HER BABY'S SECRET FATHER (3 page)

The heart-wrenching sight throbbed in Jaynie’s chest. She ached for her child. What a rotten way to come into the world…but at least she was alive. She said a silent prayer of thanks to God, and blew out her breath in a rush of emotion.

The tiniest disposable diaper she’d ever imagined gaped at the legs of her scrawny newborn. She couldn’t help but shake her head and smile in awe at her daughter’s minuscule size and the obstacles this preemie had to overcome—like breathing, and growing to real newborn size.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie,” she said, moving her face closer. “It’s Momma, Tara.” Jaynie traced her finger lighter than air across the child’s arm, memorizing the feel. She held her breath as though Tara would break if she exhaled too hard.

Her eyes eagerly examined the bundle of life.
Mine. This is my baby.
She couldn’t stop the wide smile of joy and pride that swept across her face. “Oh…” she cooed. Growing bolder, she placed her hand flat on Tara’s side, savoring the warmth of her skin and the heat of the lights. “You’re going to grow up to be big and strong, ’cause you’re my special little girl.”

Jaynie’s glance danced up for the briefest of moments, to find Terrance staring at her with inquisitive deep hazel eyes. There was something troubled in his gaze. Yet he covered it up, and broke into a large grin. He clearly approved of her doting.

His hair was pulled back and tied tightly in a ponytail with a leather string at the nape of his neck, as he always wore it for work. His intense eyes took center stage, giving him a doe-eyed, beaming look—like a foolish new father.

Nah—not macho Terrance.

Besides, Tara wouldn’t have a father. They’d be a family of two, and they’d make do. Just like Jaynie and her mother had. She knew from experience it wouldn’t be easy, but such was life, and she’d overcome worse in her thirty-four years.

With her emotions out of control and eyes watering, she studied her child from head to toe. The tiny hand that grasped her thumb seemed to be perfection itself. Perfection, that was, until she counted the fingers. Six? What was with the extra tiny stub on the side of Tara’s palm?

As though he’d read her thoughts, Terrance spoke up. “It’s a common anomaly, Jaynie. They’ll remove them before she leaves the hospital.”

“How will they do that?” Why hadn’t she planned for this?

“When they’re underdeveloped, like these extra digits, I believe they tie them off with string and they literally fall off—like a skin tag.”

His large fingers touched Jaynie’s when he slid them over Tara’s hand. They were warm. She remembered how they’d felt when he’d held her in his arms. She willfully stopped the reaction brewing in her chest.

“Will it hurt? Does it mean anything else is wrong?”

“Not necessarily,” the NICU nurse broke in. “It’s just a fluke of nature. It doesn’t mean a thing, unless there is a history of a specific disease or syndrome. Anything unusual run in your or the father’s bloodline?”

Jaynie’s mind flashed to the extensive paperwork she’d received on the sperm donor’s medical history. Nothing had been mentioned about birth defects or anomalies. Fear shot through her as she pondered the risk of other physical problems that might have been withheld on the sperm bank forms. But it was supposed to be the most reputable cryobank on this side of the Mississippi—that was why she’d moved to Southern California.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

Terrance stepped closer and smiled downward. He lifted his thick eyebrows and placed his hand before her for inspection. “See anything unusual here?”

She shook her head, feeling puzzled. All she saw was a huge hand, with long, graceful fingers, sprinkled with fine freckles and a few scrapes and scratches.

He rubbed a faint white scar on the outside of his palm. “I was born with an extra digit, too. No big deal. I turned out okay.”

Boy, did he ever.

Though it was hard to tear her eyes away from her beautiful daughter, Jaynie lifted her gaze to the respiratory therapist. No, there was definitely nothing wrong with him.

He nodded his reassurance. She stepped away from the incubator and removed her mask. The sudden realization that she stood before him in a threadbare hospital gown and thin housecoat, with virtually nothing underneath other than the adult-size bladder-control-type panties, made her tense. Weak from her birthing ordeal, she couldn’t muster enough extra blood to blush, so she just smiled sincerely at him. Without a stitch of make-up on, hair running wild, she was grateful for the tinted, thin black wire-framed glasses she hid behind, and hoped he hadn’t noticed her ragged appearance.

