The Peculiar Miracles of Antoinette Martin: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

circles ring his eyes.
    My brain is fuzzy. Ventilator? ICU?
    Mom sinks into a chair next to me and drops her head to my bed rail. “You’re okay,” she says. The words come out in a rush.
    I’m not okay. I’m empty. I drop my hand to my stomach.
    It’s flat.
    Baby? I mouth around the tube.
    Mom doesn’t notice.
    Where is she? The familiar taste of copper pennies fills my mouth. I wrench myself upright, and yank at the tube. Where is my baby!
    “Stop,” Mom says. She stands over me, cradling my hands in hers. “Wade, help me.”
    Dad grabs my arms and pulls them down. “Be still, Rose, calm down.” His green eyes are rimmed with red.
    Baby, I mouth again. Baby!
    Mom, at last, understands. “Your baby’s fine,” she says, but I don’t believe her. Her eyes are so wide the white swallows the blue, and her lips are thin with the effort of smiling. She doesn’t let go of my hands.
    I can’t breathe. Something is crushing my chest.
    “She’s fine,” Mom repeats. “Lily’s with her. She hasn’t left her side.”
    “She’s little,” Dad says. “No bigger than my hand. But she’s fine.” He holds out his hand, palm up, and smiles.
    What? I mouth. My mind is white fog. I remember sitting at the kitchen table, drawing. Pain ripping through my abdomen. Then . . . nothing.
    What? I mouth again. This time, Mom understands I mean: What happened?
    She looks at the ceiling. “When we got to the ER, your blood pressure spiked. They had to deliver the baby. You had a heart attack on the table.” Her voice wavers.
    I shake my head. She’s wrong. I’m twenty-two. Heart attacks happen to old people.
    Dad takes over. “It’s called peripartum cardiomyopathy. The pregnancy caused your heart to enlarge, and the muscle was badly damaged.”
    If Mom weren’t holding my hands, I’d clap them over my ears. I am a child again. La, la, la. I’m not listening.
    Her last words are small, and I almost miss them. “You’re still here,” she says as if to convince herself. “I didn’t lose you.” Then she drops her head to my chest and closes her eyes.
    THE NEXT DAY, a doctor I’ve never met removes the vent tube. His long fingers curve around it, then he yanks like he’s starting a push mower, and just like that, I’m breathing on my own again.
    When he leaves, I press my hand against my heart. It beats like it always has, but now I know I’m broken.
    When a nurse brings my breakfast tray, I turn away. I keep my eyes closed when she checks my vitals. I keep them closed when a nurse’s assistant comes in to sponge me off. The girl lifts my arms and runs a damp cloth over them, chattering the entire time.
    “You’re a lucky one,” she says. “Still young enough to get better. Most of the people in here are old. They don’t have much time left.”
    I realize I’ve never thought about time before. My life used to stretch before me to a vanishing point on the horizon, the end always out of sight. Now it contracts until it’s a small dot. How much time do I have left?
    A week? A month?
    The aid moves to my legs, running the cloth against my skin in soft circles. I count my heart beats. Nothing seems different, but I can’t trust my body anymore.
    When she’s finished, Mom and Lily come in. Mom sways on her feet, and Lily’s skin is pale.
    I turn away from them.
    “Get up,” Mom says. She’s pushing a wheelchair. “We’re taking you to see your daughter.”
    I don’t move. What kind of mother can I be if my heart might give out at any moment?
    Lily sits on the side of my bed, and I roll toward her. “She’s two pounds fourteen ounces,” she says. “All even numbers, so it’s good. She looks like you.”
    My heart flutters. My daughter is three days old, and I haven’t seen her yet. “Really?”
    Tiny strands of brown hair have escaped Lily’s ponytail. Dirt fills the creases of her fingers and smudges her left cheek. She works in the garden when she’s upset.
    “Really.” She squeezes my