Kalila (18 page)

The eleventh day we hold an impromptu baby shower. Marigold's idea. No one has seen Kalila. It's time she meets the world. Marigold bustles in for the day, and we bake a dozen varieties of little cakes and cookies. The house smells like a holiday. The goodies sit on the dining-room table, looking festive and elegant, offsetting the white lace tablecloth.

Brodie sets up in the bedroom, Kalila perched on his lap, oxygen hose to her face, suctioning when necessary. Skipper plants himself at Brodie's feet, facing them on point. Francine and Suzette squish tight on either side. Kalila tilts, neck supported, a little button of a thing in her frilly white dress and booties. A constellation. No glass obscures her now.

The doorbell chimes and chimes and chimes. The girls race ahead, shrieking.

Come see Kalila! Come see our baby cousin! Now!

The little house crowds to overflowing. Skipper, paws crunched by one-too-many high-heeled shoes, skulks to the basement, while the women exclaim over chocolate cheesecake brownies, carrot cake with cream cheese icing, poppyseed cupcakes, platters of exotic fruits and cheeses, greeting one another with anxious cries of recognition, settling on chairs and sofa, ignoring the girls.

Come
on!
Francine and Suzette grab hands, drag unwilling feet toward the bedroom door. The women apprehensive, clustering in twos and threes.

How abnormal will she be? their nervous smiles ask. Deformed? What do we say? No. You go first. No really. After you.

Brodie, grinning.

But she's lovely, the women sing. Look at your pretty cousin!

She's almost a normal baby! Suzette says proudly. We treat her just the same!

I feel beautiful. A yummy mummy. I don't give a shit what these designer women think. Girls! Fetch the gifts!

Everyone crowds into the living room to watch the girls rip open one fancy-papered, daintily-ribboned package after another. Marigold takes turns handing each a gift and records the giver while Suzette and Francine volleyball the discarded paper.

Colourful clowns.

Storybooks for two- to five-year-olds.

Outfits up to 6X.

A little backpack.

Gifts for Kalila's future.

I lie awake long after the guests have gone and the paper is bagged, leftover dainties returned to the fridge, the creak of the kitchen floor, the night nurse sampling a plateful. Brodie's steady breaths beside me. I lie in darkness, eyes fixed on the stars.

I've been a real mom sixteen days when Kalila's gastrostomy tube drops out. The baby is sleeping while I have a go at making bread. First time I've tried her in the cradle Larry made before her birth. I'm kneading the dough when a thump hails Kalila's hoarse and whispered cries. I drop the wooden spoon and run. The baby's weight has rocked the cradle, she's slid against the side, ready to drop onto the floor. The tube has shot right out of her stomach in a mess of porridge-looking goo.

Oh, Jesus.

I stand, neck cranked, hands sticky with bread dough. Our baby has a hole, a hole crusted with scabby pus. It smells. A rotten stink. Kalila purrs. Skipper is licking it. I shove the dog, right the baby in the cradle, trip over Skipper, knock him out of the way, decorating him with bread dough and drops of flour, try to stuff the rubber tube back in; the hose won't go. The baby cries sharp bird cries.

Shit! I dial the hospital's telephone number with shaking fingers. The porridge moves out, in, out from the baby's gut like something alive.

Lord Jesus. Fifth floor, please. Neonatal.

An endless pause.

Neonatal. Carol Hunt, head nurse.

It's fallen out the tube into her stomach Kalila — Maggie — Watson Solantz my baby's gastrostomy her stomach's pouring out it won't go back she's still she isn't moving her insides are gushing —

A rustling. Muted voices.

The voice comes back on the line. Mrs. Solantz. Our records say that you've withdrawn this child from our hospital.

God! Of course. I know! I've, yes, we took — she's falling apart here …

A crackling line. — suggest you phone your family doctor, Mrs. Solantz.

No! This is the baby you — she
lived
there, for God's sake! Is there someone in charge?

Mrs. Solantz. Such a reasonable voice.
I'm
in charge. You've withdrawn your child from our care. Hospital policy. Our records say your baby's been discharged.

The startled taxi driver ushers me tangled up in tubes, out the door, taxi driver, baby, me, an awkward three-step, stumbling, slipping on the stairs, oxygen tank, blotting tissues, oxygen hose, the sliding porridge goo. Skipper whining behind the slammed door.

The mountains razor-sharp against Calgary's skyline. This city rife with red lights, pedestrian crosswalks, school zones.
Bloody hell!
I park my eyes on the taxi driver's chewed-down fingernails.

Two adults and a baby sidestep in the clinic door.

Brodie takes exactly twenty-three minutes, leaving delighted grade elevens with a last-period spare.

Our family doctor reinserts the tube, regards our faces. You're brave, he says. He says this very gently. You shouldn't have tried to stick the tube back in. Leave doctors' work to doctors. Here, it's not life-threatening. Gastrostomy tubes slip out. Sliding relief of tears. All three of us head back into cheery winter sunshine. Kalila yawning, fisting out her eyes.

We've had an outing.

There. You see? To hell with the bloody hospital. We'll do fine on our own.

