Saved as draft - 11/6/05
Isabelle is okay.
That's what they named the baby - Isabelle, after Mark's grandmother. Jane got to hold her before she suddenly, and unexpectedly, lost consciousness.
The nurse told me that they had they'd done everything they were capable of doing as of now, but Jane still wasn't opening her eyes. She wasn't holding her daughter, she wasn't crying with joy, she wasn't holding Mark's hand. She was doing nothing. That's how it was the first few hours, and that's how it still is, now.
I've been at the hospital for two days, supplying Mark with needed company, and helping him with Isabelle. I babysat a lot in middle school, and he barely knows how to change a diaper.
She looks like Jane, from what I can tell. I know looks change later on, but I swear she does this little pursing thing with her lips that Jane can't help but do when she's in thought. Isabelle is tiny and frail, premature. I was afraid to hold her at first, as was Mark, but when she started crying, hiccuping in displeasure, we had no choice but to face our fear. Her little body fits so nicely in the bend of Mark's elbow, even if she is too small. I know that she'll do great things some day, because the small ones always do.
I have to stop poking my head into Jane's room, to check for progress that isn't happening. Maybe looking at that picture of you will help, somehow, like it did before.
YOU ARE READING
Unsent Messages
Short Story"Adventure is inspiring, but so is nostalgia." A story about a girl who writes messages to a boy along the start, then halt, of their relationship, but leaves them unsent. And along the way, she discovers what it means to get over the pain of inconc...
