The True Story of Atticus and Hazel Page 18

  Atticus was sitting in a chair against the wall, his legs extended and crossed at the ankles, his eyes closed.

  “Atticus,” I whispered.

  His eyes sluggishly opened. “Yeah?”

  “Do you want me to get the nurse to make your bed for you?”

  He took a deep breath through his nose and sat up. “No, thank you,” he said, standing up. He grabbed his bag and headed for the shower, closing the door behind him. I turned my blow-dryer on and quickly dried my hair. I remembered how I needed to do skin to skin and changed out my T-shirt for a new hospital gown but left my yoga pants on. I almost bolted for the door, I was so excited to see Juniper, but ran into Atticus instead.

  “Ungh,” I grunted. Shooting pains blasted through my abdomen and I doubled over.

  “Hazel!” he said, grabbing for me. He brought me to the bed and helped me sit. I breathed through the pain then met his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he told me, concern written all over his face.

  “I’m fine,” I said, trying to keep my tone steady.

  “Are you going to see Juniper?” he asked.

  “I was,” I told him.

  “Let me walk you,” he offered.

  “You don’t have to do that, Atticus,” I insisted. “You need rest. Sleep. I can get there—”

  “Hazel,” he said once, holding me up by the elbow.

  Carefully, I shuffled to the NICU. I expected him to leave me there but he came in, unable to be this close to her, I guessed, without looking at her. We washed our hands like we were taught then Atticus took me to her station. We leaned over her incubator.

  “Oh my God, she is so beautiful,” I said, overwhelmed by the very sight of her.

  “Prettiest girl ever,” he said.

  My eyes filled with tears. “Thank you,” I said, placing my hand on her back.

  “For what, Hazel?”

  “For her,” I said. “No matter what goes on between us, I can’t thank you enough.”

  He shook his head. “I’m the only one who should be doing the thanking.”

  He stuck his arm in and put his hand next to mine.

  “We could go around and around, so let’s just agree she is everything and call it.”

  “She’s everything.”

  We watched her, felt her little back rise and fall with the mechanical ventilator.

  “I’ll be happy when she has more meat on her,” I said.

  “And can breathe on her own.”

  “Let’s take solace in small victories then. What do you think?”

  “Agreed. What should we aim for today?”

  “Just going the day without some sort of breathing intervention?” I asked.

  He nodded and I snuck my hand out. I attempted to sit down but was having trouble. Atticus grabbed me by the elbows and lowered me onto the glider. He moved to grab Juniper for me so I peeled back the tabs of my gown. He laid her little body on mine, her tubes and IVs running across my shoulders. He situated them so I wouldn’t pinch any then headed to the nurse’s station for a blanket. When he returned, he laid it across us and Juniper sighed, making my head swim with happiness. I kissed the top of her little head.

  Atticus sat beside us in that same stool from the day before.

  “You have to be so tired, Atticus.”

  “The shower gave me a second wind,” he said, watching her face.

  I didn’t argue with him. I knew he was exhausted but I didn’t blame him for wanting to stay.

  “How did she do overnight and this morning?” I asked him.

  “She was perfect. No incidents.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief and brushed her little cheek with the outside of my index finger.

  “Hey,” he said, his eyes drooping a little.

  “Yeah,” I answered.

  “One of my songs went number one.”

  I nodded. “I know. Congratulations, Atticus. I heard your interview on the Edge. You sounded good, happy.”

  “You listened to my interview?”

  “I’ve been keeping up with you,” I admitted.

  He looked shocked then his eyes softened. “I wasn’t happy, Hazel.”

  “You’d just hit number one. You should have been on top of the world.”

  “I should have been, yeah, but I was f—,” he began to curse, then looked down at Juniper as if she could understand him. It made my heart melt. “I was in bad shape, Hazel.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I know it’s too late. I can’t tell you how many times my fingers hovered over your name in my phone. I had always intended to apologize.”

  Atticus shook his head. “What is an apology now, Hazel?”

  I swallowed. “It can be whatever you want it to be. It’s weeks too late, I agree, but I want you to know that I am sorry. I had legit reasons for feeling the way I did, but I should have handled it differently.

  “Then I got sick,” I began.

  He sat up, his eyes opened. “You got sick?” he asked.

  “They couldn’t figure out what was going on but my liver started malfunctioning and my body started to reject the pregnancy. They were monitoring us weekly when it happened.”

  “Jesus, Hazel,” he whispered, “why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You were on top of the world, Atticus. I couldn’t be the one to bring you back down. You would have quit and rushed back, and I couldn’t let you risk everything when we didn’t know what was going on yet.”

  “That wasn’t your decision to make, Hazel.”

  “In hindsight, it looks bad, but you have to understand, my doctors, the specialists they sent me to, they all told me they were being the absolute most cautious they could be by monitoring me as frequently as they were. There is no way they could have anticipated this.”

  “You should have called.”

  “I was striking up the nerve.”

  “You should have called.”

  “I know.”

  He paused. “I would have taken the call, Hazel.”

  I took a deep breath to steady my heart. “You would have.”

  “I would have taken care of you.”