We step through calendar pages. Day eighteen, day nineteen, day twenty-three. An Upjohn worker phones, sets up a house call. How's that baby doing? A routine checkup. Dustballs crowd behind the sofa. I clean. Scrub the spotted kitchen floor. Put an incensed Skipper outside. Measure out digoxin. Water my thirsty plants, which throw back their tendrils and suck the water in. They know they must look good. I clear out the suction tube. Kalila coos. Scrub the brown scum from the kitchen sink, pop in to shout Hi! to Kalila, unhook the tubes, change a diaper, rehook, rinse a jam jar, check on the baby, wash and iron the curtains. Rehang them. Bake the scones.

She's coming to see that Kalila's okay, she's not going to write a housekeeping report, Brodie jokes as he heads off to work.

I dust the picture frames, clean out the hall closet, make coffee, scrub down the kitchen cupboards. Am wiping baseboards when the doorbell rings.

Jasmine Forester says, I'm here from Foothills —

I stare at her name tag. From Upjohn?

No, from Foothills Hospital.

Well. This is unexpected.

I usher the woman in. She has brought the smell of windtossed clothes. A whiff of ice.

She's here to check that the heart monitor is working.

Ah. A lady of the heart. It's working fine. I'm actually expecting —

Jasmine Forester steps past me into my spotless house.

The doorbell. Jasmine Forester gets there first, lets in a stranger.

A pleasure to meet you, the two say to each other. Jasmine Forester. Noreen Marks.

I'm Maggie, I announce. But it's like grade three on the playground. They've already made friends. I speed to get the coffee. Set out white-chocolate-and-blueberry scones and cream and jam. Have I cleaned enough? What if they want decaf? Do I look like a mother? I retie my apron sash and lead the Upjohn woman into Kalila's room. The heart monitor woman follows. Kalila peers up at us.

Three women peer down. Pride rushes my veins. What this child has survived. What she — just look at her!

Could I speak with you in the living room? the Upjohn woman says.

Sure, I say. Sure, the heart monitor lady says.

Well. This is unexpected.

The two of them pull the bedroom door shut on their way out. I stand in the centre of Kalila's rumbling bedroom, which smells of Prosobee and medication. Look at the heart monitor machine, which Jasmine Forester neglected to check. Look at my baby, who stares back at me, look out the window to a white March landscape, look at my watch. Gravity slowly giving up its hold. Goosebumps ride my skin. I want my sweater, which is lying over a dining room chair, making my house look messy.

Kalila throws her head from side to side, turns blue, blows mucus. Oh, for crying out loud! Kalila! No! Not! Now! Quit! It! Please! I snatch the tube, down, down the baby's nose. I've learned in Brodie's absence how to clasp the baby's head in the crook of my elbow, which frees my left hand. I suction, suction, steel-backed against Kalila's cries. Small cheeks within my hands, the baby quiets, gums her lips, looks grievously at me.

The moment I step out into the hall of our tiny house, I am upon the women, who are standing, heads bowed together, as if in prayer. The Upjohn woman brushes her hands against her skirt like she's been baking. Cooking up an idea, it turns out. Mrs. Solantz! she says, as if I'd yelled boo. The women take a sudden breath; eyes meet. They look away.

Mrs. Solantz, the Upjohn contract is to be reviewed, and renewed — if necessary — every second week. Ms. Marks waves an airy hand. I'm sure you've read it. You are doing a fine job here, you and your husband. She looks around my newly mopped and vacuumed house.

Jasmine Forester claps her hands. Did you just suction the baby?

Yes, I did. I look at the impeccable Jasmine Forester, whose lime suit is highlighted by her sunshine-yellow-and-lime scarf.

My, but you're efficient.

Isn't she doing well!

Jasmine Forester has placed an interested expression over her professional one, as if she is hearing the Upjohn woman's words for the first time.

So very well, in what, I'm sure, are difficult circumstances. Does your husband help?

Of course, I say icily.

Yes? the women beam and nod. Everyone is smiling.

As you know, Mrs. Solantz, the Upjohn woman slips her shoe off and on her foot in a kind of foolish shuffle, we were just discussing, this service costs the taxpayer a lot. I'll be frank. An awful lot.

There are needy children, the heart monitor woman says compassionately, in this very city.

I'll be in touch, says Noreen Marks while Jasmine Forester faces pleasantly forward, intent, as if listening to a speech. I'll be in touch with the doctors at the Foothills — she clears her throat. But, she coughs here, really, you're doing well, so very well, that at the end of the next two-week period, I will recommend that Upjohn services are no longer needed. In your case.

Light fogs. What do you mean?

Why, you're so very competent. You'll do fine on your own.

But — how will I do the shopping?

Your husband? the heart monitor lady suggests.

But we don't — who'll pay for the equipment?

After some time Noreen Marks says, I believe —

There is a lie in believe
.

— there are other people, less efficient. Frankly, they need it more.

Jasmine Forester, who has nothing to do with Upjohn, nothing at all, excuses herself and checks the heart monitor, which, she declares gleefully, is working. The Upjohn woman, with whom she has struck up a bosom buddy friendship in my tidy living room, hangs about the house until Ms. Forester's work is finished, and they head out together.