Bellson hesitated, then shook her head once again. Her eyes suddenly softened. “I suppose it’s nice what you’re doing for your father. Just don’t step on my toes, all right? I’ve been charge nurse of this unit for ten years. I don’t appreciate people barging in, demanding that I cater to them.”

“I didn’t mean anything. I’m sorry.”

“S’okay.” Bellson uncrossed her arms, letting them slowly drop to her sides. “I do get testy, especially when I’m overworked and understaffed.” She played with a gold class ring on her left hand. “My profession means a lot to me. I put my heart and soul into my babies—all of them. You notice that little Rodriguez baby?”

Cindy nodded.

“Mama’s only fifteen years old—a child with a child. I’ve spent hours with her just teaching her the basics. How to hold her baby, how to feed her, how to change a diaper. Letting her know that what she’s got is a baby and not a doll.”

“That’s very nice of you.”

“It’s because I care. I care about that skinny little thing.” Bellson furrowed her brow. “She was low birth weight because her mother smoked during pregnancy.” She dropped her voice a notch. “And I bet she smoked more than tobacco.”

The nurse smoothed her paper gown.

“Anyway, it’s not my position to judge. We’ve all done things we’re not proud of. But it is my position to help. I don’t want that poor little thing going home with an untrained mother. They’re the ones who do damage. One of the things I always tell the mamas: If they don’t want what the good Lord blessed them with, there are hundreds of nice families who’d gladly take the baby off their hands. They should quit their eternal griping and thank Jesus they have a healthy baby.”

Cindy nodded solemnly, thinking that Bellson would have been a great Puritan. She could picture the woman in a Pilgrim’s hat, her reedy body covered by a black dress with a starched white apron, fingers kneading stiff bread dough in a one-room shack heated by a black iron cauldron. Pilgrim Bellson would be an attentive mother—caring—but she’d never crack a smile. The Pilgrim glanced at her watch—the timepiece an anachronism that brought Cindy back to the present.

“I’m running late,” Bellson said.

“My fault, I’m sorry,” Cindy said. “I’ll wait in the nursery and won’t go past the yellow line.”

“Good.” Bellson played with her ring again. “It’s nice what you’re doing for your sister. As long as you remember you’re not the infant’s mother. I hope your stepmother takes your place soon.”

“I hope so, too,” Cindy said. And she meant it.

6