Free Briana's Gift by Lurlene McDaniel Page A

Bree’s estimated due date. There are six. “B-but it’s too soon.”
    “The doctors know what they’re doing. They have to do what’s best for the baby.” The bulging joints of Mom’s arthritic hands look clenched and pale on the steering wheel, like the bones might poke through her skin.
    “The baby was doing just fine yesterday,” I say. “What went wrong?” I ask the question in spite of seeing that Mom is losing patience with me. I don’t know why I ask dumb questions when I’m scared, but I do.
    “Be quiet, Sissy,” Mom says. “I don’t know anything more than what I’ve already told you.”
    We arrive at the hospital and go straight to the maternity floor, only to be told that Dr. Kendrow wants us to wait for her inside a tiny cubicle off one of the hallways. “How’s the baby?” Mom asks.
    The nurse says, “She’s been taken to Neonatal ICU.”
    “But is she too premature?”
    “The doctor will be here any minute,” the nurse says sympathetically.
    Minutes later, Dr. Kendrow shows up and drags a chair close to me and Mom. The doctor is wearing green scrubs and a surgical hat. By now I feel sick to my stomach and I’m hoping I don’t throw up. She says quickly, “The baby is fine. We have her in an oxygen mask and a special incubator in ICU. I’m thinking she’s about thirty-four, maybe thirty-five weeks old. That’s good. She’s seventeen and a half inches long, four and three-quarters pounds.”
    Mom asks, “And her lungs?”
    “She’ll need a little help breathing for a while.”
    “Can we see her?” I blurt out.
    “In a minute,” Dr. Kendrow says. I can tell she has something else on her mind that she wants to tell us.
    Mom asks, “What happened? Why was the baby in trouble?”
    The doctor takes her time answering. “Briana came down with a sudden and fast-moving infection and we thought it best to get the baby out quickly.”
    “And my daughter?”
    “Briana’s heart stopped about noon and we could no longer sustain her on life support.”
    A hammer hits my chest. Tears fill my eyes. My sister has been dead all along, but now the machines are gone and with them our illusion of life.
    Mom bows her head. “I—I…”
    Dr. Kendrow reaches out and clasps Mom’s hands, clenched together in her lap. “I’m so very sorry. I wish things could have gone differently.” Dr. Kendrow still doesn’t move. I can’t believe there’s anything left for her to say, but there is. “Before I take you in to see the baby, I thought you might like some time alone with your daughter. She’s in the delivery room.”
    Mom nods, reaches over and takes my hand. “You coming, Sissy?”
    My throat is clogged. I stand up on wobbly legs. An hour ago, I was playing my flute; now I’m telling Bree goodbye forever.
    We follow Dr. Kendrow through doors marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
    The surgical room is small, with all kinds of equipment and big silver overhead lights that are turned off and no longer shining on the table below them. The room is icy cold, and my teeth chatter. Bree lies on the table, covered by clean sheets pulled up to her neck. Holding hands, Mom and I walk over, look down on Bree’s pretty face. She looks serene, her skin smooth as glass.
    Her arms and legs make straight lines beneath the sheet, no longer drawing up as when she was on life support. I wonder if Nicole has come down and straightened them out, then realize that someone else has probably done this.
    “Hello, honey.” Mom touches my sister’s cheek.
    I want to touch her too, but I don’t. I tell myself there’s no difference between this version of Bree and the one who has lain up in the Neuro unit, but I press my palms against my thighs, unable to reach out and do it.
    “Take all the time you want.” Dr. Kendrow’s voice startles me. I’ve forgotten she’s with us.
    Mom’s crying hard now. I cry more quietly.
We’ll take good care of your baby,
I pledge to my sister in my heart.
    “What