The odd thing was, Terrance didn’t give the impression of minding how she looked a bit. In fact, he seemed to be taking her in and enjoying every inch of her, like he always had—even after they’d stopped dating.

She squirmed a bit under his intense gaze.

The nurse brought a new bottle of total parental nutrition to replace the nearly empty IV feeding her baby. “Once she’s off the ventilator, and before we’ve figured out if she can suck and swallow on her own, we’ll start nasogastric feedings and use your milk. If her stomach tolerates it, we’ll have her nursing from you as soon as possible.”

The comment reassured Jaynie, and sent her over the moon with joy at the possibility of finally getting to hold and mother her baby.
Hang tough for the reward.
She repeated a chant her mother had used throughout her life.

Terrance lingered nearby, fussing with the respiratory equipment. He glanced frequently at Jaynie—she could feel it—and then he spoke.

“That’s a beautiful baby you’ve got there,” he said, with a broad, handsome smile. “You did good work.”

“Thank you, Terrance. I think I’m already in love.”

“With a beauty like her, I can see why.” He gathered his equipment and prepared to leave, first ducking his head and searching her eyes. “She’ll be fine, Jaynie.” Splendid hazel-green eyes looked at her with a sincerity she hadn’t expected from a macho hunk like Terrance. “Don’t worry about anything. Just concentrate on loving her. She’ll feel it.”

Post-partum emotion brought another rush of near-tears to her eyes. She blinked them back and swallowed. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

“Hey,” he said, “what are friends for?” He patted her shoulder.

Jaynie studied Terrance in a new light: a skilled medical professional, a bit of a daredevil and a total hunk—with a hint of compassion and a touch of empathy. Not many men had that combination of characteristics.

This slow-to-smile guy had just referred to himself as her friend. She’d always thought their effortless and casual chatter on the hospital ward had only come from a sense of civility on his part, since they’d quit dating. Yet he’d clearly defined himself as her “friend” just now. And, God only knew, she needed one today.

Jaynie had always let her witty, cynical side show for him, and he’d seemed to respond to that sense of deadpan humor that so many other people never understood. And, above everything else, a healthy and mutual respect existed for each other’s medical expertise.

Both being a part of the hospital Code Blue team, they’d learned to count on each other under stress. Jaynie always felt relieved the minute Terrance showed up at any code, just as she had in the delivery room. He was also the first person she paged when things started to go downhill with any of her pulmonary patients.

“Okay.” The curt NICU nurse interrupted her thought. “The love-fest is over. Jaynie, go back to your room and get some rest. Isn’t it time for another fundus check?” she said, with a sparkle in her gray eyes. “I promise I’ll take good care of junior, here.”

As though on cue, Kim rolled the wheelchair behind her. Jaynie flopped down into it, overwhelmed with a mixture of emotions. Her very own baby, the most precious gift she could ever hope for, lay tethered to tubes and lines in a sterile hospital environment instead of nestling in the comfort of her mother’s loving arms where she belonged. She patted her child one last time, memorizing the feel of her thin newborn skin covered in fine white downy hair, called lanugo.

She kissed her little one’s hand and said, “Goodbye, sweetie. I’ll be back later.”

Tara squirmed.

Jaynie bit back her maternal need and steeled herself for better times. The life she’d planned for herself and her daughter waited just around the corner, but for now it had been put on hold.

This time she couldn’t stop the tears that brimmed and spilled down her cheeks while she was rolled away from the new center of her universe. Emotionally strung out, she covered her face with her palms and let loose. One strong hand gripped her shoulder and passed her a wad of tissues. She looked up to say thanks and found Terrance, watching her with kind, empathetic eyes.

He knelt down beside her and gently wiped at her tears with a tissue he’d kept, and he looked a tiny bit misty-eyed himself.

“Hang tough, Jaynie. Tara will be home before you know it. Now, go get some rest. I’ll watch Peanut.”

She couldn’t help but smile at his kind words. Hey, she thought with renewed optimism as she blew her nose. Her daughter already had a nickname.

“Thanks…Terrance.”

