Free Kalila by Rosemary Nixon

old-man faces. Bee. Beebeebee. Their lives played out to their beeper soundtracks. I imagine all these babies crying, Mom! how heads would turn, pass a new dad holding his baby. The baby’s tongue darts from between his lips, as if testing his environment, or trying to escape. His palms and the soles of his feet are purplish. The dad slides off his wedding band and slips it on the hand. The baby’s whole fist fits within it.
    Down’s syndrome, one nurse says, low, to another, nodding. Came in last night. You learn to read the signs.
    Down’s syndrome! Someone found a name!
    Skipper threw up on the floor this morning. Regarded me drearily. Turned and sat humped, back to me, while I cleaned it up. He’s mourning the days when each sunrise held promise of a romp on Nose Hill. A dad sits holding a baby in the oak rocking chair against the far wall, an orange braided rug beneath his feet. He’s staring into space, seeing another landscape. A row over, a mom arranges a tape recorder inside an isolette. The parents here don’t talk much. What is there to say?
    Just finished chest physio.
    I turn toward the cheerful voice, a young nurse tripping over a cord. She grins and lays it against a neighbouring isolette. I haven’t seen this one before. Gangly, a little klutzy. Maybe twenty-five. She holds in her hand a yellow toothbrush. I hold my dictionary. Face off.
    Are you by chance Jewish?
    Behind me, two nurses argue about the colour of Smarties. No, says one, the brown ones taste the same.
    Excuse me?
    The doctors were wondering if you might be Jewish.
    I look at her.
    DiGeorge syndrome. No Jews in your family history? DiRiley syndrome? Your husband’s?
    Sure, I’ll be Jewish. Don’t we all stem from Adam? I have a drop of Jewish blood.
    We’re going to repeat her blood gases shortly.
    Is she worse?
    She tolerated physio. The nurse waves the toothbrush. But she’s had dusky spells. Temp’s down. Of course, we don’t have the whole picture.
    Of course.
    The nurse walks to another baby, scours the wee chest with a bright red toothbrush.
    I glance down at the chart lying open on Kalila’s isolette.
    Ask Dr. Hindle to evaluate exotropia.
    Obtain nerve condition studies
    Book for EXS
    Attempts to start scalp IV unsuccessful. Problems with IVs going interstitial.
    Angiocath started by resident. Interstitial. IV finally started in left hand.
    The nurse returns to primly close the chart.
    I slide onto the stool. What’s this? A toque. Kalila, usually naked except for a diaper, is in a tiny white hospital gown, the kind that opens at the back, ties up the neck. Her huge blue diaper sticks out beneath it. And on her head, a blue-grey knitted toque. The kind a grandma would knit for a doll. It sits high, bending her ears. Matching her colour, dusky blue. She’s breathing fast, as if air were being pumped in and out of her. Her stomach balloons, drops, balloons. A cut on her left foot. Blue bruising up the ankle. Her hand swathed in bandages, a needle stuck in, cardboard taped awkwardly round to hold it steady. Can’t take my eyes off that little toque.
    Who gave her this?
    Her temperature was down, Mrs. Solantz. She wasn’t warm.
    Somewhere down the line a beeper sings.
    Could I wash her nighties? Who gave her this?
    The hospital does that, honey.
    I insert my hands through the thick plastic isolette holes. Knee against the cold blue metal drawer. Kalila breathes. I take hold of the unbandaged hand. Stroke, and the baby’s fingers curl.
    Baby’s bed’s a silver moon
    Sailing o’er the sky
    Sailing over the sea of sleep
    While the stars float by …
    Another mom seats herself by her baby at the far end of the room. Between us a long, untidy row of metallic boxes. Two doors at the bottom, an attempt at a dresser, dials and buttons cross the centre, made of steel. Babies perch in their top bunks, their lookout towers. Do the babies think this is an