Principessa
“But, Emma—”
“Cal, we’ve been over this a hundred times already. It’s too risky.”
He knew that.
She was right.
“We know, though. And Cross was perfectly fine at thirty-two weeks, just a bit small.”
“Cal, he spent over a week in the hospital, had jaundice, difficulty latching, and just the fact that he was even that healthy considering his gestational age at birth was nothing more than fucking luck.”
Calisto sighed, rubbing a hand down his jaw to ease the tension settling there. It didn’t really help. He fucking hated fighting with his wife, even if this wasn’t technically them fighting, per say. But he wanted this one thing for them, and him, so badly, that he was willing to risk it turning into a fight just on the off chance his desires would be heard. A simple “no” was not going to be good enough for this.
“Emma, just think about it.”
His wife turned on her heel in the walk-in closet, stopping Calisto from following her further. Anger and hurt blazed in her eyes. “Do you really think that I haven’t stopped to consider something like that?”
“Well—”
“Do you think I’m that callous?”
“I never said that,” Calisto rushed to say. “And I never would, Emmy.”
“Good,” Emma replied sharply. “But in case you might have forgotten, I can’t not think about it, Cal. It’s my body; my babies lost. One on a kitchen floor, and one in a graveyard. How dare anyone, but especially you, even suggest that I don’t, or can’t, think of having another child, when I’ve already lost two? I think about another—and them—all the fucking time!”
Calisto felt properly chastised for speaking without, at the very least, considering his wife’s feelings. “I’m sorry, Emma. That wasn’t what I meant to say, or how I meant for it to sound, and I’m sorry if I made you feel that way.”
Emma glanced away, but not before Calisto saw the tears gathering in her eyes. “I know you want another baby.”
“Not to the detriment of us, though.”
She nodded. “I thought Cross was going to be enough.”
Calisto quickly crossed the space between him and his wife, taking Emma into his embrace and holding her tight. He carefully wiped the silent tears from her cheeks, and then kissed her softly.
“He is enough. He has always been enough, Emma.”
“But he’s not yours, too, right?” she asked quietly. “Not to everyone else, and I know how much that kills you inside. They look at him and think he’s Affonso’s boy, not yours. I see it in your eyes every time you have to correct him to call you uncle in front of others. Or worse, when someone else calls you his uncle to him. You raise him, you love him, and yet, he can’t fully be yours to them, even if he really is.”
Calisto frowned. He hated that his one thing—his one cause of sadness—was so clear and on display for his wife. She didn’t need to be burdened with these sorts of things. It was his issue, something he had done and it was his sole choice to continue. Even if it hurt him, and it did, it was in the best interests of his wife and son. Emma knew this, of course, but that didn’t make it easier on either of them.
“He is enough,” Calisto repeated.
“But?”
“There doesn’t have to be a ‘but’ at all, Emma.”
“But is there?”
Sort of.
Probably not what she thought, though.
“I see you too, you know,” Calisto murmured into Emma’s hair. “But especially when you think that I don’t. When you get invited to a baby shower. Or when you see babies at the park. When someone asks about a sibling for Cross. I see, too, Emma.”
She sighed. “I think about it all the time, but I think about a kitchen floor and a tiny casket, too.”
Yeah, he knew that now.
Calisto wasn’t so selfish of a man, or so full of foolish pride, that he would hurt his wife in an effort to fill their house with more children.
“As long as we’re happy like we are,” Calisto said, “then nothing else matters. Right?”
“But are we?”
That was the million dollar question.
“I don’t know, Emmy. You tell me. I’m leaving this up to you, now. I won’t say another thing about it until you do.”
“Cal … Calisto!”
The sheer desperation in Emma’s scream sent Calisto flying from his office. Three and a half year old Cross stumbled after his father, likely confused.
“Cal!”
He wasn’t quite sure what to expect as he took the stairs three at a time to the second level. Emma had been napping, as she needed her rest. Especially now, considering her state.
