“Hey, hey,” he said, scooping her up. “Until Mama comes home, this is not an instant thing.”
He’d put his dorm fridge in the spare bathroom and stored the milk in there. Talking to her the whole time, he grabbed a bag of milk and put it in the warmer. Somehow, he found it easy to talk to Rosita. He never found himself at a loss for words.
“Five minutes, pretty girl,” he cooed. “Enough time to get you out of this wet diaper.”
In the emotional and mental whirlwind of hours and days following Rosita’s birth, his mom and Rita had helped him figure out what he needed from moment to moment. He knew how much Daisy wanted to breastfeed, so he worked with the nurses, and his mom made inquiries to find donated milk.
Daisy had a cousin who brought a three-day supply over the day of Rosita’s birth. Valerie and Alex had gotten their milk supply going enough to donate milk after the first few days. He knew as soon as they shifted Daisy’s medications, Rosita could have her milk.
In Rosita’s room, he lay her on the changing table and tried to tease her out of the angry, hungry cry. “You know, they say patience is a virtue. You’re not being very virtuous right now. But you’re beautiful and perfect. Yes, you are. And you’re wet. Let’s fix that.”
She paused and looked up at him with big, brown eyes, then screwed her face up and screamed even louder. Ken chuckled. “I know. It’s so hard being seven days old. You’re unemployed, no bank account, no schooling to speak of, no references. How are you going to get your life together?”
He slipped the mint green gown back down over her legs then scooped her back up. She cried and nuzzled against his neck, seeking solace from the hunger. He walked back to the bathroom and checked the bottle, finding the milk at the perfect temperature. He collected it and gently rocked her as he headed back to his room.
“Don’t worry, sweet girl. You’ve got time. You’ll figure things out. You’ll be up and around and on your feet before you know it.”
In his room, he settled against the corner of the couch and held her the way the occupational therapist had taught him, the same way Daisy would hold her when she could finally nurse her. As he slipped the nipple into her mouth and she greedily latched onto it, he smiled down at her perfect face.
“You don’t know your mom very well yet, but you’re going to love her. And, oh my stars, she is going to love you, sweet girl. They’ll move your Mama into a new room as soon as she wakes up. We get to stay with her there sometimes. Isn’t that cool?”
But what if Daisy never woke up?
Tears filled his eyes before he could stop them. He had set aside emotions for a solid week because the need to make decisions, answer questions, and field phone calls took priority. Suddenly, the questions he had pushed to the back and the emotions he had ignored all overwhelmed him until he had a hard time catching his breath.
What if she dies in that hospital and we never get to speak to her again in this life?
He had always tried to live his life as an example of Christ. He stayed faithful, serving God with his heart and his hands. He avoided temptation and treated his neighbors with kindness.
Unlike eldest triplet Jon, who had always struggled with carnal temptations, Ken had stayed pure and sober, never wanting to treat his body as anything other than the medium through which he could physically work for God’s kingdom. Unlike middle triplet Brad, who had always known he loved Valerie, Ken would have been content to stay single until the day he died. He could have gladly just poured his days and his energy into mission-oriented work.
Then Daisy came into his life, and for the first time ever, he thought maybe God wanted him to have someone beside him. He thought God had made her just for him. He felt certain God had made him for Daisy. Ken and Daisy made a whole unit, helpers to each other, faithful lovers, and much stronger together than when they lived their solitary lives.
Thinking of Daisy’s dreams and how God had tried to prepare them for Rosita’s birth made him realize that, maybe, God never intended for Daisy to come home.
What would that mean? Did she come in to his life only so that Rosita would have a father, not so that Ken would have a wife? Could Ken accept that?
Daisy can never have your children, now.
Ken closed his eyes and shook his head like an angry wet dog, as if he could shake these thoughts right out of his mind. He needed to pray. He needed to pray right now.
“God, please, I beg you,” he said as Rosita’s head lolled back, a dribble of milk sliding down her cheek. Love flowed through him with such force that it caused a painful squeeze of his heart. A more perfect baby did not exist on this planet. He shifted her to his shoulder and gently patted her back as he looked up at the ceiling. “Please don’t let that be Your plan. Please heal Daisy’s body and bring her home to me.”
The loud burp brought a smile to his face even though his tears. He carried the baby back to the bassinet and gently laid her in it. In the dim light, he stared down at Rosita, noticing how much of Daisy he saw in the infant’s features. “I know it’s selfish to even ask, God. But I have to ask. I have to.”
Right there next to the baby’s bed, he fell on his knees and covered his face with his hands. “Please,” he whispered, “bring Daisy home to Rosita. God, please, please bring her home to me. Don’t leave me a fractured whole now that I finally found the rest of me.”
After several minutes of pouring his appeals out to God, he pushed himself to his feet and glanced at the clock. Four-twenty-two. Mentally, he knew he should do his Bible study and get some exercise, but emotionally, he needed some restorative sleep. Without any guilt, he collapsed onto the bed and closed his eyes.
Daisyfloated in a sea of fog. The light varied. Sometimes the fog looked gray and misty, sometimes pitch black. Occasionally, she could hear sounds, someone speaking her name, cold wet applied to her mouth, her arms moving. Most of the time, though, she didn’t hear anything, didn’t know anything, didn’t feel anything. Then, the black gave way to gray, which turned into a mist, which became a bright light, and she ripped her eyes open.
Hospital room. No window. What did that mean? Intensive care?
Turning her head took so much effort. It felt like she had weights strapped to her forehead. The room was small—definitely ICU. Through a glass wall, she could see a circular nurse’s desk. A black-haired woman typed at a computer, and a blond man counted little cups on a tray.
Why a hospital? Had she been involved in an accident? Why couldn’t she remember?
She made the effort to turn her head straight again and stared at the whiteboard on her wall.
