“What’s happening?” Miriam asked, hating the terror in her voice.
“The coughing causes her to desat.”
Desat. It took a minute to connect the word to oxygen saturation.
Finally, Dicey’s body stopped shaking. The women looked back at the monitor. The oxygen saturation hovered, then slowly began to rise again. Eighty-five percent. Eighty-nine. Ninety. The nurse raised the blanket to examine Dicey’s surgical scar, then turned to them. “The doctor’s making rounds. She’ll be in shortly.”
“Thank you,” said Dayana, and the nurse left.
Dayana stood with her arms folded. She stared at the numbers on the monitor for a long moment, then took a deep breath and raised an arm to swipe at her eyes. “Lord almighty, help me,” she said, and turned to face Miriam. “I’m sorry. I raised that girl. I know very well you can’t make her do what she doesn’t want to do. My daughter always follows her own path, and all we can do is stay out of the way.” She brushed a hand tenderly over Dicey’s forehead, her voice dropping. “And be there to catch you when you fall, baby girl.”
She sat down, covering Dicey’s hand with both of hers, and bowed her head. Praying, Miriam thought. She should do the same.
Slowly, carefully, she lowered herself to a hard plastic seat. She tried to summon the mental presence for a rosary, but her mind just kept repeating: Please let her be okay. Please.
The doctor arrived a few minutes later with a crowd of residents in tow. She greeted Dayana and then focused on the task at hand, asking questions of the nurse, examining Dicey’s sutures and the data on her laptop. Miriam wondered how Dayana could stand it.
At last, the doctor turned her attention to Dayana. “Do you have questions for me?”
Miriam had a few, starting with What the hell is going on? Were they really supposed to have gleaned the situation from all that medicalese?
“The bottom line,” Dayana said. “That’s what I want.”
The doctor hugged her laptop to her chest. “Her pulmonary function isn’t what we’d like. Fluid is building up.” She crouched, putting herself below Dayana’s line of sight, and gripped her hand. “But let’s give those antibiotics some time to work. We’ve got her on the good stuff.” Her eyes crinkled, evidence of a smile.
She patted Dayana’s hand. “The other good news is the baby is stabilized. She’ll be ready for some skin to skin soon, if you want to go down.”
“Thank you, I believe I will.”
Dayana waited until the room cleared. Then she stood up and leaned over to whisper something in her daughter’s ear. She stopped face to face with Miriam. “I’m going down to see my grandbaby. You’re welcome to come, but before you do, let me tell you one thing. I’ve learned you never leave without telling her what you need her to hear.” She shuffled out of the room.
Miriam stood frozen. How could Dayana do it? Where did she find the strength to confront the possibility of death again and again?
Miriam had only just dragged herself away from the edge of the pit. She couldn’t start down this path again. She had to get away.
Only—where could she run? She was too close to the end now; she couldn’t just blithely pick another road trip destination, as if Dicey weren’t in intensive care. If she went anywhere now, it was to the beach her family had been trying to reach when they died. There was no escape from the possibility of mortality.
Her ears roared. She couldn’t breathe. She needed fresh air. Sunshine. Clouds. Escape from the maddening hum of blowers and the smell of antiseptic and the hushed whispers of thousands of people’s pain.
“I’m sorry, Dicey,” she whispered. “So sorry. I can’t. I just can’t.” Turning, she fled.
Miriam made it as far as the first floor. She could almost smell fresh air when she saw the sign: “Interfaith chapel.”
No. Not this time. She would not get caught; she needed to care for herself now. Protect the fragile healing she’d achieved.
Because of Dicey.
She slowed. Stopped. Pivoted. Went inside.
Despite everything, as always, the rich, buttery silence settled around her. The hum of the hospital remained, but it was low, distant, overwhelmed by the density of the prayers and tears and joys left by every person who had ever paused a moment in this tiny room.
She was worn out. Tired of fighting, tired of running, tired of having to psych herself up for every task. She hadn’t realized it until she stood at the foot of Dicey’s bed and contemplated starting all over again.
How long she sat there, she didn’t know. The door opened and closed. People breathed; chairs creaked as they settled beneath bodies and resettled when weight lifted again. People coming, people going. Upstairs, Dicey and her baby fought for life. But here, there was peace.
She felt a touch on her shoulder. She looked up. “Mom,” she said, startled.
“I thought I might find you here.” Mom settled beside her. “It’s Sunday, and you didn’t go to church today.” Wry humor twisted the corner of her mouth.
Miriam chuffed at her own predictability. “What are you doing here?”
Her mother sat down and set a black case on Miriam’s lap. Talia’s computer, which Miriam had left at the condo. “Well, it’s a funny thing. I was watering my plants and thinking about Talia and Blaise, and how much I missed them. And how much it meant to me to see all those videos. And out of nowhere it occurred to me. Shouldn’t there be more? Weren’t there two choices for every coin flip?”
Miriam cried out. Fingers shaking, she ripped the zipper open and pulled the computer out.
There were so many.
There had been a southern route and a northern one, with stops
