READ PART 1

I can't go on without hope.

The words echo and re-echo in my mind, resonating and resolving into vivid memory. Suddenly a room springs into being: Filled with heartbeat monitors and gasping respirators; tubes and lights and tiny clear plastic cages each containing a tiny life.

Maura sits weakly in a rocking chair, eyes are circled in sleeplessness and blank numb shock. She gazes helplessly at the tiny pinkish soul hardly larger than her hand, encased in plastic tubes running from every part of his body. Our newborn son who came almost three months early.

She whispers so softly I can barely hear standing behind her: "I can't go on without hope."

The doctor pauses his droning lecture on immature lung development; uncomfortably acknowledges Maura's bare honest words. "Well ... Mrs. Barker, we're going to do everything we can for your infant — "

"Caleb," she says with sudden vehemence. "His name is Caleb."

"For — Caleb," says the doctor. "But frankly ..." The doctor trails off; seems to realize he's said everything already. "The nurses have my pager," he finishes, and leaves.

Maura collapses in on herself, shoulders slumping and eyes closing with tears spent and despair a looming tsunami —

"Baby, listen to me." I drop to my knees by the rocker; turn her chin towards me. "There's a chance — you heard him. So long as Caleb keeps breathing, we're gonna pray. OK? We're gonna get on our knees, and ... and we're gonna beg God, because he's good, and there's hope."

She barely looks at me. I've never seen Maura like this —

My voice is urgent now, trying to make myself believe: "Because — baby, we waited. Three years, and all the tests, and everybody praying. But he finally answered — God answered, didn't he, with our boy? And God's faithful, right? So will he let us down now? Will he let Caleb ..."

I can't get the word out. I refuse to say it, not out loud.

Pastor Maurer comes and prays over us, Maura's folks come down from Rockford, and we camp out in the hospital. For three months it's touch-and-go, progress then setbacks then sleepless nights when we don't know if our boy will make it through an hour. I take a leave of absence and of course Maura can't come back from maternity and we wonder how we'll pay hundreds of thousands in bills ...

But that isn't the main thing. Of course it'll be worth every penny if our boy makes it through. God is faithful; God is faithful; God is faithful ...

In the first week I get to know the hospital chapel better than our apartment. Then another child comes into our surreal world of whispering nurses and tortured parents: Anna Heyman is born eight days after Caleb.

She's also three months premature with parents hovering around her incubator. We hear them whispering prayers and ask if they're Christians. They nod shyly.

For three weeks we share our lives with the Heymans. We pray for Anna as we pray for Caleb; we believe God will get both our tiny miracles through their desperate fights with life. Like us, the Heymans had prayed for a child for years; like us, they had almost given up hope; like us, they're surrounded by church friends and pastors and family ...

But then three weeks into her life, Anna stops breathing one afternoon. We watch the nurses' desperate attempts to revive her; watch her numb parents stand by her cradle; watch the caregivers finally whisper cold comfort and tell the parents they can hold their daughter for the first and last time ...

That night Anna's bare plastic cradle is empty, the tubes and wires gone with the soul they kept alive. The Heymans disappear.

We send a card. We don't know what else to do.

Then finally the small victories come — to our Caleb. Anna Heyman, of course, is past any victory. He nurses at Maura's breast one day. Then he takes his first breaths without the respirator. Finally, the doctor — smiling — tells us in about two weeks, we can take him home. The worst is over; Caleb will be OK. Pastor Maurer calls him our miracle child ...

We dare to hope again. We dare to finish decorating the nursery, a project at home that was interrupted by Maura's early labor. We dare to believe in God's faithfulness again ...

His faithfulness to us, of course. We try not to think about Anna for a long time.

Yet when our second child comes, healthy and on time, we name her after the little Heyman who never went home. We tell her parents — we've stayed in touch with them on Facebook — and they're honored. But they haven't dared another pregnancy, and a healthy Anna in our house must be cold comfort, and I still don't know what to think, because God brought them a miracle, too, and isn't He faithful to finish what He starts?

