F*ck Love
Page 46
Kit meets me at the airport, standing at the bottom of the escalator with red-rimmed eyes and hair longer than I’ve ever seen it. I run, throwing myself into his open arms, and we stand like that, holding each other. I try not to cry, but the way his shoulders sag around me. God. I lose it. People must look as they walk by, but we don’t notice.
“Is that all you brought?” he asks of my duffel. He won’t look at me when he pulls way. I wipe away my tears and nod. We head for the car in silence. I want to ask him a million things: How did this happen? What can they do for her? What are you feeling? What are you thinking? How is the baby?
We climb into his truck. I notice the carseat in the back, and my stomach clenches. I quickly turn back around. I don’t want to think about that.
It’s not until we are on the freeway, rain pounding down from a charcoal sky that he tells me what happened.
“She had an amniotic fluid embolism.” He says this, carefully; I imagine just like the doctors said it to him. “The amniotic fluid got into her bloodstream during the birth. It made her blood unable to clot, so during labor she started bleeding out. Disseminated intravascular coagulation. After Annie was born, they rushed Della out and wouldn’t tell me anything.”
Annie, I think. So sweet.
“They made us wait forever. God, that was the longest day of my life. They wouldn’t let me see her or the baby. The doctor finally came out and told us her kidneys shut down, and her lungs filled with fluid. They put her in a medically-induced coma to allow her body to heal.”
My reaction is mostly internal; I don’t want to freak out in front of Kit and make things worse. I clutch the edge of my seat with both hands as he speaks. God, Della. She almost died. We could have lost her. And I wasn’t here.
“Is she…?” My voice cuts—breaks—whatever you want to call it.
“We don’t know.” He pauses, and out of the corner of my eye I see his hand swipe at his cheek. “They asked us if she was religious. Told us to have a priest come.”
I wrap my arms around my stomach and lean forward until my head touches the dash. This was not the sort of thing that happened in real life; this was a special on television, a soap opera. The fact that it was happening to my best friend seemed inconceivable. Couldn’t be. I’d get to the hospital and she’d be fine, sitting up in bed holding Annie, her hair perfect and shiny, styled to perfection so everyone could walk in and say, ‘Oh my God! I can’t believe you just had a baby!’
“The baby?” I ask Kit. “Annie?”
“She’s fine,” he says. “Perfect.”
“There’s something else,” he says.
God, what else could there be?
“They had to give her an emergency hysterectomy.”
I get a cold shiver. It runs all the way through my body and out my fingertips. Della was from a big, Italian family. Her mother was only able to have three children before the doctor told her another would kill her. Since as far back as I can remember, Della’s mother had been prepping Della to have the large family she herself had always wanted. Her older brother, Tony, was a bachelor. He had no intention of settling down, and her sister, Gia, was a lesbian. No one in the family would speak to Gia, who lived in New York with her partner and their three rescue dogs. She doesn’t even get pedigrees, Della had said once about Gia’s dogs. She just takes all the mutts. It was an unspoken thing that Della would be the one to carry the large family torch. This was going to crush her. If she woke up.
Since it’s a Saturday, the hospital is crowded. Visiting families, children holding tightly to parents’ hands. I have to remind myself that not everyone is here for something sad. Babies have been born, kidney stones have been removed, lives have been saved. Kit grabs my hand and leads me through hallways and up elevators until we are on the fifth floor. Everything on this floor is hushed, somber. I try to ignore the thoughts of panic that enter my mind, but they are loud. They put her here to die, and they told her Catholic family to bring a priest.
We walk past the nurses’ station to a room at the end of the corridor. I am breathing through my mouth, afraid of what the smells will make me feel. Beggiro is written on the white board outside the door. I brace myself, hold my breath, clench both fists. The door pushes open, and my eyes focus on the hospital bed. It’s strung across with lines: red ones, white ones, all connecting to machinery that stands like sentries beside her. They are loud, protesting her medical condition with beeps, and clicks, and humming. Her mother sits in a chair to her right; her brother is asleep on a cot. I am embraced, spoken to through tears and random Italian words I’ve come to know well over the years. It is only when they are through with me that I approach the bed and get a look at my best friend. My hand goes to my mouth, and I stifle a cry. This is not Della. It’s not.
She is swollen, bruised; her face is a dull beige, like cooked pasta. I want to brush her hair away from her face-why has no one done that? It hangs limp and dirty. When I turn around, Kit is standing by the door, head bowed as if looking at her hurts him. I touch her hands, which are folded across her stomach, the remnants of pink nail polish still there. They are cold, so I pull a blanket up to cover them. How would anyone know if she were cold when she can’t say it? I want to say something to her. Tell her to wake up and meet her baby girl, but I am crippled by shock.
I feel a hand on my back—Della’s mother, Annette. “Go see Annie,” she says. “It’ll be good for you. Della will be here when you get back. Come sit with her tomorrow.”
I nod, wiping my nose on my sleeve. Kit drives me to their little house in Ft. Lauderdale. Keith Sweat is playing on the radio. ‘But I gotta be strong, you did me wrong.’ I suddenly have a terrible headache. Della’s cousin, Geri, is watching Annie, he tells me. I don’t tell him that Geri does recreational coke five days a week, or that she did a stint in rehab for heroine. She is reading a tabloid magazine on the couch when we arrive. She lifts a finger to her lips to tell us that Annie is sleeping. She hugs me warmly, and I can smell the alcohol on her breath. I’ve always been cool with Geri. But I’m not cool with her drinking on baby watch. Not with any baby, but especially not with this baby. I have the urge to tell her to leave and not come back. Instead, I excuse myself to the bathroom. It’s strange to see the baby things strewn about Della’s space: swings, bassinets, soft pink blankets. When I come out of the bathroom Geri is gone. Kit stands in the doorway to the living room, hands in pockets. He’s not looking at me; he’s not looking at anything.
