Page 8 of Hidden Truths

The drive would take ten minutes.

When he walked to the car parked against the curb, he saw the left rear tire. Flat as all hell.

He crouched down and ran his hand over the tread.

Slashed.How about that.

A flat tire. A delay to be pounced on. Another day wasted. And the clock was ticking.

Max rolled up his sleeves and got the spare out of the trunk.

Too bad for whoever had done this—he’d worked at a tire store in high school.

CHAPTER FIVE

THISTIMEWHENKellen’s spirit came to consciousness, when she found herself standing outside her body, she knew what to do. She caught a pink and blue ribbon of emotion, and let it carry her to the newborn nursery.

The babies. Oh, the infants! Squalling, sleeping, pooping, battling the restraints of their blankets, their eyes unfocused…except when they looked at Kellen. Her they saw, and somehow they sent comfort and reassurance. Wherever they’d come from, Kellen was going, and they knew she would be happy there.

Being the kind of love-song-listening type of person Kellen was, she believed them and sent thanks.

Another emotion, writhing with misery, tugged at her, and she followed a weak, pitiful, constant crying into the ICU nursery. Other babies lived in this room, in their incubators, fighting for life with every breath. The emotion didn’t come from them, but from a tiny girl hooked up to a breathing tube and an IV. She exuded misery, pain, despair.

Kellen hovered over her. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t have a voice, but the baby heard her and gave her a glance that pleaded and dismissed and returned to the fight that occupied all her strength.

“Her mother was addicted to cocaine, alcohol, you name it.” It was as if the nearby doctor had heard Kellen and answered her question. He lifted his head from the patient’s chart and said, “The mother came in while in labor, produced the baby and was gone. Here this kid is, three months premature and in agony as she goes through withdrawal.”

“I know that, Dr. Davis.” The pediatric ICU nurse seemed perplexed at the doctor’s explanation. “Poor kid hasn’t got a chance. Teratogens inhibiting normal growth, not enough time in the womb, no parents, no home. Can’t sleep, can’t eat, lungs underdeveloped…”

“But she’s a fighter!” Kellen said.

“Yes, Bernice, but she’s a fighter.” The doctor came over, slid his hand into the incubator and stroked the child’s head.

For a brief moment, the baby took comfort and quieted.

Nurse Bernice joined him to check the baby’s vital signs. “We’ve seen miracles before.”

“This one will be a miracle.” He leaned over and smiled into the tiny, frowning face.

The baby’s eyes drooped.

“She will be if I have anything to say about it.” The nurse consulted the chart. “Mrs. Hibbert is coming in to hold her. Maybe she can make our little Jane Doe feel better.”

“You have people who come in and hold these babies?” Kellen loved the idea.

“The babies just sprawl on that skinny old bosom and absorb happy.” Nurse Bernice wasn’t talking to Kellen…but she sort of was.

Dr. Davis moved back into the well infant nursery.

Something began to tug Kellen away, back toward her room. She drifted toward the door, then backed away when an old woman with white, wildly spiked hair walked through, leaning heavily on her walker.

“Mrs. Hibbert!” Nurse Bernice said. “We were just talking about you. Baby Jane Doe is wanting you.”

Mrs. Hibbert nodded at Kellen as if she saw her, and tsked as the baby squalled out its hopelessness. “There, there, child. Grannie’s here.”

“Her name is Joy,” Kellen said.

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