W
ITH
her temperature almost back to normal, Jaynie’s IV was removed the next morning. She worried about her progress. Knowing how hospital census often dictated early patient discharge, she figured she’d be released after the required forty-eight-hour stay. Dread couldn’t begin to describe the thought of going home without her baby. How could she face the empty nursery?

She reached for the phone. The Pulmonary Ward clerk answered in a clipped voice.

“May I speak to Kim Lee?”

It only took a moment for Annette to recognize her. “Jaynie! I’m so glad you and the baby are okay. Let me get her.” Annette pushed the hold button before Jaynie had a chance to say thanks.

Close to a minute later, Kim picked up the line. “What’s up, girlfriend?” Her cheerful voice broke into the up-tempo Muzak.

“Hey. Listen, you volunteered your granny to come to my house and read the Feng Shui, remember?”

“Oh, yeah-yeah-yeah.”

“I want the nursery to be perfect for Tara, so could you ask her to come over tomorrow? I think I’m going to get booted out of here soon.”

“I’m on it.”

“You’re the best.” Jaynie grinned at the ceiling.

“Are you kidding? This is going to make Por Por Chang’s day.”

Jaynie smiled at the traditional Chinese term for the maternal grandmother. But, knowing how busy the pulmonary floor generally was first thing in the morning, she made a quick excuse to hang up.

Next, she headed for the shower.

* * *

With impeccable timing, Jaynie entered the NICU just as Dr. Shrinivasan made his morning rounds. Dressed in blue scrubs and a white doctor’s coat, he sat hunched beside Tara’s incubator, studiously scribbling on bright pink paper on a chart. The diminutive man finished writing a sentence on a green doctor’s order sheet, and then broke from deep concentration to nod his head in greeting.

Jaynie scrubbed her hands and put on a mask, then, for good measure, put a blue paper surgical-type gown on over her street clothes, even though it wasn’t necessary. With a flutter in her chest, she approached her baby.

Without introduction, Dr. Shrinivasan began to lecture in a precise, occasionally difficult to understand accent.

“Your baby is doing well. Her gestational age seems somewhere between twenty-seven to twenty-nine weeks, which gives her more than an eighty percent survival rate.” He looked at Jaynie with a smile that extended to his large brown eyes. “You’re a nurse, correct?”

She nodded, and tried to look at the doctor, but her gaze kept drifting to her daughter, inside the temperature-controlled, double-walled, see-through box. She stepped forward to get a closer look. Her baby had been moved into an incubator from the radiant warmer, and she knew that was a good sign—a step up. Seeing Tara flat on her back, tethered to tubes and wires, yet looking peacefully asleep, Jaynie relaxed.

“First we deal with the respiratory distress syndrome,” Dr. Shrinivasan said. “Even with only mild difficulties now, she may require oxygen therapy at home. We’ll see.” He glanced back to Tara. “The baby is already tolerating the synchronized intermittent mandatory ventilation, which means she is taking many breaths on her own.”

“May I?” Jaynie asked, before putting her hand through the porthole window to touch her daughter. He nodded. “It’s Momma, Tara.” She swore she saw a faint movement on her beautiful little daughter’s face. “It’s me. Mommy.” The baby squirmed. Jaynie smiled and stroked her little arm, and noticed they’d already tied suture string around the extra finger nubs.

The doctor continued. “Her overall chances are very high. So, first we deal with the breathing. Then we tackle the immature gastrointestinal tract. She’ll need to gain weight, and as you know she may lose up to ten percent of her birth weight. It takes two to three weeks to regain that.” He patted her shoulder. “Slow, but sure. We’ll make progress.”

“How long before I can bring her home?”

“Four to six weeks. Not before she weighs four pounds. Time will tell us.”

It sounded like an eternity.

Jaynie tore her eyes away from Tara just long enough to thank the doctor. He nodded and replaced the metal-backed hospital chart into its holder, then moved to the next incubator.

She stroked her baby’s leg and smiled at her runty perfection. “You’re doing great, sweetie.” Could she survive four to six weeks without having her baby home? “Hang in,” she said, mostly to herself. “Remember, I love you, Peanut.”

