When the Wind Blows - James Patterson [10]
“I’m fine, good. Jelly’s just the right temp.”
It happened so suddenly, almost as if it were a bad dream. “Baby’s heart rate is dropping,” Dr. Brownhill said. His voice cracked. “One hundred, ninety-seven, ninety-five.” He turned to Jilly. “We have to crash her, stat. Hold on, Annie. Hold on tight.”
Everything moved so quickly after that, and efficiently, under the tense, crisis circumstances. Everything was a blur for Annie. Then she went out.
Less than forty minutes later, much sooner than expected, Dr. John Brownhill personally brought the newborn to the preemie nursery. According to the Apgar scores from the delivery room, the boy was in excellent health, but every precaution was being taken, anyway.
A clean tube was inserted into the infant’s windpipe, a pressurized hood was fitted around the tiny head. This ensured that a continuous supply of low-pressure oxygen would be directed into the sacs of the slightly immature lungs.
A blood analysis was done from a plastic tube inserted into the umbilicus.
An electronic thermometer was taped to the infant’s skin.
A nasogastric feeding tube was inserted into the nose. Breast milk was fed through it, just in case the infant boy wasn’t quite ready to suck.
A neonatal intensive-care specialist hovered over Annie Hutton’s precious little boy, checking everything, making sure he was okay.
“He’s doing fine. A-okay. The boy’s in good shape, John,” one of the specialists told Dr. Brownhill. “Head’s forty-one centimeters, by the way. Big head about himself.”
“As well he should.”
John Brownhill finally left the preemie nursery and climbed the two floors to where Annie Hutton was recovering from her C-section.
The twenty-four-year-old mother didn’t look nearly as well as her infant son. Her ash-blond hair was wet with perspiration, plastered in tight curls. Her eyes were vacant and lost. She definitely looked like someone who had recently undergone an unexpected C-section.
Dr. Brownhill came right up to her bed. He leaned in close and spoke in his usual soft, reassuring tone. He even took her hand.
“Annie, I’m so sorry. We couldn’t save him,” he whispered. “We lost your baby boy.”
Chapter 9
THE HUTTON BABY arrived at the School within hours of its delivery in the Boulder clinic. A team outfitted in what looked like space suits rushed out to meet the Boulder Community ambulance. They hurried the infant inside. There was a high degree of excitement in the air, exultation, almost glee.
The head doctor at the School was on premises for the exam and watched closely, supervising, lecturing at times.
Heart rate, respiration, skin color, muscle tone, reflex responses were checked. Baby Hutton scored a perfect 10.
The boy’s length and weight were checked. Tests were performed to check for cardiac murmur, heart engorgement, subcon-junctival hemorrhage, jaundice, asexuality, hip dysplasia, clavicle fractures, skin mottling.
There was a nevus, a tiny birthmark on the right hip. It was noted as an “imperfection.”
Most of the testing involved the boy’s gross and fine motor coordination, and also his ability to manipulate the environment. The head doctor remained in the lab for every test, commenting on each as it was completed.
“The head circumference is forty-one centimeters. That would be normal for about a four-month-old. That’s one reason the C-section was necessary, of course. The heart is larger as well, and more efficient. His heartbeat is under a hundred. That’s simply wonderful. What a little champ.
“But watch Baby Hutton. That’s the key. That’s where the real drama lies. He’s listening to us, and he’s paying attention. See that? Look at his eyes. Newborns don’t fix and follow—never. He’s actually tracking us from one to the other. Do you understand what that means?
“Infants never remember objects after they disappear. He does. He’s definitely watching us. Look at his little eyes. He already has memory. He’s just a super baby!”
Chapter 10
I WOKE UP trying to catch my breath, crying softly over a horrible, crushing dream about