John Ferguson awoke with a start when the phone rang early Sunday morning. He glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand and wondered who would be calling at 5:22 in the morning. “Hello?” he answered, sleep still in his voice.
“Mr. Ferguson?”
“Yes?”
“This is Bob Mackey. June and I are the adoptive parents of your daughter’s child. Is your daughter there?”
“Yes, but she’s sleeping. Is anything wrong? Is the…”
“No, the baby’s not OK.” The man’s voice broke as he went on with difficulty. “Last night Austin had a high fever, which the doctor had thought was from the ear infection he’s had for three days now. He’s been on medication. The doctor told us to bring him to the emergency room, so we did. They admitted him because they’re suspicious of encephalitis.” His voice broke again, and he struggled to go on. “He’s very sick. We wanted your daughter—all of you—to know.”
John was sitting up in bed and Lou was right beside him, hearing as much as she could of Bob Mackey’s voice. Her eyes filled with tears. “Where is he?” she whispered to her husband. “Tell him we’ll come right away.”
“We’re at Crossroads Medical Center,” Bob informed John. “He’s in pediatric intensive care. I’m… I’m so sorry.”
“Of course. We’ll be praying.”
“Thanks. We appreciate that.”
John was already out of bed. “Let’s go tell Midge—both of us, but we should hurry or they wouldn’t have called at this hour.”
“Midge?” Lou spoke softly, tapping the door.
“Mmhmm?” Midge answered, as if not wanting to leave her sleep state.
“May we come in?”
At this, Midge awakened wide-eyed. “Sure. What’s up?” she asked, alarm spreading on her face as she beheld the worried expressions on her parents’ faces. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s Nicky,” her father answered. “Bob Mackey just called. They took the baby to Crossroads last night with a high fever, and he’s apparently not doing very well. They wanted us to know so we could go over there.”
“Nicky? Nicky! Let’s go. Hurry, please! I’ll be ready in one minute!” Her eyes were filled with fear as she jumped out of bed.
“Honey, it will be OK.” Lou caught her daughter and gave her a quick, tight squeeze. “We’ll hurry.”
All the way to the hospital, in between her desperate prayers to God to take care of Nicky, Midge was plagued with remorse for shutting Nick out of their tiny son’s life. Although she could easily justify her motives, she felt sharp twinges of guilt that seemed to undermine her faith in God’s hearing her prayers. She remembered the essence of a Bible verse—how Jesus had said, “If you want your prayers heard, forgive.” During the sporadic conversation with her parents on the hurried trip to Crossroads, Midge made a decision precipitated by this emergency that she would otherwise perhaps never have made.
“I’m going to call Nick, if Bob and June will let me,” she announced, as she walked with her parents up to the huge glass doors of the hospital.
“And if they don’t?” John Ferguson queried.
Midge looked at her father. “I hope they will. I would feel very guilty if…” Her voice trailed off, and her mother put her arm around her waist.
“I’m sure Nick would very much appreciate your calling him—or at least asking the Mackeys to allow him to come.”
Up on the pediatric ward, the nurse was waiting for them. “Are you the Fergusons?”
“Yes, we are,” Midge spoke up.
The nurse handed them hospital gowns and masks to put on. “The Mackeys are in Room 314.” She pointed down the hall.
“Thank you.” John Ferguson wrapped one arm around the shoulders of his wife and the other around the shoulders of his daughter, leading them briskly.
“All is well,” Lou whispered, leaning around her husband to catch her daughter’s eye.
“Thanks, Mom.” Midge fully appreciated the significance of her mother’s words.
There was little Nicky, in pediatric ICU, tubes taped to his little body. Bob and June Mackey were standing beside the crib, distraught and haggard-looking from spending a difficult night watching their precious son suffer.
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” June said, her eyes, red already, tearing again. “He’s been a little trooper.”
Midge went immediately to Nicky’s side, her eyes filled with tears, while John reached to shake Bob’s hand. Lou walked directly to June and wrapped her in her supple arms, introducing herself.
After June offered a brief recounting of the night’s events, she directied her words to Midge. “We’re so sorry. We feel so helpless. The doctors haven’t given much encouragement.”