* * *

Terrance entered the plush front office of the cryobank suite. He strolled into the flawlessly decorated room, with its comfy sofas and coffee tables covered in up-to-date magazines. Thick carpet silenced his footsteps as he approached the receptionist’s window. No one was there, so he let himself in the door.

He heard a voice around the corner and followed the sound to find his friend, Dave Martinez, the sperm bank supervisor, sitting behind a large glass and chrome desk, talking on the phone. Terrance advanced and swatted a high-five greeting with his racquetball partner. Dave twisted his hand, so they could move to an old-fashioned handshake, all the while balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder, never breaking from the conversation.

Terrance waited for him to hang up. “How are you doing, man?”

“Same old, same old, T-man,” Dave said.

Terrance slumped into the high-tech leather chair across from the desk. “Are we on for tonight?”

“You know I’d never miss a chance to kick your ass on the court.”

“Like that would ever happen.”

Terrance had danced around the real reason he’d come to talk to Dave long enough. And knowing what a stickler Dave was about the patient privacy and confidentiality state law, he figured asking out of the clear blue might give him the advantage. “Listen, I was wondering if my sperm has been used yet.”

“That’s highly classified information, my man. Remember, this is an
anonymous
semen donor program. You know the rules.”

“I’m not asking
who
it went to. I just want to know
if
my boys got to take a swim yet, that’s all.” Terrance lifted one brow and gave a cocky smile.

Dave laughed, running a hand over his shiny, clean-shaven head. “Hey, your party was over the minute you left that room.” He pointed to the door that closed off what was fondly referred to as the “Whoopee Room.” Men entered that room armed with sterile plastic cups, provocative magazines and their imaginations, and left only after a successful “deposit” had been made. After signing on to the program, which paid participants, Terrance had been expected to make weekly contributions with a six-month commitment. He had completed his “tour of duty” a year ago.

Though impressed with the extensive medical screening he’d had to go through to donate to the sperm bank, he’d been surprised to discover he needed to write essays for the recipient, too. Penning a paragraph or two on various topics had made him feel a bit like being back in school. He’d written about his most memorable childhood experiences, who in his family he identified closely with and why, what character traits he admired in any individual, and where in the world he’d like to travel. But, most importantly, he’d written about what he’d like to pass on to his own children, even knowing he never intended to father any more.

The effort had been worth it. Just the thought of enabling a childless couple to realize their dream of having a family, anonymous or not, was reward enough.

After the loss of his own baby girl, and long after he and his wife had divorced, he’d given it a lot of thought and signed up for a vasectomy. He’d got put on a waiting list because of his age and single status. When they’d called with a surgery date, a deep primal scream from his genetic pool had protested—and he’d found himself signing on and making deposits to the sperm bank for posterity’s sake before he made sure he’d never be a father himself.

Dave had offered to pay him for it, knowing he could use the extra money for his night school classes, but he’d declined. Sure, it had been a quirky, altruistic gesture— but, hey, how was a guy supposed to respond when he was giving up on his family lineage?

Now, Dave pushed back in his chair and his no-nonsense stare sent a loud and clear message. “Strict policy. No information about when or to whom your sperm gets delivered. But you already know that. Hell, you could be a successful sperm donor a dozen times by now. But what does it matter? Theoretically, the kids aren’t yours, remember?”

Knowing full well Dave’s stubborn side, Terrance backed off.

Later that night, in the enclosed racquetball court at the gym, Terrance broached another subject that had been niggling in the back of his mind. He thwapped a hard, fast ball with his racket and saw a drip of perspiration fly off his head.

Steamy and hot, the room vibrated with intense competition. Rubber-soled skids, grunts and the satisfying pop of a well-hit ball reverberated around the court when the men played.

Dave lunged, but missed the return, winding up with his belly to the boards. Terrance offered his hand and hoisted his partner back to standing. A nonverbal agreement for a water break seemed in order.

After a long gulp, Terrance blurted his question. “So, what happens if one of your donors forgets to tell you about something?”

Dave swallowed his drink and poured a bit over his head. “Our screening is thorough, and we pick up any of the major problems right down to potential for color blindness.” He took another drink. “Trust me, we’re extensive. We would have told you if you had any possibility of major problems.”

