Harvesting the Heart (32 page)

"I
know," Paige said. "I heard." She took the baby from
Nicholas and rocked him back and forth. Nicholas's shoulders throbbed
with relief, as if a huge weight had been removed. Max quieted a
little, his crying now a soft, grating whine. "He just ate,"
Paige said. She went to sit on the couch and flipped the television
on. "Nickelodeon," she said to nobody. "Max seems to
like Nickelodeon."

Nicholas
slipped into the bedroom and set off the test button on his beeper.
The soft chirps vibrated against his hip. He opened the door, to find
Paige waiting. "I've got to go back to the hospital," he
lied. "Complications on a heart-lung transplant."

Paige
nodded. He pushed past her, fighting the urge to take her into his
arms and say,
Let's
get away. Just you and
I,
let's go, and everything will be different.
Instead
he went into the bathroom, showering quickly and then changing his
shirt, his pants, his socks.

When
he left, Paige was sitting in the rocking chair in the nursery.
She had her nightgown opened to her belly, still soft and round.
Max's mouth was clamped to her right breast. With every tug of his
lips he seemed to be pulling in more and more of her. Nicholas's gaze
strayed to Paige's face, which was turned to the window. Her eyes
held the ragged edge of pain. "It hurts?" Nicholas asked.

"Yes."
Paige did not look at him. "That's what they don't tell you."

Nicholas
drove quickly to Mass General, weaving in and out of traffic. He
opened all the windows in the car, and he turned on the radio, some
rap station, as loud as possible. He tried to drown out the sound of
Max's cries in his ears, the image of Paige when he walked out the
door. At least he was able to leave.

When
he passed the nurses' station in the ER, Phoebe, who had known him
for years, raised her eyebrows. "You're not on call tonight, Dr.
Prescott," she said. "Did you miss me again?"

Nicholas
smiled at her. "I can't live without you, Phoebe," he said.
"Run away with me to Mexico."

Phoebe
laughed and opened a patient file. "Such words from a man with a
new baby boy."

Nicholas
moved through the halls with the confidence people expected of
him. He ran his fingers over the smooth aqua tiles lining the walls
of the corridors, heading for the small room kept for the residents
on call overnight. It was no more than a closet, but Nicholas
welcomed the familiar smell of formaldehyde and antiseptic and blue
woven cotton as if he had entered a palatial estate. His eyes swept
the neat cot that filled up the room, and then he pulled back the
covers. He turned off his beeper and set it on the floor below his
head. He drew into his memory the only Lamaze class he had attended,
the nurse's low voice washing over the temples of the pregnant women:
Imagine
a long, cool white beach.
Nicholas
could see himself stretched out on the sand, under a feverish sun. He
fell asleep to the music of an invented ocean, beating like a heart.

^chapter
1
6

Paige

I
woke
up in a pool of my own milk. It had been thirty minutes
since
I put Max down, and in the other room he was already talking, those
high little squeaks he made when he woke up happy. I heard the rattle
and spin of the striped wheel on his Busy Box, the toy he didn't
recognize yet but kicked from time to time with his feet. Max's
gurgles began to get louder, insistent. "I'm coming,"
I yelled through the adjoining wall. "Give me a minute."

I
stripped off Nicholas's polo shirt—my own shirts were too tight
across my chest—and changed my bra. I wedged soft flannel
handkerchiefs into the cups, a trick of the trade I'd discovered
after those disposable nursing pads kept bunching up or sticking to
my skin. I did not bother putting on a new shirt. Max fed so often
that sometimes I would walk around the house topless for hours
at a time, my breasts becoming heavier and heavier as they
replenished what Max had taken.

Max's
little bud mouth was already working on the air when I got to his
crib. I lifted him out and unhooked the front of the bra, unsure
whether it was the left or right side he'd fed on last, because the
whole day just seemed to run together. As soon as I settled into the
rocking chair, Max began drinking—long, strong draws of milk
that sent vibrations from my breasts to my stomach to my groin. I
counted off ten minutes on my watch and then switched him to the
other side.

I
was in a rush this morning because of my adventure. It was the first
time I was going out with Max, just the two of us. Well, I had done
it once before, but it had taken me an hour to get his diaper bag
together and figure out how to strap his car seat into place, and by
the time we got to the end of the block he was screaming so hard to
be fed that I decided to just turn around and send Nicholas to the
bank when he got home. So for six weeks I had been a prisoner in my
own house, a slave to a twenty-one-inch tyrant who could not live
without me.

For
six weeks I had slept the hours Max dictated, kept him changed and
dry as he demanded, let him drink from me. I gave Max so much of my
time that I found myself praying for him to take a nap so that I
would have those ten or fifteen minutes to myself, and then I'd just
sit on the couch and take deep breaths and try to remember what
I used to do to fill my days. I wondered how it could happen so
quickly: once Max had been inside
me,
existing
because of
me,
surviving
from
my
bloodstream
and
my
body;
and now, by quick reversal, I had simply become part of him.

