“I’vebeen a little preoccupied—”
“Withwhat?” Goose demanded, raising his voice.
“Whatever,”I interrupted hurriedly, despite wanting to know myself why exactly he hadn’tchecked his phone in half a week. “I had the baby four days ago,” I told himwhen I knew I finally had his attention. “I have severe preeclampsia, and thedoctors are still trying to get my blood pressure under control.”
“You…had the baby?”
“Yes!Didn’t my parents tell you this?”
“Theymade it sound like you just needed to be watched for a day or so. I didn’trealize the baby wasalreadyborn.”
“Ihighly doubt that’s what they said,” I muttered. “Anyway, the baby was in aserious amount of distress, so they had to rush me into an emergencyC-section.”
Brendan’sjaw clenched and his brow set in an angry line. “What did you do to makethathappen?”
“Excuseme? I didn’tdoanything.”
“Well,you must’ve donesomething. That type of shit doesn’t justhappen.”
“Thedoctors and nurses said it was nothing I did—”
“Right.That’s just what theyhaveto say, to makeyoufeel better.” Helooked around the room in a hurry, then asked, “Where is he? I want to seehim.”
“He’sdown the hall,” I replied, fighting the quiver of my bottom lip and the burningin my nose.
“What?He’s not in here? Why not?”
“Becausehe’s in the NICU, Brendan.”
“The,what? Are you saying he’s sick?”
“He’stiny,” I replied in a hushed tone, picturing my tiny baby, laying in hisincubator, the bed they called anisolette. Too smallto come out, too small to open his eyes, too small to cry or hold.
“Whatdo you mean, he’s tiny?”
Isighed, desperate to hold onto my composure. “He was born three months early.He’s only one pound, ten ounces, and—”
“Iwant to see him. Right now,” Brendan demanded, and so, with Goose’s help, I gotout of bed and led Brendan down the hall to meet his son.
***
“Hey,Mama!” It was the customary greeting from the nurses in the NICU whenever Ientered.
“Hi,”I replied, still not at a comfortable level with these wonderful and kindwomen.
“Areyou Dad?” one nurse, Debbie, asked Brendan, who nodded stiffly. “Oh, great! So,we’re just going to sign both of you in over here …”
Iwalked with Brendan to the sink, where we washed our hands, and then, we werewritten into the log. They took his information, told him they’d have to gethim a hospital bracelet to wear, and then, I led him through the room ofnurses, equipment, andisolettes, to our son. He waslaying beneath thebililights, to help with hisjaundice, and a thick covering of gauze covered his eyes. Brendan stood to oneside of theisolette, while I took the other.
Smilingover the plastic cover, I said, “I was thinking of naming him Alexander. It’s agood, strong name, and he’s a strong, little guy. He’s been doing great, theysaid, and—”
“Kendall.Why the hell does he look like this?”
Startledby his question, my jaw flapped a couple times before finally asking, “What …what do you mean?”
“Helooks like, like, like,” he thrust a hand toward theisolette,“like afreakin’alien. And what the hell areall of these machines hooked up to him?”
Tearsimmediately sprung to my eyes as I dropped my gaze back to my beautiful littleboy and said, “He’s exactly the way he should be, Brendan; he’s justsmalland needs togrow. Andall ofthese machinesare keeping him alive right now, so—”
