the only way she can be still enough for them to get an accurate reading.
My phone chirps from my purse as I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of Lily’s hair. Only one person would be texting me right now, and it makes my heart hurt.
He’s just checking on Lily; he doesn’t want you anymore.
No, Peter doesn’t want me anymore.
Despite my battle scars, the skin of my emotions is thin. The familiar pain of rejection tears open my heart once again. It hasn’t gotten any easier. The hurt is as pervasive as Lily’s problems—never ending or offering clear answers. Some things are never meant to make sense.
“Carolina on My Mind.” Max, the MRI technician, interrupts my downward spiral. He fills the doorway and smiles at me. Max is beautiful, at well over six feet tall; his gorgeous clear-green eyes are set against skin the color of coffee with cream. I blush when I catch myself sizing him up.
“Hey, Max,” I whisper. “Still speaking in musical metaphors, I see.” I give him a weak smile. His easy manner and the quirky way he speaks in song lyrics only add to his appeal.
“How’s our girl?” he asks, brushing a hand across the top of Lily’s head.
“She fell back asleep.” I watch with interest as he checks her chart notes.
Given the amount of time we spend at the hospital, we’ve seen quite a bit of Max. It shouldn’t surprise me that he cares about Lily—she is so easy to love—but it does.
My phone chirps again.
“Do you need to get that?” Max nods toward my purse, never taking his eyes from Lily’s chart.
“It’s okay.” I swallow hard and try to sound carefree. “I can call him when we’re settled into a room.”
“Caroline, take a break.” He lifts his eyes to mine. “Call Peter back; grab a cup of coffee. I will stay with Lily Love.”
“Thank you, Max.” I smooth the hair from Lily’s face and gently climb down from the bed. “Please page me if she wakes up.”
“Of course, Caroline.” Max settles into the chair next to Lily’s bed. “I won’t let anything happen.” I know he won’t.
The first time I met Max, Lily was barely two years old. We had been ambulanced to the pediatric ER after Lily suffered a febrile seizure. I was a neurotic mess. Peter had been away on business and my sister, Paige, was on her way. I was staring at a pile of paperwork left behind by the admissions clerk when Max rescued me.