True to form, it took the hospital until noon on Wednesday to figure out how to bring Baby Deandra to Dicey’s ICU room. Miriam waited in the lounge with Dicey’s brothers for news from Dayana, the only one allowed in the room. It came in the form of a photo of the baby nuzzled against Dicey’s chest.
Miriam tried not to expect a miracle, but Dayana’s unshakable conviction about the benefits of mother–baby togetherness made realism hard.
But evening rounds brought better news: for the first time, the team was “cautiously optimistic.” Miriam had been hoping for something slightly more dramatic, but the family assured her that starting to wean Dicey from sedation was a big deal. And the news on Baby Deandra was much better. Her heart rate, breathing rate, and body temperature were all more stable than they had been before.
Miriam and Derrick had the three-to-six AM shift into Thursday morning. Miriam sat silently, watching the numbers on the monitor as Derrick whispered in his sister’s ear. The numbers were definitely better than yesterday. Not an instantaneous healing, but still—motherhood was a miraculous thing. A mother who wasn’t even awake and a baby who couldn’t hear her mother’s voice. Both healing just by having snuggled together.
Miriam sat in stillness, listening to the sound of the hospital, the rumble in the walls, the hiss of air, and the muted blips and beeps that had grown so familiar they echoed in her dreams as well as her waking hours.
She woke when her phone buzzed. She pulled it out. “Brad?” she asked blankly.
“Hi. Mom says you’re in Albuquerque?”
“Yes.” Miriam hadn’t updated the app because she’d had neither the energy nor the desire. Besides, the only stories she could tell weren’t hers to tell. She rubbed her eyes and looked at Derrick, who was passed out in the chair on the opposite side of the bed. “Brad,” she said again.
“Yeah?”
“This is the second time you’ve called me at five in the morning your time.”
“Um, yeah. Sorry about that.”
“I’m not worried about me. I’m up. But this is not like you.”
“Yeah, I know. I … what’s up with this guy who’s been commenting on your social media posts? The film composer guy.”
Miriam stilled. “Gus has been commenting?”
“You haven’t seen it?”
“I haven’t been checking my feeds.”
“He’s kind of obsessed with Blaise’s music. And he’s … weirdly personal.” His tone changed then as he backpedaled hastily. “Never mind, just forget it, I shouldn’t have called. It’s not important right now.”
But it was important. It was the last piece of unfinished business.
Miriam sat up and rubbed her itching eyes. “What’s he saying?”
Brad cleared his throat. “Well, for the past couple days, he’s been talking about Blaise’s music and asking you to call him. Here. He says, “I woke up with Blaise’s music in my head. I could hear the whole thing for one glorious moment, but I need the original if I am going to do it justice. Please contact me. I’m so sorry. Please believe me.”
Miriam shook her head, sighing.
“There are more like that,” Brad said. “But today, it’s just … weird. It’s just one word. I don’t even know how to pronounce it. I guess it’s a name. Pia … P-i-a-z-z—”
“Piazzolla,” Miriam said, and sagged back in her chair.
Gus knew.
“Who’s Piazzolla?” Brad asked.
“A composer.” Which explained nothing. She tried again. “That was what I played the night he finally noticed me.”
The connection went silent for a long moment. “Is he the kids’ father?”
Miriam gaped. “How did—?”
“He looks like Blaise.” Something rustled in the background. “I, um … he was weirding me out, so I went and looked him up. It took a while to place. And then I remembered. You mentioned him once, when I called you on your birthday. You wouldn’t say anything about him, but I could tell it was important to you. And then you just went radio silent, and next thing I know, you’re married to your best friend that you claimed not to think of like that.”
The knowledge of how fragile her secret was made her feel slightly queasy. “Does everyone know?”
“No. I didn’t even know for sure until just now.” A hesitation. “Are you gonna tell him?”
“I’ve been trying to decide ever since he first contacted me,” she said. “But now I think I have to. I mean, he’s in San Francisco. I have no excuse not to …”
“I’ll drive up to be with you.”
The tears in her eyes had nothing to do with grief. “Thanks, Brad,” she said softly, “but you have your own life. I have to do this myself.”
Her brother blew out a breath through his nose. “Just let me know, Mira.”
“I will.”
She disconnected and let her hand drop … and realized she was looking into Dicey’s eyes.
She scrambled to her feet, rushing to the head of the bed. “Dicey?”
Dicey’s voice sounded far away, indistinct and muffled by the BiPAP. She moved her arm, her slim finger pointing. Miriam looked all over, trying to figure out what she was pointing at. Then Dicey nudged her hand—the hand that held her phone.
“I’m sorry it woke you,” she said softly, stealing a glance at Derrick, wondering if she should wake him.
Dicey nudged the phone again.
“You want your phone?”
Another nudge. Miriam extended the phone to her. Dicey swirled her hand. Miriam took a wild guess and unlocked it. Dicey mimed typing.
“Oh!” She opened her note app, and Dicey began to type, slowly.
Sorry
“Sorry for what?”
Didn’t tell you
“You don’t need to apologize.” It was the socially acceptable response, but not the most honest one. Miriam winced and shrugged. “Still. Thank you.”
Dicey’s eyes crinkled, a telltale sign of a smile Miriam couldn’t see. She typed again.
Everyone treats you different bc your family is dead. That’s like cf.
She looked at Miriam, her eyes craving understanding.
Miriam nodded. “That’s why you didn’t tell me.” She hesitated, then pulled up the picture Dayana had sent last night: a tiny body, kangarooed in the hollow of Dicey’s throat.
