Alice in Wonderland

Alice is in wonderland now, under the light of a phototherapy lamp to ameliorate her jaundice, apparently not uncommon in newborns. When I finally get to see her, she is awash in purple, orange, and blue light and wearing a tiny eye mask, and I am astonished by how small she is, how delicately formed. 

I decline the chance to hold her, not quite ready for so important a responsibility, afraid of hurting her or dropping her or just being my clumsy self. Instead I gently pat the soft fuzz of her head and touch her little hand and for a moment feel it curl about my finger. I’m an awkward and awestruck grandmother. 

My daughter has gone through so much for this moment, and we have traveled far, and now we are gathered in this neonatal care unit like reverential tourists. We got here via walk and bus with a four-year-old boy who is not quite ready to be anyone’s big brother and was noisily defiant. 

“Let’s pretend we’re on an adventure,” I suggest. “I’m going to invent another character for myself.” 

“There is no more pretending,” he declares melodramatically. “All the pretending is in the rubbish bin.” 

It takes a while to undo this edict, but helps to take pictures of sights along the way that he can show his mommy. Traffic moves slowly along St. Clements Road, but before long, the bus appears, and he and Monte climb the stairs to the upper level, where he seems to have a change of mood. 

I sit below with the old folks, feeling lately like a sagging sack of brittle bones banging together. I have a miserable cold and have been coughing so much, my ribs literally hurt. 

Last night while the baby’s daddy spent time at the hospital, Monte and I stayed to watch the boy in his house. It was beginning to snow. We barely slept. And I realized at some point that this tender vigil was a part of Alice’s story already, and she would never know how all her people looked out for her and her mother and one another, but maybe some residue of that love will linger, even as the light shines on her now. 

We are fragile and finite and doing our best. My daughter is holding her daughter right now, one hundred years after my mother was born, ten years after her death. A sliver of moon rises above the chimney tops, snow has dusted the streets and frosted the windows of the parked cars. I dreamed about this. 

The streets filled up with snow last night while Alice filled with light.