Without You

– Sammy –

Too Soon

I pick up my desk phone as it dings with an interoffice call, and recognize my boss’ voice instantly. “Samantha.”

I drop my pen on the stack of never-ending manila folders and pick up my water bottle. It’s still hot as shit out, though September is rolling on and… well, at least it’s not August anymore. “Yeah, Ed?”

“I need you to come down to my office. Bring the Lytto file.”

Shari Lytto. Sigh. “Okay. Give me two minutes.”

Instead of answering me verbally, Ed hangs up and I drop my phone back into the cradle. Ed’s a good boss. He’s fair, he does his job, he works sixty hours a week, but he’s older and has transformed from the optimistic college graduate that we all start as and has turned cynical from experience. He knows the system now, and though he turns up every day, he knows what we actually achieve is just a tiny speck on the world’s problems.

I’m half his age and I already feel that same cynicism, but that’s a problem for future me. I had a passion for this job when I was a teenager. I’d romanticized what I’d be able to achieve; I’d save all the children. I’d help lock up all the bad people and the world would be a better place because of me. But in reality, I just file paperwork and don’t really help anyone at all.

I down half my bottle of water, remembering that I haven’t touched it in hours and realizing my thirst, then I stand and grab Shari’s file.

It seems like such an innocuous file. Just a plain manila folder, but the inside contents hurt me on a personal level and I can’t even explain why.

I don’t normally let the job get too personal. I do my best and my heart aches for all the children in bad homes, but I can usually set it aside enough that it doesn’t affect my appetite. But not this time. I haven’t eaten a proper meal since I was with Shari in hospital weeks ago. Just the memory of her haunted eyes hurts me. She was literally begging for my help and I did nothing but escape out the door and run home. I hid under the covers like a scared child. I hid from that innocent baby.

Though he was expecting me, I stop at Ed’s office door and tap the wooden frame. His office is bigger than mine, but it’s not fancier. We both have too many filing cabinets bursting full. We both sit in terrible ten-year-old chairs with broken wheels, because the state can’t afford to replace them. He even has stickers on the side of his desk, because he had a soft heart once upon a time, too.

Ed’s eyes snap up and meet mine, and the grimness in his have my heart tumbling. “Samantha, come in and take a seat.”

I step forward and gingerly sit in his visitor chair. I drop the folder on the edge of his desk. “What’s up?”

“That’s Lytto’s file?”

“Yeah.” I slide it forward another inch. “Has something happened?”

“I just got a call from the hospital. Ms. Lytto was just brought in again.”

It’s a useless question, but, “Self-admitted? Is she ill?”

“Jones picked her up behind Skeeter’s Diner. She was unconscious with her head in her husband’s lap. They were both swimming in the clouds.”

“She’s okay?”

“She’s physically okay. Jones called an ambulance and had her transported a few hours ago.”

“I’ll head over to the hospital when we’re done here then.”

“Yeah. Good plan.” He picks up the folder with her name written in bold down the edge, and flipping a few pages, he reads silently for a minute. His eyes slowly come back to mine. “She won’t be able to just leave with that baby.”

I nod. “I know.”

“It’ll be addicted. It’ll need--”

“She.”

Ed’s eyes snap back to mine. “Hmm?”

“It’s a girl. Shari had scans. She told me it’s a girl.”

“I’m concerned.”

I nod again. “Me too. She’ll have such a tough start. She’ll have addiction withdrawals. She’ll be born small, even if she’s born at full term--”

“You’re right on all accounts,” Ed admits. “But I meant I’m concerned about you.”

“Me? Why?”

“I read the report about what happened at the hospital. I know what she asked you.”

I shake my head quickly. “I can’t. I won’t entertain--”

“So why do I get the feeling that you are entertaining the idea? It’s not like it’s the first time you’ve taken kids in. I’m concerned because this time, you’re freaking out. Why the adamant no, Samantha?”

I continue to shake my head as my hands shake and my heart squeezes painfully in my chest. “I can’t--”

“I’m not saying you should. Hell, I think it’s a terrible idea. I’m just wondering why it’s personal this time.”

Why is it personal?

Because I want to take that baby home and keep her safe forever. I want to take Shari home too. I want to fix her, and I want to make her a better mom. I want to save that baby girl from the painful withdrawals I know she’ll face soon.

Her life will start in one of the most horrendous ways, and even though I know it’s coming, there’s not a damn thing I can do to help her.

Her very first battle begins the day she leaves her mom’s womb, and she has to fight it alone.

“It’s not personal. I just don’t have room in my life for a baby with special needs like that.”

