On Mystic Lake Part 31

She doubled forward. "Oh . . . G.o.d . . ." She focused on her own hands, until the pain released her. Clutching her belly, she flung the covers back and clambered out of bed. She started to scream, but another cramp sliced her voice into a pathetic hiss. "Blake-"

He sat upright in bed. "Annie?"

"It's too . . . early," she wheezed, clutching his pajama sleeve. She thought of Adrian and panicked. "Oh, G.o.d, it's too early. . . ."

"Jesus." He lurched out of bed and raced for the clothes that lay heaped over a chair. In a matter of minutes, he had Annie in the car and they were speeding toward the hospital.

"Hang on, Annie. I'll get you to the hospital." He shot her a nervous look. "Just hang on."

She squeezed her eyes shut. Imagine you're on a white Imagine you're on a white sand beach. sand beach.

Another cramp.

"s.h.i.t," she hissed. It was impossible. All she could think about was the pain, the red-hot pain that was chewing across her belly, and the life inside her. Her baby. Her baby. She clutched her stomach. "Hold on, baby girl . . . hold on." She clutched her stomach. "Hold on, baby girl . . . hold on."

But all she saw was Adrian, tiny Adrian, hooked up to a dozen machines, being lowered into the ground in a casket the size of a bread box. . . .

Not again, she prayed silently over and over. she prayed silently over and over. Please Please G.o.d . . . not again. G.o.d . . . not again.

The sterile white walls of the hospital's waiting room pressed in on Blake. He paced back and forth, one minute watching the clock, then skimming through some idiotic magazine about celebrities and their infantile problems.

He kept reliving it in his mind. Annie being rushed into the delivery room, her eyes wide with fear, and her voice, broken and braying, saying over and over again, It's too It's too early. early.

Everything had flashed before his eyes in that single, horrifying moment when they'd put her on a gurney and wheeled her away from him. He'd seen his whole marriage in an instant, all the good times and the bad times and the in-between times; he'd seen Annie go from a fresh-faced college soph.o.m.ore to a pregnant thirty-nine-year-old.

"Mr. Colwater?"

He spun away from the window and saw Annie's obstetrician, Dr. North, standing in the doorway. She wore a crisp white coat and a tired smile. "The baby-"

"How's Annie?"

Dr. North frowned for a second, then said, "Your wife is sleeping peacefully. You may see her now."

He sagged in relief. "Thank G.o.d. Let's go." He followed Dr. North down the quiet white hallway to a private room.

Inside, the curtains were drawn and the room lay steeped in bluish shadows. The bed was a narrow, steel-railed thing tucked neatly inside an L-shaped privacy curtain. A bedside table held a telephone and a blue plastic water pitcher with the room number scrawled across the side-as if someone would steal it. Metal IV racks stood alongside the bed like tall, thin vultures, their plastic bags and see-through veins connected to Annie's pale wrists.

She looked young and frail in the strange bed. It brought back a dozen painful memories of his son.

"When will she wake up?" he asked the doctor.

"It shouldn't be long."

Blake couldn't seem to move. He stood in the center of the room, staring at his wife. He'd almost lost her. It was the thought that kept spinning through his head. He'd almost lost her.

He went to the bed and pulled up a chair. He sat there, staring at the woman who'd been his wife for almost twenty years. Dr. North said something-he didn't know what-and then left the room.

After forever-he'd lost track of time-she opened her eyes. "Blake?"

His head snapped up. He saw her sitting up, looking at him. She looked scared and broken. "Annie," he whispered, reaching for her hand.

"My baby," she said. "How's our little girl?"

s.h.i.t. He hadn't even asked. "I'll go find out." He rushed away from her and hurried down the hall. He found Dr. North at the nurses' station, and he dragged her back to Annie's room. He hadn't even asked. "I'll go find out." He rushed away from her and hurried down the hall. He found Dr. North at the nurses' station, and he dragged her back to Annie's room.

At the doctor's entrance, Annie straightened. She was trying desperately not to cry; Blake could see the effort she was making. "Hi, doctor," she said, swallowing hard.

Dr. North went to Annie, touched her hand. "Your daughter is alive, Annie. She's in neonatal intensive care. There were some complications; she was barely five pounds and developmentally that's a problem. We're worried about-"

"She's alive?"

Dr. North nodded. "She still has a lot of hurdles to overcome, Annie, but she's alive. Would you like to see her?"

Annie clamped a hand over her mouth and nodded. She was crying too hard to answer any other way.

Blake stood aside as the doctor helped Annie into the wheelchair stationed in the corner. Then, feeling left out, he followed them down the hallway and into the neonatal ICU.

Annie sat huddled beside the incubator. Inside the clear plastic sides, the baby lay as still as death, a dozen tubes and needles connected to her thin red arms.

Blake came up beside her and laid a hand on her shoulder.

She looked up at him. "I'd like to call her Kathleen Sarah. Is that okay?"

"Sure." He glanced around-up, down, sideways, anywhere except at the incubator. "I'm going to get us something to eat."