Their miracle didn't make it through the first month.

* * *

Oh, God, it hurts ... so hot ...

Are You still doing miracles; will they find me? God, please ... I'm not asking for me, just for Maura ... Caleb, Anna ... don't make them suffer, like I did with Dad ...

The air is steaming as I gasp into cramped lungs. Brick against flesh is roasting me alive; no breath stirs to relieve. Maybe it's better I don't get out — dying would be relief, such relief —

I press my head backwards and see a hazy noon sun: the one time of day when it reaches through my tiny opening, hammering my scalp with unrelenting torment —

Three to five days without water, less in arid conditions — God, I need you —

Abruptly I hear singing: "The itsy-bitsy tiger climbed up to water trout ..."

Caleb ... Is the voice real? Memory, insanity, veracity; they're all one unholy muddle —

The voice again: "The itsy-bitsy tiger climbed up to water trout ..."

My boy — I hear him at the same time the blistering torment comes, he must be real —

"Down came the rain and washed the tiger out ..."

Maura and I laugh over how Caleb twists the words to songs. He remembers the sounds of "The Itsy-Bitsy Spider," but somehow the words get lost —

"Up came the sun and dried up all of Spain, then the itsy-bitsy tiger climbed up a trout again."

I laugh. Small mercy that for an instant the heat and thirst fade into something funny, this ridiculous four-year-old song —

Oh, God, that hurt. My gouged throat and cramped gut rebel against laughter. I choke; more pain; gasping the steam.

"The itsy-bitsy tiger climbed up to water trout ..."

Footsteps. I picture Maura creeping into the room behind Caleb. I hope she's smiling at his song, smiling even while she wonders where her husband is and whether he's coming back —

"What'cha doin', Bubby?"

Rustled paper, hurried squirming. "You can't see yet."

"Are you drawing?"

"Yeah, but it's a surprise — "

"When do I get to see?"

"When it's finished."

"Call me, OK? I'm gonna do dishes."

"Well ... I guess you can look."

I hear Maura sit next to her son, picture her arm draping over his shoulder — God, why is everything so vivid when I want to forget? Silence.

Finally Maura's voice, choked with emotion: "Bubby, you ... it's a beautiful picture ... you know — it might not come true, right?"

"Did my picture make you sad?"

"No ... Bubby, it's precious — "

"You know what it is, right? Daddy comes in the door, and me and you hug him, and Anna smiles 'cause she can't hug yet. And then me and Daddy'll play Legos, 'cause he won't be too tired ..."

I hear Maura sniffle, can almost see Caleb give her a hug. "Bubby, there's things ... I have to tell you, things that ... can you be very brave?"

"Like getting shots? Brave like that?"

Maura, he can't understand. Daddies aren't supposed to leave —

"I have to tell you ... some very grown-up things." Maura sucks in a breath. "Bubby ... I'm not sure where Daddy went."

"Did he get hurt?"

"Bubby, please ... I told you Daddy would come back. Remember?" Maura pauses; struggles for words — "Well, I told you ... Mommy hoped that very much. And she didn't mean to lie, because she wanted to believe ... Daddy might not come in the door again."

God, no ... Maura, I'd be back in a minute; I'd break down the wall; I love you — I love you, Baby, if I could —

"Mommy and Daddy, they had a big fight ... and we said mean things, and Daddy went outside very angry, and Bubby ... your Daddy loves you very much, but Bubby ... Daddies don't always come back."

"Why?" Caleb sounds more curious than hurting, he doesn't understand yet —

A long silence. "Because ... I don't think Daddy loves Mommy anymore."

No! Maura — how could you think I'd walk out? God, please — this is worse than heat, thirst, sun — Almost without realizing, I'm banging my head against the brick again — oh, God, it hurts — please, tell Maura — show her, I'd be there ... If I could, I'd be there ...