  “I know, Atticus.” He sat up and ran his hands down his face then through his hair. “Get some sleep.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t leave you guys.”

  “Yes, you can, Atticus. I’m tube free, showered, rested. I’m feeling a lot better. We’ll be right down the hall.”

  He shook his head again. Instead of arguing with him, I asked a passing nurse if I could have another glider for him as well as a pillow and a blanket. She was more than happy to help and we got him set up beside us, his feet propped. He hugged the pillow and the nurse draped the blanket over his legs. He was asleep within a minute. I looked over at his sleeping form then down at Juniper’s.

  I breathed easily. They came freely for the first time in months.

  I’d been sitting for three hours straight and decided to stand with Juniper. A nurse helped me up so we wouldn’t wake Atticus. I needed to relieve myself so she helped me put our daughter in the incubator and I scurried off to the toilet and to grab another pain pill from my nurse. I was doing as well as you possibly could under the circumstances, and I was proud of how I was handling myself.

  “I need to take your vitals, babe,” the day nurse informed me before giving me my pain pill. I looked longingly in the direction of the NICU. “Won’t take long. Promise.”

  I nodded and shuffled into the room behind her. I sat at the edge of the bed as she took my temperature and checked my blood pressure.

  A loud, blaring siren sounded through the floor. A robotic voice came over the loud speaker announcing a code. My heart beat into my throat. The nurse’s eyes widened.

  “Where is that code at?” I asked.

  “Uh,” she said.

  “Is it for the NICU?” I asked, panicked.

  “Miss Stone,” she calmly began.

  I ripped the cuff off my arm and stood, already heading for the door. I
moved so quickly I could feel my incision pulling, but I didn’t care. I only wanted to get to the NICU. I pushed through the doors only to see ten people standing around Juniper’s incubator. The blanket and pillow Atticus had been using were piled on the floor next to his glider. He paced back and forth near her, his hands on his head, tears in his eyes.

  “What’s going on?” I demanded, my eyes already burning.

  He came to me quickly and helped me stand near them. “Something’s wrong.”

  “She’s not breathing?” I asked, adrenaline pumping through my body at an alarming rate.

  “Not breathing and something else. I can’t tell what it is.”

  I dared not disturb the doctors and nurses around her, but I wanted to shout for an explanation.

  Her doctor yelled for something and we watched as a nurse methodically retrieved something from their station and returned quickly.

  “Please, God,” I whispered. “Please, God. Please, God,” I begged over and over.

  Every time I’d ask for God’s help, Atticus would squeeze my hands a little harder as if to emphasize the prayer. Her heart kept flatlining, coming back, flatlining, coming back, flatlining. I swayed on my feet.

  “She won’t stabilize!” her doctor yelled in frustration, making me sick to my stomach.

  She flatlined again. My body reeled waiting for it to start again.

  “One,” I whispered. “Two, three, four, five, six, seven.” No sound. Nothing. Just the desperate shuffles of the doctors and nurses, their voices low but determined. “Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.” I counted two minutes, three minutes, four, five. Several nurses stepped back and I sucked in a violent breath. “What are they doing?” I asked. “What are you doing!” I yelled. “Help her!” A couple wouldn’t meet my eyes, which incensed me. “Help her!” I shouted, pushing forward. Her doctor’s shoulders sagged, his hand stilled over her little body. I started to break down. “What are you doing! Why are you stopping!” My hands gripped at the glass of her incubator. “Please. Please. You have to keep going. She’s my baby,” I gasped. I sobbed, my arms cradling the glass, my cheek pressed against the surface.

  A blur of activity occurred around me but it didn’t register. They called time of death and I almost vomited, dry-heaving. I felt my incision start to bleed.

  “No, no, no, no, no. No. No, no,” I kept saying over and over, refusing to accept it. I looked at Atticus, desperate. “Do something, Atticus,” I demanded. “Do something. Make them bring her back. Please, Atticus.” He stood still, all the color drained from his face. “Atticus,” I sobbed. “Fix this, Atticus. Please. I can’t live without her.”

  He burst into action, grabbing the doctor by his coat. All the nurses screamed but the doctor held up his hands for them to calm. Atticus dragged him over to Juniper. “Try harder,” he said, his voice eerily controlled.

  The doctor placed his hands on Atticus’s, his face sorrowful. “I’m sorry, son.”

  “Don’t tell me sorry. Don’t. Bring her back,” he insisted, his face growing wet.

  “She’s gone, son.”

  “I’ll pay you whatever you want,” he begged. “Everything I have, I’ll give it to you. Just… please.”

  But the doctor didn’t respond. He had nothing to say.

  Atticus studied his face. I saw it. Saw when he graduated from agonizing despair to instant incredible heartache. I could barely look at him. I wasn’t where he was. I would never be there. He dropped his grip and staggered backward, he bent back, fell to his knees and sat on his ankles, his hands suspended at his sides, his head hung and his back hunched.

  “No!” he bellowed. It was soul deep, desolate. It vibrated from the tips of my toes to the tips of my hair and I felt his misery. It permeated my skin and mixed with my own sorrow, burrowing into me, and I didn’t think I could survive it.

  I wouldn’t accept it. Couldn’t.

