Page 19 of Because of Dylan
I peerthrough the window and smile. Being here, surrounded by these babies, always calms me down. I find Baby Jay in his incubator and wave even though I know he can’t see or hear me from the other side of the NICU glass.
“Be right back, sweetheart.”
I walk to the cleaning station to wash my hands and get a gown. My phone buzzes in my pocket. River.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“Hi. Are you all recovered from Halloween?”
“I sure hope so. It’s been two days, and I wasn’t that drunk. You cut me off before I could do any real damage.”
She snorts. “Why are you whispering?”
“I’m at the hospital.”
“What?” Her voice is alarmed.
“With the babies.” If sound could have an eye roll, my tone would have it.
“Oh, yes. It’s Friday. I always forget about that. How’s the cuddling today?”
“Haven’t started yet. Need to prep before I go in.”
“You still have baby Rose?”
“No, she went home with her parents three weeks ago.”
“I don’t know how I could do what you do. I’d fall in love with every baby and try to take them all home.”
“I know, it was harder in the beginning, but you learn to let go. Having the babies go home is the goal. Plus, they’re not stray puppies. They have families who love them …” I hesitate, thinking of Baby Jay. “For the most part anyway.”
“What do you mean?” River asks.
“I have this new NAS baby.”
“NAS baby?”
“Yeah, NAS stands for neonatal abstinence syndrome.”
“Like a crack baby?”
Ugh. “I hate that term.” These babies didn’t choose to be born with an addition. “Yes. He was born addicted to heroin.”
“Oh my God. That’s horrible. How do they know? The mother said something?”
“The mom abandoned him in a firehouse. We don’t know who she is.”
“I can’t imagine doing such a thing.”
“He is lucky the mother left him in a safe place. Many don’t get that chance.”
“What’s his name? How old is he? Do you have a picture?” River rapid-fires the questions, one after the other.
“He came in as baby John Doe. I can’t stand calling him that, so I’ve been calling him Baby Jay. He’s three weeks old, but he shouldn’t be born yet. He’s a preemie. They figured he was under thirty weeks when he was born. And no pictures. It’s not allowed.”
“Aw,” she coos. “Again, I have no idea how you do that.”
“I don’t know. I can’t say you get used to it because you don’t. I’ve been coming here for three years every single Friday, and it both breaks my heart and heals my soul every single time.” The truth of what I said weighs into my chest. I swallow.
