Free The Lifeguard by Deborah Blumenthal Page B

and cryptic. There’s darkness in their short, hard lines, as if their creativity is locked inside a prison of pain.
    I get to Cody’s room and think I’m in the wrong place. The balloons at the foot of the bed are gone. So is the stuffed animal menagerie that surrounded his TV. The bed is stripped, the mattress bare. Everything is lifeless and sterile. I check the number next to the door.
    It’s not the wrong room.
    It’s like he never existed.
    I run to the nurse’s desk. “Jane, where’s Cody? What happened?”
    She looks at me sympathetically. “Back in the ICU, Sirena,” she says in almost in a whisper. “There were complications.”
    “Like what?
    “He started having seizures and vomiting.”
    I’m not a doctor, I don’t understand this, but her face tells me all I have to know. “What’s going to happen to him?”
    She shakes her head. “We just don’t know. It’s hard to tell at this point.”
    “He’s just a little boy.”
    She reaches out and touches my hand. “I know, honey. It’s never easy working here, especially in Pediatrics.”
    I walk back into his room and sit in the chair near the empty bed, my arms crossed over my chest, my eyes closed. Finally I get up and walk to the window. Birds are circling in a big grassy field as if they smell food and are ready to swoop down. I think of the pterodactyls. One creature surviving at the expense of another. The coldness of nature. Where does a little child fit in? Whom would he fall prey to?
    Just outside the door I see Pilot. Why is he here? He steps into the room and looks around.
    “Where’s Cody?”
    He’s been caught off guard, setting off a rush of nervousness and uncertainty in me.
    “I…He’s back in the ICU, I heard.”
    His eyes are shadowed with concern. “Since when?”
    “This morning…He started having seizures.”
    I expect to hear him say something reassuring to give me hope; instead he disappears into the hallway.
    On my way out I pass the chapel. I’ve never been inside it. I can’t remember the last time I was in church. Now I should be first in line at confession.
    You’re a thief, Sirena.
    Is this my punishment?
    I tug open one of the heavy wooden doors. No white sterile rooms and life-support machines here. The room is bathed in warm, golden light. Candles flicker on the altar. Diffused light pours through a stained glass window. I feel like I’m inside a Flemish painting.
    I slide onto a cool wooden bench, lean back, and close my eyes. This has more to do with serenity than religion. I think of sanctuary and the power of distant prayer.
    Is there anything I can do to help him? Some people are convinced that praying for others can heal them, even if you don’t know them personally. Others swear it makes no difference. What would Aunt Ellie say? Science, science fiction, or something in between?
    What I do know is that science and proof are apart from believing and, hoping so, I focus on Cody’s skin and hair, his angelic face, his innocence, and all the life ahead of him. I have to do this, I have to help. I can’t just stand there helpless and watch a baby die without trying, no matter how pathetic my help is. I squeeze my eyes shut, summoning up all the power in me to will him to get better. The alternative is unthinkable.
    Tears pool in my eyes. Only now it’s not just about Cody making it, it’s about how everything will turn out in my life too, even though I know that’s selfish. I want to draw on all the power in the universe to make him better so that he can go home. I want to make my parents love me too and I want to have a real home to go back to and a real life again.
    I want to fix everything at once.
    I ask for help as hard as I can as if there’s a giant healing machine you can call on to steamroll over all your problems at once and make them disappear. I want to fix the road ahead and make it freshly paved without any bumps so everything in life will be smooth and easy and filled with joy.