Light on snow_ a novel - Anita Shreve [69]
And then I begin to think about how my father and I drove north from New York and settled in a town called Shepherd. Charlotte and James drove south from Burlington and found a random motel in Shepherd. Our paths crossed at a single spot in the woods. But what if, I wonder, on the second day of our trip, my father and I had figured out the complicated interchange at White River Junction and gone north as we were supposed to do? What if my father had decided to make a go of it in New York after all? What if my mother had dropped a quarter at the register when she was buying a present for her parents at the mall and knelt to retrieve it, thus delaying her two seconds to her car? What if my father had not, as my mother had once told me, walked into the university library one spring morning to read about the Yankees-Orioles game the night before and seen my mother at the circulation desk, studying for a chemistry exam while putting in her work-study hours, and asked her, on the spur of the moment, how he might get permission to look at a series of rare Jefferson drawings kept in the vault?
I would not exist. My father and mother would not have married. There would have been no Clara.
I want to believe that my father and I were meant to stumble across Baby Doris and give her a chance at life. But now I’m not so sure. I am thinking about accidents and intersecting footsteps as I drift off to sleep.
Six days after Clara was born, she developed a cough and a fever. My mother took her to the pediatrician, who prescribed a mild antibiotic and cool baths which made my sister howl. Her temperature came down, and my mother thought the worst was over. That afternoon I went into my parents’ room to see Clara, who was sleeping on her back, her body uncovered but for a diaper. My mother, who hadn’t eaten since the evening before, had gone downstairs to make herself a bowl of soup. I sat on my parents’ bed and gazed at the crib, Clara’s tiny body moving in and out of focus depending upon whether I stared at the wooden bars of the railing or at her. The crib sheet and comforter were of pastel checks; a threadbare duck we called Quack-Quack was perched in a corner. Quack-Quack was remarkably intact but for the missing plush on one side of his face. I actually thought he looked a little creepy and was glad when Clara inherited him. As I watched, I let my eyes focus on Clara, and I noticed that her stomach, below her rib cage, compressed with each breath. I hadn’t known this about babies before, and I thought it fascinating. It was as though her skin were a thin rubber membrane and someone was sucking the air out her back. I observed this for a few minutes more, and it suddenly occurred to me that this might not be normal. I went to the top of the stairs and called my mother.
“Mom?”
I could hear her in the kitchen.
“Mom?” I yelled again.
“What?” she asked from the bottom of the stairs.
“Clara’s stomach is doing something weird,” I said.
Perhaps I had noticed it because I was eye level with my sister. Or maybe it was only because I was bored and had nothing to do. My mother came running up the stairs. “See?” I pointed. “The way it goes up and down?”
“You’re right,” she said, at first not understanding its significance. “I’ll call Dr. Blake.”
She sat on the bed and made the call. She was in the middle of describing Clara’s condition when she was interrupted. She sat up straight. “Yes,” she said. “Right away.”
She hung up and called for an ambulance.
“Mom?” I asked. “What is it?”
“It’s okay,” she said. “We just have to get Clara checked out.” She picked Clara up and held her head against her shoulder. “Grab the diaper bag,” she said.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“We’re waiting for an ambulance,” she said.
“To go to the hospital?