Ed’s eyes call me a liar, but he doesn’t call me on it. He glances over my notes again, then he looks back up. “Go to her. See what’s going on and see what the hospital staff will tell you. We have to prepare for that baby to arrive soon.”

“She’s only six months.”

“That only leaves us three months at the most. I’m pressing for court mandated rehab before she gets that baby back.”

“She doesn’t want custody.”

“You know as well as I do how these situations can go, Samantha. It’s one thing while that baby is inside her and she’s still a faraway thought. But once she’s born, Mrs. Lytto may change her mind. We’re not sending a newborn baby to spend a cold winter in a tent, so rehab, then we’ll set her up in a women’s shelter until she can get on her feet.”

“What about her husband?”

“Not our problem.”

I nod, because he’s right. He’s not our problem. Shari isn’t even our problem. Just the baby.

Ed nods and pushes the file back across his desk. “Get over there and let me know what you find.”

An hour later, I walk into the air-conditioned lobby of the same hospital Shari was in last month – and the month before that – and I go in search of the nursing staff I know and have a friendly relationship with.

Barbara Landow, the nurse in charge of obstetrics today, meets me as I exit the elevator on the fourth floor, and her ghostly white face has my stomach dropping instantly. I practically run to keep up with her fast pace as we move down the sterile hall. “What happened?”

“She’s in labor.”

“No! It’s too soon.”

“She’s dehydrated, she’s hungry, she’s tired… And she’s most definitely contracting.”

“Barbara.” I snatch her arm and pull us to a dead stop. “It’s too soon.”

“She’s six and a half months.”

“That’s too soon!”

She impatiently pulls her arm from my grip and begins walking again. “I can’t change it, Sam. I can only deal with it. The OB is already in with her. We tried to stop it, but she’s already almost fully dilated.”

“How long?” I can feel the blood whooshing in my head. I feel like I’m going to be sick. Maybe that poor sweet baby won’t even have a chance to experience withdrawals. Six and a half months in the womb, especially Shari’s womb, is not enough time.

“She was already at nine centimeters when we checked. It’s happening now. Come on, I’ll take you in.”

“In?” We come to a screeching halt. “I’ve never been in before.”

“She asked for you. She said you were adopting her baby.”

“I’m not!”

She shrugs her shoulders. “I already told you, I can’t change what’s happening. I can only deal with it. She asked for you. Her husband isn’t here. She’s scared and she specifically sent me out to find you.”

“Jesus.” What the hell is happening? “I don’t think I can come in. I can’t watch that baby die.”

Barbara takes my hand anyway and leads us forward. “I’m not saying twenty-six weeks is ideal. It’s absolutely not. Two or three weeks ago, she wouldn’t have had a chance, but I’ve watched premature babies survive before. Twenty-six weeks sucks, but it’s not a death sentence.”

“I can’t watch her die. I can’t do this.”

We stop outside gray double doors and Barbara swipes her ID across the screen. “I have to go in. You have two seconds to make up your mind, after that I’ll be too busy to come back to get you.” She steps through the doors and I hug my files to my chest. I can feel my heartbeat even through the several inches of paperwork. She makes a point of looking at the watch clipped to her breast pocket. “One second.” The automatic motor starts whirring and the doors begin closing me out, but as though possessed by someone else, my feet propel me forward and I crash into the inner sanctum of the obstetrics ward. “Alright.” Barbara starts walking at a fast pace again as we pass by a large U-shaped desk manned with several more hospital staff speaking in hushed tones. “This won’t be a regular birth. That baby won’t be able to survive without immediate medical help. She’ll be small.” Her eyes meet mine to emphasize her point. “Really small. Barely more than a pound. Maybe two if we’re lucky. She’ll be taken to the neonatal intensive care unit immediately. She would have been going there even at full term, but this is going to be worse. The small sliver of silver in this scenario,” Barbara continues to speak as we turn another corner and move down a long hallway, “since she’s so premature, her withdrawals should actually be easier. Small mercy.”

I hurry to keep up. “What else should I expect?”

“Breathing difficulty. She’ll be sickly looking. Mottled skin. It might even still be translucent. She’s going to cry a lot, and she won’t be able to calm. She’s going to be in here a long time. A few months at least.”

“What about Shari?”

“She’ll be here a week at least. She’ll experience her own withdrawals. Her own care team will try and help her through it, but she has a rough road ahead of her too. It’s best if we can get her to start pumping breast milk as soon as possible. Even with the drugs in her system. Breastmilk will help a little. Colostrum will help. The baby will be tube fed for a while. She’ll be in the incubator for a long time. She won’t be able to regulate her temperature.”