“We are helpless,” John Ferguson stated. “Shall we take a moment to pray?”
“Please.” June replied, gratefully, and bowed her head.
“Before we do,” Midge spoke up, looking first at June, and then at Bob, and finally at the little child she called Nicky. “I would like to ask you whether you would allow me—after we pray—to call Nick, Austin’s birth dad, to let him know Austin’s very sick.” She saw the look of surprise and trepidation flood the faces of both Bob and June, and hurried on. “He’s wanted to see the baby for a long time. I’ve never given him any encouragement—in fact, discouragement; but as I was praying on the way over here, God convicted me of my unforgiveness towards Nick. There’s nothing between Nick and me anymore, but if anything happened to Austin, I would feel guilty the rest of my life if I didn’t at least ask you if Nick could see him.”
The Mackeys looked at each other, and then Bob asked if the two of them could step out into the hall and talk for a moment.
“Sure,” John answered. “And remember, you don’t have to oblige. Midge just needed at least to ask.”
Within two minutes, they were back. “You may call him, Midge. We wouldn’t want to feel that same guilt. But perhaps you could clarify that it’s a one-time agreement.”
“I understand completely,” Midge replied, relief on her face. “Thank you. I know Nick will really appreciate it.”
The five people joined hands and prayed for the tiny child struggling for life. Then Midge stepped out into the hall and phoned Nick, giving him the urgent details.
Within thirty minutes, Nick Brommer entered the hospital room, flushed and breathing heavily. “I’m sorry I’m out of breath,” he apologized to the entire group. “I wanted to get here as soon as possible.” He glanced at Midge standing at the end of the hospital crib and walked quickly over to her side, the four other adults looking on.
“This is… the baby?” His eyes were riveted on the sleeping child in front of him. “He’s… he’s sure cute.” He smiled shyly. Midge smiled, too, touched by the tears she saw glistening in Nick’s eyes. Nick would always hold a special place in her heart, she knew, long after the bitterness with which she struggled had passed. Dear Nick—humble much of the time. Certainly now.
“Is… is he doing better?” The question was thrown out into the air, as if Nick couldn’t count on Midge’s kindness any more than that of any of the rest of the group. Midge said nothing, and Nick turned to Lou, who deferred to John with a raised eyebrow as if asking him to respond.
John, for his part, turned to Bob Mackey. “What’s the latest word from the doctor, Bob?”
Bob looked at Nick and reached out his hand. “Hello, Nick. I’m Bob Mackey, Austin’s dad.” He smiled. “I don’t think you’ve met either June or me.” Bob put his arm around June, who reached out her hand in turn.
“It’s nice to meet you. Nick…?” she paused, and Nick eagerly replied, nodding his head. “Brommer.”
“We’re glad you could come, Nick,” Bob said. “Our little son is having a tough time. So, of course, we’re having a tough time, too. He’s very precious to us. From the moment he came to us, every aspect of our lives has changed so much for the better—wonderfully better.”
“He’s so special—so wonderful,” June added, wiping away tears brimming in her eyes.
Nick cautiously came a little closer to the sleeping child. “Yeah,” he whispered, “Yeah.” He looked at the baby, scrutinizing him. Presently, he looked at Bob again. “So…what does the doctor say?”
“He says it’s a little bit of a waiting game. They’re doing all they can for him right now… antibiotics, fluids, nutrition. Uh… didn’t they give you a mask at the nurses’ station?”
“I kinda flew by there. I’m sorry. I’ll get one now.” He turned to leave and then turned back again, addressing Bob and June Mackey. “Would you mind if I stay a little while—maybe a half hour?”
“No, Nick. We don’t mind.” Bob spoke, but there was an undeniable reservation in his voice.
“Thanks, man.”
Nick came back in a hospital gown, stood by the crib, and studied the baby for almost twenty minutes, periodically glancing at his watch, and then focusing again on the tiny child. He glanced briefly from time to time at the family members talking in low voices around him, who seemed to defer to him for this brief time. Finally, as the thirty minutes came to an end, he looked across at Bob and June again. “I’m grateful to you for letting me come.” He turned to Midge. “Thanks for calling me,” he smiled.
