She reached out and covered his hand. “Johnny, I want the truth. The nurses won’t tell me. I’ve got to hear it from you.” Her voice wavered. He sensed that tears were not far distant.
He answered softly, “It could go either way.” He went on, choosing the words carefully. “I saw Dr. Dornberger. He said the chances are just fair. The baby might live, or . . .” John stopped, the sentence unfinished.
Elizabeth had let her head fall back into the pillows behind her. Looking at the ceiling, the words little more than a whisper, she asked, “There really isn’t much hope, is there?”
John weighed the impact of what he might say next. Perhaps, if the baby were going to die, it was better for them both to face it now, better than to buoy up Elizabeth’s hopes and then in a day or two have them cruelly destroyed. Gently he said, “He’s . . . awfully small, you see. He was born two months too soon. If there’s any kind of infection . . . even the smallest thing . . . He doesn’t have much strength.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth was quite still, not looking at him, but holding his hand tightly. There were tears on her cheeks, and John found his own eyes moist.
Trying to keep his voice even, he said, “Elizabeth darling . . . Whatever happens . . . We’re still young. We’ve a lot ahead of us.”
“I know.” The words were scarcely audible, and his arms went around her again. Her head close against him, he heard her, muffled through sobs. “But . . . two babies . . . this way . . .” She lifted her head, her cry despairing. “It isn’t fair!”
He felt his own tears coursing. Softly he whispered, “It’s hard to figure . . . We’ve still got each other.”
For a minute longer he held her; she was sobbing quietly, then he felt her stir. She murmured, “Handkerchief,” and, taking one from his own pocket, he passed it to her.
“I’m all right now.” She was wiping her eyes. “It’s just . . . sometimes.”
He told her softly, “If it helps, honey . . . you cry. Any time you want.”
She smiled wanly and returned the handkerchief. “I’m afraid I’ve messed it all up.” Then her voice changed. “Johnny . . . lying here . . . I’ve been thinking.”
“What about?”
“I want you to go to medical school.”
He protested gently. “Now, honey, we’ve been over all this . . .”
“No.” Elizabeth stopped him. Her voice was still weak, but it had an edge of determination. “I’ve always wanted you to, and now Dr. Coleman says you should.”
“Do you have any idea what it would cost?”
“Yes, I do. But I can get a job.”
Gently he said, “With a baby?”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Elizabeth said softly, “We may not have a baby.”
The door opened noiselessly and Nurse Wilding came in. She glanced at Elizabeth’s red-rimmed eyes, then discreetly avoided them. To John she said, “If you like, Mr. Alexander, I’ll take you to see your baby now.”
After he had left John Alexander at the nursing station Dr. Dornberger had headed for the hospital nursery.
The nursery lay at one end of a long, bright corridor, decorated cheerfully in pastel shades. It was in a section of the building which had been remodeled two years earlier and reflected the newer trend to spaciousness and light. Approaching, Dornberger could hear, as always, the cries of infants, ranging in pitch and volume from full-lunged, anguished howls to tentative falsettos. More out of habit than thought, he stopped to glance through the thick glass paneling which screened the nursery’s main area on three sides. Business, he reflected, noting the preponderance of occupied bassinets, appeared as brisk as ever. His glance ranged over the orderly rows.
These, he thought, were the normal, healthy animals who had won, for the moment, their battle for existence and in a few days more would go outward and onward into the waiting world. Their destinations were the home, the school, the strife of living, the competition for fame and possessions. Among these were some who would taste success and suffer failure; who, barring casualty, would enjoy youth, accept middle age, and grow old sadly. These were those for whom more powerful and glossier automobiles would be designed, in whose service aircraft would wing faster and farther, whose every whim and appetite would be wooed by others of their kind with wares to market. These were some who would face the unknown future, most with misgiving, many bravely, a few craven. Some here, perhaps, might breach the barriers of outer space; others with the gift of tongues might move their fellow men to anger or despair. Most, within twenty years, would fulfill their physical maturity, obeying, but never understanding, the same primeval craving to copulate which had sown their seed and brought them, mewling, puking, here. But for now these were the victors—the born and urgent. Their first and greatest barrier was down, the other battles yet to come.
Across the hallway was another area with a smaller nursery beyond. In it, quiet and separate, each in an incubator, were the premature babies; these—the doubtful starters, their existence insecure, their first encounter not yet won. Turning away from the main nursery, it was this section that Dornberger entered now.
When he had viewed his newest patient—a tiny fragment of insecure humanity—he pursed his lips and shook his head doubtfully. Then, methodical as always, he wrote careful instructions on the treatment to be followed.
Later, as Dornberger left by one door, Nurse Wilding and John Alexander came in by another.
Like everyone who approached the premature nursery, they had put on sterile gowns and face masks, even though plate glass separated them from the air-conditioned, humidity-controlled interior. Now, as they stopped, Mrs. Wilding leaned forward and tapped lightly on the glass. A younger nurse inside looked up and moved toward them, her eyes above the mask inquiring.
“Baby Alexander!” Wilding raised her voice enough to carry through to the other nurse, then pointed to John. The girl inside nodded and motioned for them to move. They followed her the length of the plate-glass window and stopped. Now she pointed to an incubator—one of the dozen the nursery contained—and turned it slightly so they could see inside.
“My God! Is that all?” The exclamation was torn from John even as it framed itself in mind.
Nurse Wilding’s glance was sympathetic. “He’s not very big, is he?”
John was staring as if in unbelief. “I’ve never seen anything so . . . so incredibly small.”
He stood looking down into the Isolette cabinet. Could this be human?—this tiny, shriveled, monkeylike figure, little larger than his own two hands.
The baby lay perfectly still, its eyes closed, only a slight regular movement of the tiny chest testifying to its breathing. Even in the incubator, designed for the smallest infants, the little helpless body appeared forlorn and lost. It seemed incredible that in such fragility life could exist at all.
The younger nurse had come outside to join them. Wilding asked, “What was the birth weight?”
“Three pounds eight ounces.” The young nurse turned to John. “Do you understand what’s happening, Mr. Alexander—how your baby is being cared for?”
He shook his head. He found it hard to tear his eyes away, even for a moment, from the tiny child.
The young nurse said practically, “Some people like to know. They seem to think it helps.”
John nodded. “Yes; if you’d tell me. Please.”
The nurse pointed to the incubator. “The temperature inside is always ninety-eight degrees. There’s oxygen added to the air—about 40 per cent. The oxygen makes it easier for the baby to breathe. His lungs are so small, you see. They weren’t really developed when he was born.”
“Yes. I understand.” His eyes were back on the faint pulsing movement in the chest. While it continued it meant there was life, that the tiny burdened heart was beating, the thread of survival still unbroken.
The nurse went on. “Your baby isn’t strong enough to suck, so we have to use intubation. You see the little tube?” She pointed to a plastic cord with a hollow center which ran from the top of the incubator into the infant’s mouth. “It goes directly into the stomach. He’ll be having dextrose and water through the tube every hour and a half.”