We swing into a room near the end of the hall and I stop at the hive of activity in front of me. Shari lies in the bed in the center of the room. Her legs are in the stirrups, high and wide open for us all to see. Her hair is still clumped and messy, her face dirty, her brown tank top was probably white or cream once upon a time.

Her body is covered in random tattoos. There’s no central theme, no main design, just a hundred different random drawings that look as though a fifth grader did them.

Her tear streaked face turns to me immediately and her desperate eyes latch onto mine as she bursts out in tears. “I’m sorry!” Immediately I place my files down on the floor in the corner and approach her reaching hands. She clamps her nails into my skin immediately, bruising me the same way she did last month. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.”

I don’t answer her. I just hold her hand and watch as everyone bustles around us. Doctors in full scrubs stand at the end of the bed. Nurses race around and prepare silver instruments of torture, transporting me back to my own life more than a decade ago. I don’t remember a lot about that day, but I remember the clanging sound of metal tools on metal trays. I remember bustling nurses. I remember masked men. And I remember being so lonely, I worried the ache in my chest would never go away.

I wanted Sam to be with me. I was terrified. I’d never been so terrified of anything in my whole life and I wanted him to fix it. He could fix anything. Even as young as we were, Sam could fix anything. But he wasn’t there and it wasn’t fixed.

“The baby has already descended,” the obstetrician announces and pulls on fresh gloves. “This won’t take long.” He seems to be speaking to everyone else in the room, but not Shari at all. This doesn’t feel right. No matter how much I disagree with her choices in life, I can’t with a good conscience stand by while everyone around her treats her only as a human incubator.

The baby is important, perhaps the most important person in this room right now, but deep down, beneath the dirty clothes and dirty face, beneath the drug use and stupid decisions, Shari is still a twenty-three-year-old woman that no doubt has a scared little girl inside her crying out for a hug and reassurance. Twenty-three is not a hell of a lot older than eighteen, and I know I was terrified when I was in this position.

I turn away from everyone else and look down into her blue eyes as they spill over. I squeeze her hand and lean closer in an attempt to steal her attention away from the half dozen people crowding her bottom end.

“I’m sorry for hurting her.”

“It’s alright.” It’s not alright. “She’ll be fine.” She might not be. “She’s just going to be here sooner than we thought.”

“I want you to take her home, Ms. Samantha. I want you to give my baby a safe home.”

No. “No one can take her home for a little while, Shari. She’ll stay here with you and you’ll both be okay.”

“I want you to keep her.”

No. “I’ll help you.”

Shari’s hands squeeze mine and her face clenches as a contraction takes over her body. Her foul-smelling breath pants past chipped and dirty teeth, but her blue eyes look fresh and young like some you might find a five-year-old possess. “I don’t want her. I want you to take her.”

I shake my head again. “Just concentrate on what we’re doing here today. You’ll change your mind once you meet her.”

“No--”

“Are you excited?” I smile as big as I can manage, though I don’t feel it at all. “You’re going to meet your baby today. Your baby girl, Shari. She’s a tiny version of you, are you excited?”

“Not like me.” She shakes her head and cries and begs. “Not like me. Like you. Don’t let her be like me.”

“Alright. Get ready.” The head OB turns back to us. “One more push, Shari. One more, it should be easy. Are you ready?”

“No.”

His cold eyes actually turn soft for half a beat. “Get ready. Push when I tell you. Three… Two…”

Shari squeezes my hand painfully before he even finishes counting, but just like predicted, it was ‘easy,’ and the hive of activity around us turns into overdrive as I catch sight of a tiny, skinny baby that more resembles a hairless cat.

My eyes don’t leave the baby, but Shari’s don’t leave me. “Please take care of her, Ms. Samantha.” Her eyes spill over, but at least her taut body begins to relax as people work around us. Instantly the baby is taken to the opposite side of the room and ninety percent of the medical personnel follow her.

Barbara stays with us, cleaning up near Shari’s legs and softly reassuring us with repetitive words of encouragement.

Like a funeral processional, the group of doctors and nurses create a protective perimeter around the baby’s tiny bed, then they rush her away without a word.

They didn’t announce a healthy baby.

They didn’t confirm if she was a she.

They didn’t ask her name or offer skin-to-skin time with her mother.

They simply discarded Shari like she was inhuman, and not needing her anymore, they left.

“She’s okay,” Barbara announces softly, as though she can read my thoughts. “They’re taking her straight to the NICU. We’ll get you cleaned up, then we’ll see what we can do about going to see her.”

“Will she be okay?”

“So far so good, Mama.”

“When can I see her?”

“A few hours, I think. You can rest for now while I clean you up. I’ll get you in to see her as soon as I can.”