“Bring him here,” Wyatt said. Jeanne settled him on his back on a bed of towels piled on the kitchen table. He tilted the baby’s head back, dropped his ear close to his mouth. Shook his head, face dark. “Nora, ready?”
She nodded, positioning herself at the baby’s head. With two fingers, Wyatt pushed rapidly down on the baby’s chest, pausing for Nora as she put her mouth over the baby’s nose and mouth and exhaled two short breaths. Each time, the little chest rose and fell. He looked like a doll, his skin losing, not gaining color.
“Raj, the injections.”
Raj flicked the needle and a drop rolled out. Wyatt stopped the CPR, and Nora stood back, the baby limp on his cradle of towels. Raj lay the needle alongside the baby’s chest. Angled it down and punctured the skin, injecting into the child’s heart.
We waited.
No sound, no movement.
Unbearable stillness.
Nora cried out but covered her mouth. Regained her composure. The silence in the room rushed back, much more terrible than her cry.
“Jeanne,” Wyatt said. “Come on, get him ready.”
She brought over two small pads that had been cut down from the adult size, and spaced them diagonally across his tiny chest. Wyatt flipped on the machine, said, “Stand back.”
We did.
His small frame bucked with the shock.
Wyatt checked for signs of life.
Nothing.
Another shock. A third.
“Nora, let’s go!”
Eyes shining, Nora tilted the baby’s head back and blew into him. I felt numb, outside my body, as if I were watching from an enormous distance. Helpless. I thought of Sigrid’s small body enduring all of this, but there she was, doodling on the sketch pad on the living room floor.
After three more rounds of compressions and rescue breathing, the baby lay inert on his pallet of towels.
Jeanne readied the defibrillator and zapped his little body once, twice, three times, checking for breathing or a heartbeat at every turn. Wyatt stood undeterred, pads in hand, ready for a fourth round.
Raj staggered a step back from the table, sweat slicking his forehead as if he’d been running laps. “He’s gone. Let’s stop this.”
Wyatt shocked the child, checked for signs, peeled off the pads, and turned to Raj.
“Nothing’s different than what we did last time. This is what it takes. Another injection, let’s go.”
“No, man, it’s been eleven minutes. Nearly twelve. I’m not—”
Wyatt lunged for the needle and bottle of adrenaline, sucked up the fluid and injected the child again, deep into his heart. No reaction.
“Nora, come on, the CPR.”
“But, Wyatt, nothing’s…” She turned away and stumbled out of the kitchen. Raj followed her, wrapped his arms around her.
“His lungs are clear!” Wyatt roared. Nobody moved. “Are you all fucking insane? Jeanne, help me.”
Jeanne dutifully tilted the child’s head back. For close to five more minutes, they tried to pump his heart alive, to breathe life into that tiny body, into lungs that rose and fell with Jeanne’s breath. But there was no independent movement, no pulse, no heartbeat.
Finally, the counting stopped.
No child’s cries. No exultations. No miracles.
Nora extracted herself from Raj’s embrace and lurched back to the kitchen. The baby lay still on his dais of towels, elfin arms splayed back, perfect hands and fingers fixed in a gentle curl. Wyatt and Jeanne had turned their backs to him, conferring in a huddle by the sink, as if they couldn’t bear the sight.
Nora went to the baby, who was bathed in moonglow. Cradling his head, she gathered him up and swaddled him in a towel.
“Wyatt, please, you did it with her.” Nodding in Sigrid’s direction, she stroked his fine black hair, jounced the baby as if comforting him. “Why couldn’t you make it work for him? You told us you knew what you were doing.” Her voice broke into a choking sob.
“Nora, please.” He faced away from her, leaning heavily on the sink. “We’re all disappointed.”
“Disappointed?” she cried with reddened eyes. She bounced the baby harder. His head lolled back horribly; she held him tighter. “I’m disappointed when my train’s late. When I don’t get any birthday cards. When my hairdresser fucks up my hair. I’m holding a dead baby. Disappointed…” She paced. “You’re the one who said you knew how. You’re the one who said he would live—”
“Guess you weren’t listening very well, Nora. That wasn’t—”