  I scrambled to the side of her incubator and ripped it open. Carefully, I removed Juniper and sat down with her. I spoke to her, touched her still warm skin. “Juniper,” I pleaded. I rocked her back and forth. It was unhinged. I knew it but I didn’t care. I had to try. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t try? “Juniper,” I whispered, caressing her tiny baby head. “Please, honey,” I incoherently mumbled, bathing her in my tears.

  Atticus brought his feet forward, his knees bent, his arms sat on top. He watched me, his eyes bloodshot red.

  “She’s gone, Haze,” his scratchy voice informed me.

  “No, Atticus,” I denied.

  The nurses were huddled and crying and I hated it. Their crying meant the unthinkable.

  Atticus stood, gingerly picked me up, folded me against his chest, settled in the glider, and sat me sideways on his lap. We stared at our daughter. At her peaceful face. At her still chest.

  The world had ended.

  “Get up, baby,” Grams woke me, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  I sank a little into her side. “I can’t, Grams.”

  “You can, Hazel. Be strong.”

  She leaned over me and kissed my forehead.

  I was already crying but I stood. On autopilot, I took a shower, washed and dried my hair, put on the black dress Etta had laid out for me. The black Mary Janes. The black wide-brim hat. The black sunglasses. The black wrap cardigan. The black thoughts.

  They piled me into a car. I wasn’t sure whose. Etta had made all the arrangements for her. I couldn’t do it, couldn’t choose a casket or music or anything else. The only thing I contributed was the baptismal gown I had bought months before because I saw it at a store and it spoke to me. Little did I know what it was saying.

  They were talking to me. Grams and Etta were. I didn’t hear what they were saying. I didn’t particularly want to know. Everything anyone ever said to me since Juniper’s passing was a knife to the heart. It didn’t matter what they said. It could have been something completely harmless but I would still tie it back to my baby. I learned to tune people out.

  The only person I didn’t want to tune out was Atticus but he never contacted me. Not once. Not a single time. Another knife to my shredded heart.

  They withdrew me from the car and walked me to the church, through the atrium, the narthex. I was aware enough to recognize the church was packed. They shuffled me up the aisle, sheltering me on both sides, and sat me in the front pew on the right. I looked up and saw Juniper’s infinitesimal wood casket.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered, toppling forward. Etta caught me and set me back up. She sat beside me and held on tightly.

  “Come on, babe,” she said. “Lean on me.”

  I avoided looking at it, at her. I couldn’t. My head turned to the left and I saw Atticus’s brothers and mom and dad line in the first row as well across the aisle. He was there, his head hung. Aidan had his arm in a death grip. It made me feel ill to imagine him there in pain.

  The whole thing was my fault. If I had just told him I was sick. If I could have anticipated what was going to happen. Maybe I could have prevented it. I blamed myself. I was to blame.

  I bent forward, sobbing. Atticus’s family stared. I could feel their eyes, which made me cry even harder. Etta and Grams wrapped their arms around me, whispering in an attempt to soothe. The priest, who had been at the altar preparing, came down to me.

  “Hazel,” he said, laying his hand on my shoulder, “I won’t start until you’re ready.”

  I pulled myself together as much as possible. “Go on, Father,” I whispered. “I’ll never be ready.”

  He looked at me with sorrow in his eyes and it nearly killed me. He ascended the altar steps again and turned toward the packed church.

  “All rise,” he said.

  “Hazel,” Etta said, reaching for my arm. She pulled me out of a car I didn’t remember getting into and out into a gray, cold, foggy morning. It began to mist light rain. Etta had a big black umbrella she opened and held over the two of us. Grams came around to my other side and wrapped her arm
around my back.

  They led me down a gravel walkway under the cover of hundred-year-old trees. We approached a beautiful garden full of tiny headstones. A children’s graveyard. What a pitiable, awful thing, I thought. I looked down at my shoes, refusing to look at their names. We approached a small plot already dug out. The rain slapped the top of the umbrella in hollow drips and I remembered thinking that rain had always been so beautiful to me before that moment, but it was permanently altered then, a forever agony to be associated with the second worst day of my life.

  “Somebody kill me,” I said. I turned to Etta. “Kill me, Etta. Please.”

  Tears strung down her face. “No, Hazel.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I love you, Hazel. Because God loves you.”

  “I don’t care, Etta.”

  “You will,” she explained, holding me tighter.

  “I won’t care. Ever. Never again.”

  “Think that now,” she said. “Think it now and I will hold you until you no longer think it anymore.”

  “I don’t want to be held. I want death.”

  She didn’t respond. Instead, she kissed my cheek, my temple, and squeezed me tightly.

  Someone was sobbing on the other side of the plot and my eyes found him. It was Atticus. Tough Atticus. Deep Atticus. Poor Atticus. He couldn’t hold himself up, and it killed me to see him like that. His brothers surrounded him, five pillars of strength.

  The casket arrived. They set it on some sort of stand. Without thinking, I ran to her and threw myself over her, sobbing openly against its woodgrain face. Etta helped me up as they rolled her over the plot. My gloved hands tore at the skin of my neck, unable to help themselves.