Nanny Diaries

Chapter 23 - Grief

“It could be any moment.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Miss.”

“There’s absolutely nothing to do but wait.”

These are all things doctors have said to me. There were more, but it was essentially a repetition of the last’s words. All in all, they think Matt’s time is up. He is leaving any minute, they say. 

I sit in the chair by his bed, adjusting the stuffed toys and flowers on the headboard and the nightstands. It’s a little pointless, having all these things when he can’t even see them. But I want to believe that it will help him, help him know how many people loved him even if his parents could not show it. 

Sometimes he wakes up and talks to me. A lot of it is gibberish, thanks to the pain medication they have him goofy on. But I laugh and cry through every encounter, holding his hand as tightly as I can without hurting him. This evening, at six P.M. New York time, he opens his eyes and looks at me. 

Right away, I know. I know this is our last conversation and it takes everything in me, all my willpower to hold in the sobs and smile a little, so as not to scare him. 

“Lauren?” he says squeakily. 

“Hi Matt-Matt.” I whisper back, brushing the damp strands of hair from his face and forehead. I adjust the pillow behind his back, but he places his hand on my arm when I do. I stop at once, looking at him expectantly. 

“Where are Mommy and Daddy?” 

For a moment, I think my heart stops beating. He has been so in and out of it, up to this point he has never asked that question. They FaceTimed him once, but he must not remember it anymore, or might think that they are back by now. They still haven’t returned. 

“They had to go get some food, and they were getting you a special surprise. It might take them a while to get back.” If they ever get back. 

“Oh.” he says, rolling his head around on the pillow. His eyes find the ceiling and they widen a little. “What’s that?” he asks. 

I smile. “Zack put glow-in-the-dark stickers there for you. He thought it might help you see the sky again, until you can leave the hospital, that is.” I say, every atom in my being forcing the words out. I want so badly to believe them. 

“Wow.” he whispers, and I get to watch as his eyes study every sticker, every edge. If I didn’t know any better, I would think he was committing them to memory. The way I’m doing to him right now.

His dark eyes show incredible depth and wonderment, in the way that only a child can look at something. I do not want him to know the excruciating pain I get just by looking at him this way, with all the tubes and needles in my his body. With the big hospital bed dwarfing his infantile body. He’s only a baby.