“Is that all you brought?” he asks of my duffel. He won’t look at me when he pulls way. I wipe away my tears and nod. We head for the car in silence. I want to ask him a million things: How did this happen? What can they do for her? What are you feeling? What are you thinking? How is the baby?
We climb into his truck. I notice the carseat in the back, and my stomach clenches. I quickly turn back around. I don’t want to think about that.
It’s not until we are on the freeway, rain pounding down from a charcoal sky that he tells me what happened.
“She had an amniotic fluid embolism.” He says this, carefully; I imagine just like the doctors said it to him. “The amniotic fluid got into her bloodstream during the birth. It made her blood unable to clot, so during labor she started bleeding out. Disseminated intravascular coagulation. After Annie was born, they rushed Della out and wouldn’t tell me anything.”
Annie, I think. So sweet.
“They made us wait forever. God, that was the longest day of my life. They wouldn’t let me see her or the baby. The doctor finally came out and told us her kidneys shut down, and her lungs filled with fluid. They put her in a medically-induced coma to allow her body to heal.”
My reaction is mostly internal; I don’t want to freak out in front of Kit and make things worse. I clutch the edge of my seat with both hands as he speaks. God, Della. She almost died. We could have lost her. And I wasn’t here.
“Is she…?” My voice cuts—breaks—whatever you want to call it.
“We don’t know.” He pauses, and out of the corner of my eye I see his hand swipe at his cheek. “They asked us if she was religious. Told us to have a priest come.”
I wrap my arms around my stomach and lean forward until my head touches the dash. This was not the sort of thing that happened in real life; this was a special on television, a soap opera. The fact that it was happening to my best friend seemed inconceivable. Couldn’t be. I’d get to the hospital and she’d be fine, sitting up in bed holding Annie, her hair perfect and shiny, styled to perfection so everyone could walk in and say, ‘Oh my God! I can’t believe you just had a baby!’
“The baby?” I ask Kit. “Annie?”
“She’s fine,” he says. “Perfect.”
“There’s something else,” he says.
God, what else could there be?
“They had to give her an emergency hysterectomy.”
I get a cold shiver. It runs all the way through my body and out my fingertips. Della was from a big, Italian family. Her mother was only able to have three children before the doctor told her another would kill her. Since as far back as I can remember, Della’s mother had been prepping Della to have the large family she herself had always wanted. Her older brother, Tony, was a bachelor. He had no intention of settling down, and her sister, Gia, was a lesbian. No one in the family would speak to Gia, who lived in New York with her partner and their three rescue dogs. She doesn’t even get pedigrees, Della had said once about Gia’s dogs. She just takes all the mutts. It was an unspoken thing that Della would be the one to carry the large family torch. This was going to crush her. If she woke up.
Since it’s a Saturday, the hospital is crowded. Visiting families, children holding tightly to parents’ hands. I have to remind myself that not everyone is here for something sad. Babies have been born, kidney stones have been removed, lives have been saved. Kit grabs my hand and leads me through hallways and up elevators until we are on the fifth floor. Everything on this floor is hushed, somber. I try to ignore the thoughts of panic that enter my mind, but they are loud. They put her here to die, and they told her Catholic family to bring a priest.
We walk past the nurses’ station to a room at the end of the corridor. I am breathing through my mouth, afraid of what the smells will make me feel. Beggiro is written on the white board outside the door. I brace myself, hold my breath, clench both fists. The door pushes open, and my eyes focus on the hospital bed. It’s strung across with lines: red ones, white ones, all connecting to machinery that stands like sentries beside her. They are loud, protesting her medical condition with beeps, and clicks, and humming. Her mother sits in a chair to her right; her brother is asleep on a cot. I am embraced, spoken to through tears and random Italian words I’ve come to know well over the years. It is only when they are through with me that I approach the bed and get a look at my best friend. My hand goes to my mouth, and I stifle a cry. This is not Della. It’s not.
She is swollen, bruised; her face is a dull beige, like cooked pasta. I want to brush her hair away from her face-why has no one done that? It hangs limp and dirty. When I turn around, Kit is standing by the door, head bowed as if looking at her hurts him. I touch her hands, which are folded across her stomach, the remnants of pink nail polish still there. They are cold, so I pull a blanket up to cover them. How would anyone know if she were cold when she can’t say it? I want to say something to her. Tell her to wake up and meet her baby girl, but I am crippled by shock.
I feel a hand on my back—Della’s mother, Annette. “Go see Annie,” she says. “It’ll be good for you. Della will be here when you get back. Come sit with her tomorrow.”
I nod, wiping my nose on my sleeve. Kit drives me to their little house in Ft. Lauderdale. Keith Sweat is playing on the radio. ‘But I gotta be strong, you did me wrong.’ I suddenly have a terrible headache. Della’s cousin, Geri, is watching Annie, he tells me. I don’t tell him that Geri does recreational coke five days a week, or that she did a stint in rehab for heroine. She is reading a tabloid magazine on the couch when we arrive. She lifts a finger to her lips to tell us that Annie is sleeping. She hugs me warmly, and I can smell the alcohol on her breath. I’ve always been cool with Geri. But I’m not cool with her drinking on baby watch. Not with any baby, but especially not with this baby. I have the urge to tell her to leave and not come back. Instead, I excuse myself to the bathroom. It’s strange to see the baby things strewn about Della’s space: swings, bassinets, soft pink blankets. When I come out of the bathroom Geri is gone. Kit stands in the doorway to the living room, hands in pockets. He’s not looking at me; he’s not looking at anything.