"Don't you want to sit with us?"

He didn't look at the baby. "I . . . can't."

Annie didn't know why she was surprised, or why it hurt so deeply. Blake was no good with tragedy or fear; he never had been. If the emotions couldn't fit in a neat little box, he pretended they didn't exist. She would have to handle this in the way she'd handled every upset in her life: alone. Dully, she nodded. "Fine. Get yourself something. I'm not hungry. Oh, and call Natalie. She'll want to know what's happening."

"Okay."

After he left, she reached through the bagged opening in the incubator's side and held her baby's hand. Though she couldn't feel the skin, she could still remember the velvety softness. She tried not to think about Adrian, and the four futile days she'd sat beside him in a room exactly like this one, mouthing the same useless prayers, crying the same wasted tears.

Katie's hand was so d.a.m.ned small and fragile. Annie tucked her fingers around the minuscule wrist. For the next hour, she talked, hoping that the familiar sound of her voice would soothe her daughter, make her know that even in this brightly lit new world full of needles and breathing machines and strangers, she wasn't alone.

She couldn't have said later what she talked about, what she dredged up from her frightened soul to spill onto that austere, frightening plastic box.

But it didn't take long for the words to dry up, taking the false optimism with them.

Finally, the nurses came and took her away. They reminded Annie that she needed to keep her strength up, that she needed to sleep and eat. Annie had tried to argue with them-didn't they know that she couldn't? Not while her precious newborn was struggling for every breath of life.

But of course, she went back to her room, climbed back into her narrow, uncomfortable bed, and stared at the blank walls. She called Stanford and talked to Natalie, who had booked a flight for Friday evening-right after her big Oceanography test. Then she'd called both Hank and Terri.

When the calls were done, Annie lost her strength. She kept thinking about those tiny red fists and the legs that looked like strands of spaghetti, and she closed her eyes. The pain in her chest was so great, she wondered if she could withstand it, or if this old heart of hers would simply seize up and die.

Somewhere, a phone rang. The sudden, blaring sound jarred her from her thoughts. Blinking, she glanced around, realized it was the phone beside her bed.

She picked up the phone and answered dully. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Annie? It's Nick. Your friend Terri called me . . ."

"Nick?" That's all she said-just his name-and the floodgates opened. She couldn't hold it in anymore. "Duhdid Terri tell you about the baby? My beautiful little girl . . . oh, Nick . . ." She sobbed into the telephone. "She only weighs five pounds. Her lungs aren't fully developed. You should see all the needles and . . ." She cried until there were no more tears inside her, until she felt exhausted and drained and inexpressibly old.

"Where are you?"

"Beverly Hills Memorial, but-"

"I'll come right down."

She closed her eyes. "You don't have to do that. I'll be fine, really . . . Blake's here."

There was a long, scratchy silence between them, then finally, Nick said, "You're stronger than you think you are. You can get through this, whatever happens, you can get through it. Just don't forget."

She wiped her eyes. "Forget what?"

"The rain," he said softly. "It's an angel's tears. And every gla.s.s you've ever seen is half full. Don't let yourself forget that. I know what it does to a person . . . forgetting that hope is out there."

She almost said, I love you, Nick, I love you, Nick, but she held the words back just in time. "Thanks." but she held the words back just in time. "Thanks."

"I love you, Annie Bourne."

It made her want to cry all over again, that soft, quiet reminder of something that was already leaking away. Colwater, Colwater, she wanted to say. she wanted to say. I'm Annie Colwater, and you love I'm Annie Colwater, and you love a woman who is fading every second. a woman who is fading every second. Instead, she forced a wan, tired smile, thankful that he couldn't see it. "Thank you, Nick," she whispered. "Thank you so much. Tell Izzy I'll call her in a few days, when . . . when I know what's happening." Instead, she forced a wan, tired smile, thankful that he couldn't see it. "Thank you, Nick," she whispered. "Thank you so much. Tell Izzy I'll call her in a few days, when . . . when I know what's happening."

"We'll be praying for . . . all of you," he said finally.

She sighed, feeling the useless tears start all over again. "Good-bye, Nick."

Chapter 27.

It was the middle of the night, but Annie couldn't sleep. Though she was no longer technically a patient, the hospital had given her a room so she could be near Katie. She'd tried reading and eating and writing, anything to take her mind off of Katie, but nothing worked.

She'd spent hours hunched alongside the incubator, reading, singing, praying. She'd expressed milk into a bottle, but when she looked at the creamy-colored liquid, she wondered if her baby would ever get a chance to drink it. Or a chance to grow strong and move out of this sterile world, a chance to grow and start school and snuggle with her mommy. . . .

We'll get through this, she said to herself, straightening her spine, but every time a machine buzzed, Annie thought she said to herself, straightening her spine, but every time a machine buzzed, Annie thought this is it, she's stopped breathing. this is it, she's stopped breathing.

