Still (Grip Book 2)(63)

"It's what we call an agonal gasp." She steps closer, pressing a  stethoscope to Zoe's tiny chest. "It's not out of the ordinary."

Agonal? How can it be considered ordinary for an infant to be in agony?

"Can I listen?" I ask, eyeing the stethoscope.         

     



 

She hesitates before nodding and passing the instrument to me. I put one  ear piece in my ear and Grip grabs the other, with the chest piece  resting on Zoe's tiny torso. We listen to her heart in stereo, our eyes  meeting in shared awe that we made her together, in shared fear that,  any minute now, she'll be taken as quickly as she came. We fear that  this little mallet in her chest pounding a steady rhythm is the only  thing standing between our happiness and complete destruction.

The defiant little thump thump thump of Zoe's heartbeat caresses my  ears. It's the sound of her life persisting, surprisingly strong, but I  know how fragile she is. It's written on the nurse's face in lines of  sympathy.

"You said . . ." My courage falters, but I gather it between my lips  again and force myself to ask the question plaguing me. "You called it  an agonal gasp. Is she in . . . well, is she in pain?"

As if we're one, I feel Grip holding his breath just like me as I wait  for her response. If Zoe's in pain, I did this. If she's in pain, was I  selfish to want her? To want to meet her? To hold her?

"Research tells us that an anencephalic infant feels no pain because the  part of the brain that communicates pain isn't developed," the nurse  replies, stowing the camera on a side table and turning to face us.  "Doctors will tell you they are just reflexive, vegetative, and feel  nothing at all."

She leans forward, looking around like she's about to share a secret. "But I don't believe that," she whispers.

"You don't?" Grip's question is covered in the same dread that lines my insides as we wait. "You think they feel?"

"I know they do." She smiles even as tears fill her eyes. "They feel your love."

Grip looks down at me, a slow smile flowing from his eyes to his lips, and nods to her.

"Thank you," he says.

"If everyone has seen her," the nurse continues, her tone pivoting back  to kind professionalism. "I need to ask if you want . . ."

Her words stall, but then she takes a deep breath and goes on.

"Do you have a family priest or minister? Your birth plan didn't  reference one, but I thought I'd ask." Her face is gentle but  deliberately blank. "Do you want last rites?"

Oh, God. I can't do this.

The realization pounds from inside my head, slamming against my temples,  pushing against my chest, banging at my lips from the dry interior of  my mouth. The words want out. They want all these people who think I'm  capable of letting my baby go to know it's a lie.

I cannot.

Who the hell did I think I was? Why did I assume I was strong enough for  this? I'm contemplating how exactly to let them know I can't do this,  that we need to find a way to stop this spiral. I need off this ride,  out of this nightmare. I need to wake up in a cold sweat beside my  husband in our bed, pregnant. This bad dream can't be my life because I  won't survive it.

"Um, we don't really have a minister, per se," Grip responds to the  nurse. He glances at me, and even though his voice remains even, the  same panic rises in his eyes, unvoiced. "We . . . I guess we could . .  ."

"I'm sure there's a hospital chaplain," Kai speaks up, reminding me  we're not alone. She, Rhyson, and Ms. James watch us carefully, like we  might blow at any minute.

"I could call Pastor Robinson," Ms. James volunteers. "He baptized you, Grip, when you were a little boy."

Grip looks uncertain, wrestling for a moment and then looking to me.

"What do you think, Bris?" He searches my face, eyes tortured and voice low. "What do you want?"

We painstakingly crafted that birth plan, taking every step and every  minute into account, but neither of us really have any faith. Last rites  never occurred to us, and it never came up. I haven't given much  thought to what happens when you die. You die, you're gone. But as I  look into Zoe's eyes, the exact color of mine, and as I see my DNA  mingled with Grip's in this little girl, that's inadequate.

I search the circle of faces waiting for me to express something I'm not  sure of, until my eyes land on Kai. I don't have faith. I've never  pretended I did, but today, I need to believe in something. I need to  believe this isn't the end for my baby girl, that when she breathes her  last and she's lain in the ground, she doesn't just go to dust.

"What do you think happens next, Kai?" I ask, my eyes locked onto hers  for any sign of doubt. "What do you think happens if Zoe dies today?"         

