Scarlet from the NICU.”
A young girl with short black hair maybe fifteen or sixteen years old lay on a stretcher. Two nurses held her bare pale legs bent and open. An older heavyset doctor stood between them.
The girl cried out, “It hurts.”
Scarlet quickly washed her hands, hurried to the head of the bed and took the girl’s hands in hers. “Breathe through the pain,” she said. “Like this.” She demonstrated.
The girl looked up, her eyes wet with tears, her face red, her expression a mix of pain and fear. “I can’t do this,” she said.
“You can, and you will,” Scarlet answered. “Squeeze my hands as hard as you can. You won’t hurt me.”
“Here comes another one,” she cried out.
And as she squeezed Scarlet’s hands, the memory of experiencing this very same situation when she was around this girl’s age squeezed Scarlet’s heart.
“Bear down and push,” the doctor instructed.
“Push, push, push,” Scarlet encouraged. “Just like that. You’re doing great.”
When the contraction ended Scarlet introduced herself, “My name is Scarlet and I’m the nurse who will be taking care of your baby when it’s born.” She used the corner of the sheet to blot the sweat from the girl’s forehead and upper lip. “What’s your name?”
The girl hesitated but answered, “Holly.”
“Why are you here all alone, Holly?” Scarlet asked, fearing the answer. “Tell me who to call. A family member? A friend?”
A panicked look overtook her face. “They don’t know,” she said. “No one can know.” Scarlet recalled her own seventeen-year-old desperation, hiding her growing pregnant belly from her high school classmates and family, dealing with the overwhelming, all-consuming fear of someone finding out, of giving birth, and of where she’d go afterwards and how she’d care and provide for her baby. Without a job. Without a high school diploma. Without the help and support of anyone.
How naïve she’d been, actually looking forward to running away, to finally having someone she could love who would love her back.
But that dream had been ripped away when she’d gone into labor months earlier than she’d expected, when her irate, powerful, and medically connected father had accompanied her to one of the many hospitals he worked with, when she’d awoken three days later with little recollection of what’d occurred after her baby had been whisked away other than her weak cry echoing in Scarlet’s ears, only to be told her infant had died. According to one of the nurses—who’d had trouble looking her in the eye—she’d been so distraught when she’d been told about her baby’s death she’d required sedation, and so as not to upset her further, her father had arranged for private burial. Without allowing Scarlet to see or hold the baby she’d carried inside her body for months, to say goodbye or gain closure.
And her father had never revealed the location of the grave, a secret he and her mother had taken with them to the hereafter eight years ago, leaving Scarlet to always wonder—
“Oh, God. Here comes another one,” Holly cried.
“Just like before,” Scarlet said, wishing it was possible to bolster this child’s strength with some of her own.
“You’re doing great,” the doctor said at the end of the contraction. Holly flopped back onto the stretcher. “I think one more push should do it.”
Holly turned her head to Scarlet, exhausted, her eyes pleading. “Promise me you’ll take good care of my baby. Promise me she’ll be okay.”
A wound so big and so catastrophic it’d taken years to heal broke open deep inside of Scarlet at the memory of her own desperate pleas to the nurses caring for her during delivery, pleas that had fallen on deaf ears. ‘I don’t want my father in here.’ ‘I want to see my baby.’ ‘Please, bring me my baby.’
“Promise me you’ll find her a good home.”
Why not Holly’s home? Her. Wait a minute. “You know it’s a girl?” She could only know that if she’d had a prenatal ultrasound. “Who told you it’s a girl?” A medical facility would have documentation and contact information.
“I want her named Joey.” She ignored Scarlet’s question. “I want her to grow up happy, with a family who loves her.” She stiffened. “Oh, God. Another one. I’m not ready.”
“Yes, you are, Holly. Come on. It’s time to have your little girl.”
“Let me take over here,” Dr. Jackson said, holding up the same type of light blue disposable gown he now wore.
“I’ve got to get ready to take care of your baby, Holly.”
She didn’t release Scarlet’s hands. “Promise me she’ll be okay.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Promise me.”
She couldn’t promise that. “I’ll do my best,” she said. And with a small smile she added, “I’m going to need my hands.” Holly loosened her grip.
Scarlet stepped away from the bed to slip into the gown and turn so Dr. Jackson could tie the back. While she donned a mask and gloves, Dr. Jackson did indeed take over for her, talking quietly and supportively while offering direction and praise. Why didn’t he show that care with his daughter?
“Don’t push,” the doctor delivering the baby said.
“What’s wrong?” Holly asked, frantic. “I have to push. Get her out.”
“The cord is wrapped around the baby’s neck,” the doctor answered. “Don’t. Push.”
Dr. Jackson held Holly’s hands and instructed her to breathe. “Perfect. You are doing perfect.”
After a few tense minutes the doctor delivering the baby said, “Okay, we are good to go, on the next contraction push out your baby.”
In no time baby Joey entered the world with a tiny cry of displeasure, her cord was cut, and she’d been handed into Scarlet’s waiting towel draped arms. She did a quick assessment and determined it’d be okay to show her to her mom before taking her into the next room. “Do you want to see your baby?” she asked walking up to the head of the bed, knowing sometimes a woman planning to give her baby up for adoption did not.
“Chest…hurts,” Holly said, struggling for breath. “Can’t…breathe.”
“What’s happening?” Scarlet asked, holding Joey close.
“Don’t know,” Dr. Jackson said. “But whatever it is, Dr. Gibbons will handle it. We need to stabilize the baby.” He set a large strong hand at her back to guide her toward a side door leading into another room. “The warming table is this way.”
“No pulse,” the nurse standing by the head of Holly’s bed said. “Initiating CPR.” She clasped her hands together and began chest compressions.
Scarlet stopped and stared. Please, God. Don’t let her die.