Midge smiled back, unreservedly now, and nodded, not responding otherwise. She could tell Nick was about to lose his composure, and knew she’d break into tears if she herself tried to speak. Her eyes followed him out the door and down the hall until she saw him enter the elevator.
“He seems like a very nice young man, Midge,” June offered. “I’m glad we could meet him.”
“Thank you for allowing him to come,” Midge replied. “I know he’s very glad the baby’s alive and has such good parents.” The doctor arrived, and John and Lou prepared to leave, taking a last look at their grandson. Midge looked at her dad and mother and whispered, “Do you think we could wait to hear what the doctor says before we leave?”
“Perhaps the Mackeys could call you, honey.” Lou glanced at them.
“Of course we’ll call. We’ll keep you updated. And don’t worry. We’re not leaving his side until he’s moved out of ICU.” Hugs were exchanged, and the three Fergusons left.
……….
Settled into a comfortable apartment with her lucrative job back as Dr. Hal Lennox’s medical assistant, Patrice Hamlin’s life was gradually improving. Nearly two years had passed since that fateful conception of Marc Garmon’s child. It had been very difficult living with her failed goal to be recognized as the first pregnant woman to unselfishly nurture a fetus to full term for the express purpose of donating the fetus to medical science.
Looking back now, she found herself second-guessing those aspirations that had motivated her for so many months. She had not counted on the culmination of her planned pregnancy and abortion resulting in the termination of her relationship with Marc. His unexpected attachment to the fetus had most certainly surprised her. That attachment had begun to surface undeniably even in the early months of pregnancy, but she had fought to disregard it—to deny it, day by day. In those months, long before she disclosed her plan to Marc on that day when he had viciously responded with disbelief, she had taken on a peculiar stress which she thoughtfully self-described as a wrenched psyche. On the one hand, it pleased her, she had to admit, in spite of her hidden career expectations, that he so anticipated the birth of their child. After all, it felt good to be loved and appreciated in this pregnancy, even though she secretly considered the outcome of it to be her singular responsibility.
On the other hand, her personal goals demanded that she stay on her own path independent of Marc, especially in view of his surprising display of father-bonding to the fetus. But forging that path produced a wedge that relentlessly grew between herself and Marc in direct relation to his growing anticipation of fatherhood. There seemed to be no possible resolution other than the confidence she felt, or, more accurately—she reflected now in retrospect—wanted to feel, that Marc would concede to her plans out of his love for her. But as the months of gestation progressed, her trust that he would recognize and approve the altruism inherent in her decision steadily diminished.
Now, almost a year after the abortion, she found herself hoping that the fetus’ body parts had been useful in research, because not much else had gone as planned.
No, Patrice hadn’t counted on Marc’s becoming so attached to the baby—the fetus. The fallout from this not only had proven disastrous to their relationship; it had also dangerously attacked her mental health, temporarily at least. For a few brief months, she had lived with a depression that had frightened her.
During this emotional low-point, she had been surprised by Marc’s over-concern for her; in fact, she had felt violated by his amateur private detective work involving Carla Chadwell and Nancy Herring. However, she had to acknowledge that Marc’s making her business his business had in the end helped her to get back on track pursuing a medical career. And there was one thing of which she was certain: it was Nancy Herring’s stubborn friendship that had prevailed against the isolation that had been feeding her depression.
In her introspection, Patrice found herself recalling the painful altercation with Marc at the Blue Spruce Bar. Even that had not ended up a total negative. While walking back to her car from the restaurant that day, after Marc had left, a woman had approached her. The woman confided that she had overheard parts of the couple’s heated conversation. With obvious sincerity and enough discretion to secure Patrice’s listening ear, she introduced herself as Danielle, and spoke comforting words to Patrice, sharing that she herself had had an abortion. She encouraged her that life would go on very well if she would just look forward and refuse to look back.