     



 

Her eyes widen, but never waver, and I realize how easy it is to  underestimate her. I know she has soaring ambition, of course; I'm her  manager. I know her drive would put anyone to shame; I've seen her work  ethic in action. What I didn't realize until right now is what drew my  brother to her, beyond the talent and her beautiful face. At her core,  there's something unshakeable, something that if tested, holds, and I  need it right now.

"I think she goes to heaven," Kai says, her voice strong and sure.

"Your daddy told you that?" I ask, lifting one brow. "You said he taught you most of what you believe about God."

"Yeah, he did." She looks at the floor and then up to the ceiling,  exasperation twisting her lips before she returns to me. "He may not  have lived everything he preached, but I never doubted that he believed  it, and I do, too."

"What did he say . . . I mean, well, did he have anything to say about babies like Zoe?"

Kai's eyes don't leave my face, but I can tell her mind turns back, back to some memory.

"When I was a kid, my best friend's little sister only lived for a day."  Kai bites her lip before continuing. "We were so excited all those  months her mama was carrying her, and for days I cried after the baby  passed away."

I glance down at Zoe, noting how still she's gotten, how shallow her  breaths have become, and my heart rests on the jagged edge of Kai's  faith, on her next words . . . borrowed faith for a little girl on  borrowed time.

"Daddy told me this world is dark and dirty and hard." She huffs a laugh  comprised of cynicism and grudging admiration. "That's how he talked to  me, a little girl, about faith. He was ruthlessly honest about it, and  he said these babies were the purest thing God had to offer. They never  got tainted by this world. They're here just long enough to give us a  glimpse of heaven, a glimpse of glory. He called them glory babies."

Tears slide into the corners of my mouth, drowning the sad smile. The  nurse's lips purse and her eyes pinch with the effort to keep her face  neutral, but I know. I don't need her stethoscope to tell me what my  heart already knows: Zoe's leaving me.

I huddle deeper into Grip's shoulder. Beneath my head he's solid ground,  but his chest quakes with a tremor and his tears dampen my hair when he  buries his face in my neck. He always says he can't take my tears, but  the sound of the sobs he's restraining, trying to protect me from his  own heartbreak, rends my soul.

We're a mess.

And I suspect this is just the beginning. We got her here, but I'm not  strong enough to live in the empty space she'll leave behind.

"Glory babies," I whisper, sniffing and pulling Zoe's little cap back  and off, not caring if Ms. James or my brother or Kai aren't prepared  for what lies beneath. Her last moments on this earth will be in my arms  just as she is, in her purity, in her glory. As she came into this  world, that's how she'll leave. She has nothing to be ashamed of,  nothing to hide.

Our glory baby.

"Would you say the last rites, Kai?" The words cling to the inside of my throat, fighting against being spoken.

"I'm not a . . . well, that's to say, I can't . . ." She looks over her  shoulder at Rhyson, whose eyes are as wet and tortured as ours. He nods  his encouragement, but Kai's expression remains helpless when she turns  back to face us. "I'm not a priest, Bristol."

"I don't want a priest," I snap, the fierce response rearing from my  weariness. "I want someone who believes what they're saying. Do you or  do you not believe my baby is going to heaven? To glory?"

Kai firms her chin, high color painting her tear-streaked cheeks.

"I do." She says it like a vow, and her faith shines, a beam I grab hold of as darkness approaches.

Ms. James, Rhyson, and the nurse encircle the bed when Kai steps close  to lay her hand on Zoe's forehead. There's no squeamishness, no  revulsion or disgust on Kai's face when she touches that most  unappealing part of my baby girl. With face solemn, her hand steady, and  her words sure, Kai whispers to Zoe of glory, of divinity and perfect  peace. She tells her that the God who sent her with His hand is waiting  for her return with arms wide open. Kai's words breathe serenity, but  when Zoe's little chest rises and falls with a final gasp, my heart  revolts and I shatter into infinite pieces. I will never be the same.  I'll never be smooth again. I'll be cracked in all the places Zoe  touched in the few hours I had with her. I'll have to make myself all  over with ragged bits of soul and flesh and heart, and as Kai whispers  the last words to send Zoe on her way, all I can do is weep and wail and  wish I was going, too.