Terrance took a swing at an imaginary ball with his racket, then wiped his forehead on the shoulder of his shaggy, sleeveless gray sweatshirt. “I mean a physical trait that may have been overlooked.”

“You mean like an unsightly mole on Aunt Edna’s face? Or the donor had a nose job?”

“Yeah, something along those lines,” Terrance said. He bent over and touched the toes of his overpriced cross training shoes to stretch out his back.

“Are you telling me you had your nose fixed?”

Terrance shot up. “Hell, no. But when I was born I had an extra pinky finger on each hand. Evidently my grandfather did, too.”

Dave tensed his eyes. “Did you willfully not tell us that?”

Terrance served with a vengeance. “Honest to God, it slipped my mind. I hadn’t thought about it in years, until recently.”

Dave returned the ball with a low, fast cut.

“So what now?” Terrance teased, before diving for the ball. He grunted and smashed a hit that landed way at the back line. “Are you going to throw my frozen sperm out?”

Out of breath from running fast and hard, Dave swung and hit a strong return, faking his opponent out.

Terrance growled with a swing, but missed.

“Too late,” Dave said. “Donor #683 turned out to be a very popular make and model.”

Dave scooped up the rubber ball and tossed it into the air for a powerful serve.

Terrance smiled to himself and swung.

Mission accomplished.

* * *

“Can’t you let me stay at least another day?” Jaynie said, protesting against the inevitable the next morning with her obstetrician.

“You’re in great shape. I already let you stay your guaranteed forty-eight hours. There really isn’t any reason to justify your staying any longer.”

“If I was in such great shape, why did I have my baby two months early, Dr. Marks?”

“We can’t always explain what happens during a pregnancy, Jaynie.” The tall, silver-haired woman stood before Jaynie in brown slacks, white blouse and a doctor’s coat. Her brows were pinched and she looked perplexed. “Sometimes the explanation is as simple as an infection. You had a low-grade fever, and as it turns out you had a mild bladder infection. You probably just thought you were urinating a lot because of the baby.” The doctor scrunched her eyes and then raised her eyebrows. “I wish I had answers for everything, but, bottom line, you delivered early, and your baby is small but healthy.”

“What’s your take on how long Tara will be on the ventilator?” Jaynie couldn’t resist asking a second doctor, but was fearful of what her response might be.

“They want Tara to use her energy growing, not fighting for air, so they’re just helping her out for a while. A week…two?”

“With all that stuff she’s hooked up to, I can’t even hold her.” She fought the urge to cry, again, and saw the room go blurry, but refused to give in. “How does she know who her mother is?”

“She knows your voice. Just talk to her. Didn’t you do that when you were pregnant?”

Jaynie nodded remembering how Tara had squirmed in the Isolette incubator when she spoke to her.

“Then keep it up; she recognizes you. There’ll come a time when you’ll get to pick her up and bond.” Dr. Marks walked closer to the hospital bed, separated from another patient by a thin curtain, and placed her hand on Jaynie’s shoulder. “Hang in. Things will work out— just not how you planned.” She softened her business manner, tilted her head and looked into Jaynie’s eyes with a sly smile. “Word is that they bathe the newborns in NICU at eight a.m. every single day. I’m sure they can always use an extra pair of hands—and who knows? Maybe you’ll get to hold her sooner than you think.”

The student nurse assigned to Jaynie’s care slipped into the room with a stack of sheets in her arms.

The voice of Jaynie’s roommate on the other side of the curtain pitched in. “You know, you’ll be welcome to spend all the time you need in the newborn growing nursery once your baby has been moved from NICU. My first baby spent a couple of weeks there.”

The young nurse piped up. “I did my last rotation in the newborn nursery. They have La-Z-Boy chairs to doze on, and the parents can come and go as they please.”

The doctor listened to Jaynie’s lungs and heart with a cold stethoscope bell. She made a few notations on the chart and walked towards the door. “Be sure to drink lots of water to help your milk.”

“I will,” Jaynie said.

The slender woman turned at the door. “I’ll see you in six weeks, but call if you need anything before then.”