Sunday

Earlier this week I got a call from the minister at my church, wondering if M and I were available to attend church today. As the organist, I'm usually there, but today was my scheduled Sunday off. She wanted us there because the little plate the church donated in memory of Charlotte was ready; there was a baptism today, they wanted to present it and use it.

I had forgotten the church was doing this. It was mentioned to me mere days post-Charlotte, while I was still in the hospital and the world had crashed down around my ears. I heard, but did not really hear, and like so many other things right now, I forgot.

I heard the voicemail on Tuesday. I mentioned it to M. He thought it would be really sad, what do we have to do? I don't want to go up or anything.

I called back the minister to ask what she had in mind. Whatever we were comfortable with. There was no standard protocol.

We were uncertain about the accompanying baptism. As we told our psychologist on Thursday, we expected that to really suck. I mean, here's the little plate. Charlotte's name is on it. Here's a living healthy baby. She gets the baptism. With Charlotte's plate.

Guess what? It did suck.

We sat in the balcony to have a bit more distance, more breathing room. The presentation was near the beginning of the service. The minister presented the little plate, explained how it would hold the oil, dedicated in memory of Heather and M's daughter, Charlotte Molly. The word daughter still sounds unnatural to me. I call her my baby. My baby girl.

In a moment the prayer was over, and on we moved to the living baby, in her white christening gown. And M and sat hand-in-hand through the baptism (it's so much easier when I'm behind the organ). I wiped away the scattered tear and sat there, moving from one breath to the next. They sang the requisite little song we sing for every baptism. The one we sang at Charlotte's funeral.

In an hour we were home again. Drained. Struck by the unfairness and injustice once again.

Our baby has a plate. Babies should have a life.