Blake had tried to help, in his own way, but it hadn't worked. He'd said, She'll be okay, She'll be okay, in a quiet voice, over and over again, but when he spoke, his eyes were blank and afraid. in a quiet voice, over and over again, but when he spoke, his eyes were blank and afraid.

In truth, Annie had been glad when he left the hospital.

I just can't stay here, he'd said. he'd said.

Okay. That was her answer, and even then, in the quiet darkness, the single word seemed coiled in sorrow and regret. That was her answer, and even then, in the quiet darkness, the single word seemed coiled in sorrow and regret.

He'd tried to laugh it off. I don't have to sleep in a chair I don't have to sleep in a chair to prove my love-do I? to prove my love-do I?

Of course not, she'd answered, knowing that it was a lie. she'd answered, knowing that it was a lie. Go get Natalie. Her plane lands at nine o'clock. Go get Natalie. Her plane lands at nine o'clock.

He'd jumped on the opportunity, just as she'd known he would. He'd rather be anywhere than in this cold, unfamiliar world where his wife cried all day.

She climbed out of bed and moved slowly to the window. Her st.i.tches hurt, but she welcomed the pain. She leaned forward and pressed her forehead against the window's cold gla.s.s. Below, the parking lot was a huge gray square, dotted with a few shadowy black cars.

Finally, she turned away. She'd just gotten back into bed when the phone rang. She picked it up. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Annie? It's me, Nick."

"Nick." His name came out on a whisper of longing.

"I thought you might need me."

It sounded so simple, those few little words, but they wound around her heart and squeezed. She'd spent a lifetime going through crises alone, always being the strong one, always being in control, and she hadn't realized until just now how much she yearned to be comforted.

"How is she doing?" he asked.

She ran a shaking hand through her short hair. "She's holding on. The neonatologist says she'll be okay if she can just . . . hold on another few weeks. . . ." Quietly, she began to cry again. "I'm sorry, Nick. I'm tired and scared. All I seem to do is cry."

"You want to hear a story?"

She wanted desperately to be whisked away from reality on the wings of his voice. "Yes, please . . ."

"It's about a man who started life as poor white trash, a kid who ate out of Dumpsters and lived in the backseat of an old Impala. After his mom died, the world gave this young boy a singular chance, and he moved to a soggy little town he'd never heard of, where they didn't know about his ugly past. He went to high school there, and he fell in love with two girls. One was the sun and the other was the moon. He was young, and he reached for the moon, figuring it was a safe, quiet place-and he knew that if you reached for the sun it could burn you away to nothing. When his wife died, he lost his soul. He turned his back on his child and his dreams and he crawled into a bottle of booze. All he wanted was to die, but he didn't have the guts."

"Nick, don't . . ."

"So this drunk waited for someone to end his life for him. He waited for someone to take his child away. Then, Then, he thought, then he'd have the guts to kill himself. Only none of that happened, because a fairy princess came into his life. He still remembers what it was like that day, the way the rain was just starting to fall and the lake was as still as gla.s.s. He remembers everything about the day she came into his life." he thought, then he'd have the guts to kill himself. Only none of that happened, because a fairy princess came into his life. He still remembers what it was like that day, the way the rain was just starting to fall and the lake was as still as gla.s.s. He remembers everything about the day she came into his life."

"Nick, please . . ." She wanted him to stop, now, before the story spun its gossamer strands around her heart and romanced her beyond repair.

"She changed his world, this woman who wandered uninvited into his life and demanded the very best of him. Before he knew it, he had stopped drinking and he'd taken the first steps toward becoming a parent again, and he'd fallen in love-for the second and last time in his life."

"You're drowning me, Nick," she whispered brokenly.

"I don't mean to. I just wanted to let you know that you aren't alone. Love can rise above tragedy and give us a way home. You taught me that, and now you need me to remind you."

Annie's days bled one into the next in a monotonous flow of hours spent huddled alongside the incubator in a helpless, hopeless confusion. The hospital had given her a new room, so she was always close to Katie, but at night, when she lay alone on her narrow bed, she felt miles away from the people she loved.

She counted the pa.s.sing of time in little things: Natalie was here on the weekends and at school during the week; Hank showed up unannounced and came daily to the hospital. Terri and Blake both visited each day after work. The clock ticked. Every day, Rosie O'Donnell showed up on the television screen in the corner of the room, and with each new segment, Annie knew that a day had pa.s.sed. Thanksgiving came and went; they ate pressed turkey and canned gravy off yellow plastic trays in the frighteningly empty cafeteria.

But Annie barely noticed any of it. Sometimes, when she sat beside the incubator, Natalie became Adrian and Adrian became Katie, and in those moments, when Annie closed her eyes, she couldn't see anything except that tiny coffin draped in flowers. But then an alarm would go off, or a nurse would come in, and Annie would remember. With Katie, there was hope.

She talked to her baby constantly. (I am sitting beside (I am sitting beside you now. Can you feel me? Can you hear my breathing? you now. Can you feel me? Can you hear my breathing? Can you feel me touching you?) Can you feel me touching you?) "Mom?"