I
put Max on his back in the playpen and watched him suck on the corner
of a black-and-white geometric-print card. Yesterday a woman from La
Leche had come to the house, sent by the hospital for a follow-up
visit. I had let her in reluctantly, kicking toys and cloth burping
diapers and old magazines under the furniture as I led the way. I
wondered if she'd say something about the dust piled on the fireplace
mantel, the overflowing trash bins, or the fact that we hadn't fitted
our outlets with safety plugs yet.

She
didn't comment on the house at all. She walked straight to

Max's
playpen. "He's beautiful," she said, cooing at Max, but I
wondered if she said that about all the babies she saw. I myself
had once believed all babies were cute, but I knew that wasn't true.
In the hospital nursery, Max was the best-looking baby by far. For
one thing, he looked like a little boy; there was no question. He had
ebony hair, tufted and fine, and eyes that were cool and demanding.
He was so much like Nicholas that sometimes I found myself staring at
him, amazed.

"I've
just come to see how the nursing is going," she said. "I'm
sure you're still nursing."

As
if that was the only option,
I
thought. "Yes," I told her. "It's going just fine."
I hesitated and then told her that I was considering giving him one
bottle of formula a day—just one—so that if I had to run
an errand or take Max out, I could do it without worrying about
having to nurse him in public.

The
woman had been horrified. "You wouldn't want to do that,"
she said. "Not yet, at least. It's only been six weeks, isn't
that right? He's still getting used to the breast, and if you give
him the bottle, well, who knows what might happen."

I
hadn't answered, thinking,
What
might happen, indeed?
Maybe
Max would wean himself. Maybe my milk would dry up and I could fit
back into my clothes and lose the twelve pounds that still was
settled around my waist and hips. I didn't see what the big deal
about formula was. After all, I had been brought up on formula.
Everyone had, in the sixties. We all turned out okay.

I
had offered the woman tea, hoping she wouldn't accept, because I
didn't have any. "I have to go along" she told me, patting
my hand. "Do you have any more questions?"

"Yes,"
I said without thinking. "When does my life go back to normal?"

And
she had laughed and opened the front door. "What makes you think
it ever does?" she said, and disappeared down the porch, her
shantung suit whispering around her.

Today
I had convinced myself otherwise. Today was the day that I started
acting like a regular person. Max was only a baby, and there really
wasn't any reason that I couldn't control the schedule. He didn't
need
to
eat every two hours. We would stretch that to four. He didn't
have
to
sleep in his crib or his playpen; he could just as easily nap in his
car seat while I went grocery shopping or bought stamps at the post
office. And if I got up and left the house, breathed some fresh air
and gave myself a purpose, I wouldn't find myself exhausted all the
time. Today, I told myself, was the day I'd begin all over again.

I
was afraid to leave Max alone for even a minute, because I'd read all
about crib deaths. I had fleeting visions of Max strangling himself
with the Wiggle Worm toy or choking on the corner of the red-balloon
quilt. So I tucked him under my arm and carried him into his nursery.
I laid him on the carpet while I packed the diaper bag with seven
diapers, a bib, a rattle, and, just in case, trial sizes of Johnson's
shampoo and Ivory Snow.

"Okay,"
I said, turning to Max. "What would you like to wear?"

Max
looked up at me and pursed his lips as if he were considering this.
It was about sixty degrees outside, and I didn't think he needed a
snowsuit, but then again, what did I know? He was already wearing an
undershirt and a cotton playsuit embroidered with elephants, a gift
from Leroy and Lionel. Max started to squirm on the floor, which
meant he was going to cry. I scooped him into my arms and pulled from
one of his near-empty dresser drawers a thin hooded sweatshirt and a
bulky blue sweater. Layers, that's what Dr. Spock said, and surely
with both of these on, Max couldn't catch a cold. I placed him on his
changing table, and I had his sweatshirt half on when I realized I
needed to change his diaper. I pulled him out of the sweatshirt,
making him cry, and started to sing to him. Sometimes it made him
quiet right down, no matter what the song. I let myself believe he
just needed to hear my voice.

The
sweater's arms were too long, and this really annoyed Max, because
every time he stuffed his fist into his mouth, fuzz from the wool
caught on his lips. I tried to roll the sleeves back, but they got
chunky and knotted. Finally, I sighed. "Let's just go," I
told Max. "You won't even notice after a while."

This
was the day of my six-week checkup at Dr. Thayer's. I was looking
forward to going; I'd get to see the people I had worked with for
years—real adults—and I considered the visit the last one
of my pregnancy. After this, I was going to be a whole new woman.

Max
fell asleep on the way to Dr. Thayer's, and when we pulled into the
parking lot, I found myself holding my breath and gently disengaging
my seat belt, praying he would not wake up. I even left the car door
ajar, afraid that a slam would start him screaming. But Max seemed to
be out for the long haul. I slung his car seat/carrier over my arm,
as if he were a basket of harvested grapes, and headed up the
familiar stone stairs of the
ob/gyn
office.