God, help me!

* * *

I'm in the living room. Three nights ago, the fight ... The kids are in bed. Maura sits on the couch, picking at cushions. I walk in, bracing myself for the onslaught.

I know she's about to let me have it, for not helping with the kids and sitting in front of the tube ... But instead, she looks at me with tired eyes, the eyes she had while Caleb was in intensive care and she was only sleeping an hour at a stretch — the eyes that make me want to promise anything so she can rest ...

I sit down next to her and offer my hand. She doesn't take it.

"I wish you'd do Caleb's bath sometimes," she says finally.

"Sorry."

"I know nine hours is a long time, work and everything ... but I'm here all day, and nobody gives me an hour for lunch."

"Baby, I try — "

"Anna eats every three hours day and night, and you know I do the breast pump, but you don't get up. Do you seriously not hear her?"

"I'm up at 6:30 a.m.; I can't do nights — "

"You know what time Caleb wakes me up. He won't take naps anymore — "

"I have 40 minutes each way on the train, and customers hollering at me all day, and Guzman biting my head off if I look at him funny — "

" — But I guess in between feeding Anna is when I do everything for Caleb and clean the house and make you dinner — "

The guilt I felt from her tired eyes is fading fast. "Maura, let's not get into it tonight, OK?"

"Then when? I mean, would it kill you to spend time with your son instead of watching that idiot box?"

"Look, you wanna trade for a week? You deny insurance claims for nine hours, then see if you wanna play Legos. I'll babysit — "

"Is that what you think I do? Babysit?"

"You want me to get up with Anna? Fall asleep in my cube tomorrow?"

"No, I just ... never mind."

"What?"

"Eric, if I ask, you won't ... forget it."

"I won't what?" Maura gets on me about saying I'll try to do better then not changing anything, by her definition —

"Never mind. I don't want to ask because it doesn't — "

"Spit it out. You think I'm a jerk who can't keep his word — "

"Eric, I didn't say — "

"You didn't have to." I'm pretty hot. I storm off, but there isn't anywhere to go in a two-bedroom walkup, and I end up in the kitchen staring at the fridge. "I'm not listening to any more of this," I spit at her.

Maura doesn't move; keeps picking at couch fuzz. Finally, she says quietly: "Eric, you haven't been listening to us in a long time."

I don't know what she means — but then, I'm trying pretty hard not to understand tonight.

"I ask you to do things — little things," she says, almost pleading. "And Caleb wants time with his Daddy. And Anna cries, but it's like you don't hear. And you're more into that flatscreen that anything in this house ..."

I stare at Caleb's preschool drawings on the fridge. I'm afraid to say more; afraid I'll snap ...

There's a long silence.

Finally, a voice behind me: "Who knew our kid was an artist, huh? Where'd he get those genes?"

I spin around; Maura has crept silently to the kitchen doorway. She's trying to make peace.

I focus my eyes on Caleb's artwork in front of me — just sloppy crayon marks, really. "Yeah ... I guess."

"Maybe he has a gift for it?"

I smile weakly: "It's all scribbles to me."

"Yeah, but they judged from kids all over the city."

"Who judged?"

"The prize."

"What prize?" Caleb won something?

"Yeah, third place in the preschool category ... Eric?"

"What? Caleb won — why didn't he say something?"

Suddenly Maura stiffens. She crosses her arms; looks at the floor — her eyes glisten. What did I say now? I just asked —

"Baby, what's wrong?" I'm getting exasperated again. She heads for the living room; I follow. "Maura — "

She won't respond — finally stops at the back wall of the living room, as far from me and the kitchen as she can get —

"Maura, what did I do?"

She whirls on me — tears flowing. "He told you."

"What?"

"Caleb couldn't wait to tell his Daddy about the prize — and he did." She pauses, then spits her indictment: "During Survivor."

