Chapter Thirty-Six
Theo
Finally, I have the place to myself. The last family left me alone on the second pew—alone with my thoughts and fears. The ornate stained-glass windows depict the life of Christ, making me feel welcome. The large cross above the altar beckons me to kneel and cast my burdens on my God. The candles flicker softly in the dimly lit chapel. If I listen carefully, maybe God will tell me in simple words what I’m supposed to do. So far, the noise in my head occludes any divine messages.
My baby is so sick, and I am unable to do anything about it. It goes against my code as a physician to give up. Even more so, it goes against my code as a father, even though this is all new to me. I don’t have a clue what to do. I feel as though I’m failing her; I’m failing everyone.
A shadow falls across my shoulder. Isaac tiptoes up the aisle. He lights a candle, kneels at the altar railing, and folds his hands in a silent prayer. When he stands, our eyes meet. He sits down beside me. We sit in silence for what seems like an eternity. I guess we both are hoping for some divine intervention.
I feel an arm go around my shoulder. I cannot stop myself from laying my head on his shoulder. The tears begin, and I am having trouble breathing. Isaac holds me.
“I can’t lose my girl.”
“You won’t,” he says.
I wipe my face and sit back up. He pats my shoulder with one hand and wipes the tears off his face with the other.
“I never thought I’d have a daughter. I dreamed about it but never thought it would happen. And now—”
“I know. And you’re going to have lots of years with her.”
My shoulders slump. “I don’t know, man. I always thought I had unwavering faith, but I don’t know anymore.” I lean over to rest my forehead on the back of the pew in front of me.
He pats my back. “You have to be strong.”
“She has to make it, or I don’t think I will.”
He sits up taller. “Listen to me.” Candlelight flickers on his dark, tear-stained face. “I know you and Darla aren’t in a good place right now. But if things go south—”
I snap my head toward him.
He puts his hands up in defense. “I’m not saying I think they will, but if they do, you have to be strong for Darla.” His voice cracks. I can see the pain he’s been holding in during this terrible time. He’s devastated too. He loves Stella, and I’m so thankful she’s had him in her life.
He clears his throat before continuing. “She’s a mommy. Please be strong for her. I’m begging you. She can’t be left hanging. Not right now.”
I bury my face in my hands. He sniffles. I know what he’s saying is what needs to be said, but it hurts so much. I don’t know if I have anything left to comfort anyone else.
He stands to leave. “Your faith is still there. You’re trying too hard.” He takes out a tissue and dabs at his eyes.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Peace, brother.”
Isaac leaves, and I’m all alone again in this beautiful chapel.
Thank you, Lord. I needed that.
I drag myself back to the dark, quiet waiting room. Most of the families have already settled in for the night. The ones that are still awake speak in hushed tones so as not to disrupt the ones that are faking sleep. I tiptoe over to the cabinet, take out a blanket and pillow, and head back to my designated corner. It’s so dark that I can’t see Darla, but I know she’s in her usual spot on the loveseat across the room.
Several people exit the bathroom, causing a blinding sliver of light to filter through the drab environment. Darla flips over and shades her eyes with her pillow. I should go to her. She’s not asleep. But I’d better not. If I go over there, I would probably screw up again. Maybe I’ll try to talk to her tomorrow after I’ve had some sleep. I unfold the blanket, place it on the floor, and prop the pillow up against the wall. My bones are so rigid from sleeping in this position. I feel like an old man with my stiff, creaky back and knees. I groan as I try to find a comfortable position on the floor. I wedge myself into the corner so I won’t fall. I’m so weak that I don’t think I could keep myself from sliding over into a heap on the floor if I start heading in that direction. I’m so damn tired.
The last time I had the nerve to check out my reflection in the mirror, I couldn’t believe that was me staring back. Dark circles reside under my puffy eyes, and my skin is a sickly, sallow color. My physical appearance shows exactly how I feel on the inside: empty, dead, and lost.
I check my phone for any text messages. A few coworkers have left messages asking about Stella and letting me know that they are thinking of me. Before I shut down my phone for the night, my thumb hovers over the photo album app. I finally have the nerve to check out the last few photos I added. They are of the birthday celebration. I swipe through them, landing on the last photo we took at the ice cream parlor. We were so happy that day. Life fell apart so quickly not long after.
I close my eyes and pretend I’m in my apartment, hoping I can convince myself that I’m in a soft comfy bed down the hall from my healthy daughter and that this is all a terrible nightmare. So far, I haven’t been able to convince myself.
Out of the still darkness, one sniffle after another breaks the silence. That’s a pretty typical sound at night. Nighttime is when at least one mother breaks down. She can be strong during the day when she puts on her brave face, but at night, the truth comes out. Fortunately, the sobs are usually followed by someone trying to comfort her. This quite often makes the sadness worse before it makes it better.
Tonight, there aren’t any encouraging words, only an occasional sniffle. In the dead quiet, someone hiccups. Sniffle, sniffle, hiccup, hiccup. Jesus. It’s Darla crying, and she has no one to tell her it’s all going to be okay.
She flops her blanket off. In the shadows, her silhouette sits up, and her hands rake through her hair. She stands and shuffles toward the bathroom. When the sliver of light breaks through the waiting room, I see Darla slip inside.
Shit. I know I should be the one to comfort her, but I don’t think I can. At this point, I’ll probably say the wrong thing and make her feel worse than she already does.
Crap. I get my selfish butt off the floor, one sore knee at a time, and creep over to the bathroom. I slip inside, trying to keep the light from disturbing those attempting to sleep. I stand with my back to the door, not sure what to do now that I’m here. I peek under the stall doors and see her body curled up in the back stall. More hiccups. More sobs. Her breath catches in her throat. My breath catches in mine. She needs someone to hold her. She needs me to hold her, but my stupid feet won’t move. This should be automatic. I should rush over to her and tell her I’m here for her. I can support her, and she can support me. That’s how it works.
I want to. I really do. But I can’t. It’s as if my feet are glued to the floor. As much as Darla is hurting, I’m hurting too. I don’t know if I have it in me to fake a comforting hug.
The door behind me bumps me out of the way. A lady gasps. I put my finger to my mouth as I slip out the door. This lady will help her. They can help each other. I don’t know if it’s because of pride or pain, but I can’t do it. I don’t know if I will ever be able to do it. I don’t care. I don’t. I really don’t. God, I feel like a pathetic loser.