“You have dreams,” she had advised. “Pursue them. Keep looking to the future and you’ll be fine. God loves you, no matter what.” Patrice had thanked her for her words and also agreed to meet her for coffee. The outcome was a friendship that Patrice valued. She found it helpful to be connected to a woman who shared the experience of abortion, and Patrice did her best to follow Danielle’s advice.
A particular activity Patrice enjoyed these days, in conjunction with her goal of becoming a doctor, was visiting the hospital. She made a practice of spending time in a different ward every time she came, which was sometimes as often as three times a week. But she consistently spent Sundays in the obstetrics and pediatrics wards.
One Sunday evening, passing through the pediatric ward, she saw a little boy about a year old in an isolation crib. Despite the numerous tubes attached to him, Patrice couldn’t help but notice how cute he was. She stood there watching him on the other side of the glass, his tiny diaphragm moving up and down rapidly as he slept. She peered at the identification. Austin Mackey. 13 months.
Patrice stood pensive, calculating dates in her mind. Her own baby—Trent, as Marc had named him—would have been close to this age and size. She pursed her lips and turned away, chiding herself for even thinking of the fetus she’d donated as her “baby.” Seeing a couple approaching, she left, but not before turning back again for one last look. She glanced again at the name, locking it into her memory.
……….
All weekend, Carla racked her brains, trying to figure out Marc’s reason for driving past the abortion clinic early Saturday morning. She finally came to the conclusion that his curiosity must have gotten the best of him.
As she seated herself at her desk Monday, she opened her drawer and picked up the wristband. “Well, my days here might be numbered, Lord,” she prayed silently, “but please water the seeds that have been planted.”
Marc walked in, taking her by surprise. “Oh! You’re in early today,” she exclaimed, putting the bracelet back into the drawer as discreetly as possible.
“A few minutes. How are you doing?” The greeting was perfunctory, stated as Marc went right past and into his own office, shutting the door. Once again, for a fleeting moment, Carla wanted to trade all her commitment to God and all her commitment to the babies for being able to pick up where Marc and she had left off before their conversation in his car at Corner’s Coffee.
But it was only a fleeting moment, succeeded by a soundless groan. “Help me, Lord, to love. I don’t want to be bitter.” Then she turned to her tasks at hand.
The first hour was a busy one, and Carla forgot about the circumstances outside the office. At 9:00, Nancy stopped by.
“And?” she whispered.
Carla pressed her index finger to her mouth and shook her head, waving with her other hand to signal Nancy to leave. Nancy did.
A few moments later, Carla got up from her chair, emboldened by Nancy’s prompting, to ask Marc about Saturday morning. She decided to get coffee for herself and Marc. “Why not?” she thought to herself. “He can choose not to be friends anymore, but I don’t.”
When she returned, holding both mugs in one hand, she tapped his door and opened it when he said, “Come in.”
“Like some coffee?”
Marc looked up and smiled a surface smile. “Sure. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Carla smiled, too, but sincerely. “I have the Warner report ready whenever you want to see it.”
“Thank you. Would you mind bringing it in?” He pointed to the desk corner and then picked up his phone to dial.
Carla complied and then returned to her desk, closing the door. She engrossed herself in work, enjoying the morning well enough, and giving minimal thought to Saturday’s events.
At 11:30, Marc opened the door and came over to Carla’s desk.
“Can I buy you a sandwich?”
“A sandwich? Now?” Carla’s face reflected her surprise.
“Mmm… How about dinner after work?”
She looked up at him, searching his eyes. “All right. Shall we meet somewhere?”
“Yes. How about Martina’s?”
Carla’s thoughts in a flashing moment embraced the romantic ambiance of the little restaurant, and she replied immediately—to her own surprise, “I’d rather meet at Szechuan Palace. I’m more familiar with that part of town.”
“OK. I won’t be in the office after 3:30 today. Does 5:00 sound all right?”
“That would be perfect. I’ll go straight from work.”
Marc raised his hand and thumbed to the north. “I’m meeting with Nickson to go over Warner’s report in a few minutes.” Then he pointed his index finger at Carla, smiling. “Don’t forget.”
Carla smiled back. “I won’t.”