Oh, God, I never listened ... Why do I still remember —

She sits on the couch with downcast eyes and crossed arms; I mutter disjointed apologies and excuses. Maura wants SuperDad sometimes and expects me too much, but I never realized how bad ...

I didn't hear my boy.

Maybe we'll work things out. I'll hold Maura and tell her I'll try to hear things, get back to those really deep talks like before Caleb. I'll do better with my kids; I know I don't hear them ...

But right then, Caleb walks into the living room, crying and squinting in the light from a nightmare. Two minutes later Anna's howling, and Maura takes one kid while I take the other. I pray away the monsters in Caleb's dream and tuck him in, while Maura tries feeding Anna and giving her a paci and nothing is working. Then Caleb says he can't sleep with the baby crying, and he starts bawling too basically because it's way past his bedtime. Maura's still mad at me, I can tell, because she kicks me out of Caleb's room and tries to handle both kids at once ...

So I'm in the living room feeling like a complete failure as a Dad, and I'm still mad at Maura because she's the one I was fighting with, and I can't believe I couldn't do anything to soothe my own little boy —

God, I'm such a loser.

Suddenly I can't stay here for another minute, in this apartment where I'm raging and kicking my own butt and about to cry all at the same time. I actually can't breathe right; my chest is tight and my throat is clamped by a lump that won't come out. I know Maura'll be mad if I leave, but I'll be back in an hour or so and she's ticked anyway ...

I need fresh air.

I look at the closed door to Caleb's room: Clearly, I'm not needed. I step resolutely out our apartment door and head for the roof stairway. Up two flights of metal stairs, pushing open the rusty door scrawled with "KEEP OFF ROOF," walking to the parapet and looking over the city ...

I discovered the roof two summers ago when Caleb was potty-training, in the midst of the endless accidents and changings. One night on impulse, I tried the door with its dire spray-painted warning, and discovered a haven above the noisome neighborhood —

She's going to say you aren't listening to your family. And this is proof.

I'm coming back, I insist. I need this ... I whisper penitence to God for walking out on Maura; Caleb; Anna — but not yet; I can't go back ... I need a little time ...

I pace the roof, breathing deep draughts of freedom.

You unwind with TV, but you should play with your kid. You escape the ruckus, but you should stay. You try to help her but not enough, you get drawn by a siren call, escaping only to have guilt pull you back —

I inhale the sharp night air and watch taillights five stories down, streaming in unison towards traffic signals. I blow out a stale, contention-laden breath; close my eyes as my heart decelerates towards peace.

Just a few more minutes, reveling in the night air. Facing Maura won't be pretty. I'm over towards the left side of the roof now, where the streetlights dwindle into the distance and you can see forever, or at least the suburbs —

Suddenly my legs tread air.

I catch a snap glimpse of the stars — desperately claw at night sky. Then I'm falling through complete darkness, clobbered by brick and tumbling headfirst through air, limbs contorted into an impossible shape, frantically reaching my hands for a grip —

Instantly I realize that I was standing by the ancient chimney, broken by vandals and level with the roof now, a relic of an old coal-fired boiler. In the everlasting fall I bleat a prayer, Into your hands I commit my spi —

— But I've stopped.

One arm is above my head. The other is wrenched from its socket. My legs dangle in air; my throat cries in agony from brick shards ripping it open like paper — I feel like I'm underwater, choking on my own blood — the chimney must be collapsing all the way down. I'm probably half-hanging from jagged brick; feels like one knee is on a tiny ledge —

I cry for help and my mangled throat manages only a weak gurgle ... Still, I'm alive.

Now I'm breathing prayers of thanks, praising God for sparing my life. God, this was a miracle. Surely you'll be faithful, I'll climb out when I regather some strength, someone will come up to the roof and find me, my throat will heal enough to call for help ...

Of course, if I'd known what the next four days would hold — that I would suffer on the other side of my own son's bedroom wall while pleading to die — I might not have wasted breath gasping praise.

CONTINUE TO PART 3