Rest.
Relaxation.
No stress.
Those were the doctor’s orders. They had been the doctor’s orders from the day, fifteen weeks earlier, when they found out they were expecting their second child, and that his wife had already been a month along at that point.
“Cal!”
Each time that Emma shrieked for him, her voice became impossibly higher. More terrified. Heartbroken, even.
He found his nineteen-week pregnant wife on the middle of their bed, straddling a small streak of red that stained the white sheets. Emma looked to him, horrified. That expression she wore was so sadly familiar; he had seen it on her before, remembered all too vividly her pain and terror as he opened a public bathroom stall in a restaurant only to find her miscarrying her unborn child.
Calisto knew what Emma was going to say before she even said it. He still let her.
“It’s happening again,” Emma rasped.
He was stunned, frozen to the spot, and so fucking useless in that moment. Things were supposed to be good with the pregnancy, even the doctors thought so. Twice weekly appointments to monitor the baby and Emma’s cervix had given them a sense of security that everything would be just fine.
It was a false sense, clearly.
It took the smallest gasp from Cross to finally break Calisto from his stupor. The boy pushed past his father and moved further into the bedroom, pointing his finger right at his mother with wide eyes.
“Oh, noes,” Cross said loudly, “Ma’s got a bleeds!”
Emma’s tears flowed harder, which only spurred tiny Cross into his own round of cries. Likely at the confusion of what was happening around him. His small world was not usually so chaotic and unsure.
Calisto said nothing as he scooped his now wailing son into his arms, grabbed the cordless phone on the nightstand, and made a call. Twenty-four-seven, he had someone watching the house, or very close by. Less than three minutes later, Calisto passed his son off to the enforcer that rushed inside the house.
By that time, Emma had managed to get out of the bed and make her way to the stairs. Calisto met her there, and carried his wife to their own car. He didn’t care to call emergency services and wait for an ambulance.
He would always make it there faster.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the ultrasound technician said, giving a squirming Cross an annoyed look. “Our policy is not to allow young children, even siblings, into the room.”
Calisto glared, refusing to let go of his son who wanted down on the floor. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”
“Uh, well, no.”
Emma glanced up at Calisto from her wheelchair, a staple in her daily life since being admitted to the hospital two weeks prior. “It’s … okay.”
“See,” the tech said, far too chipper for Calisto’s liking. “You can handle the little one. She will be fine to go in alone.”
No.
Hell no.
It was most certainly not fine.
Calisto barked out a laugh before he could check the impulse. “No, I’ll be going in, and so will our son.”
The tech put her hands on her hips. “Policy says—”
“Fuck your policy,” Calisto snapped. “I don’t know if you’ve bothered to give more than a passing glance at my wife, or if she’s just another appointment for you, but take a moment to do that.”
The woman did, and Calisto knew exactly what she was seeing. A tired, worried Emma who looked small in her chair, and really just needed to get this whole day over with.
“She’s in a hospital gown, in a hospital-issued wheelchair,” Calisto said before the woman could speak again. “Because right now, and for the unforeseeable future, this hospital is where she fucking lives. Her pregnancy is so high risk, that for the moment, the doctors can’t afford for her to be outside of this place. Now, I know you probably haven’t opened her file yet to know what you need to check for on the ultrasound, so you don’t really know any of these things, but let me fill you in really quick.”
Calisto smiled, but it was cold. “The only thing that is keeping my child inside my wife’s body right now is a hope, a prayer, and a goddamn fucking stitch. A stitch that may or may not be infected, but we have to wait until the specialist finishes his appointments for the day before we can get a start on those tests. Now, we had the option of having a portable ultrasound machine brought up into my wife’s room today, but given she hasn’t seen the outside of it since she had the stitch put in, the nurses and I thought that she might like a bit of a break by taking a trip down here.”
“Mr.—”
“Shut up and listen,” Calisto interjected sharply.
“Cal,” Emma murmured.
He ignored his wife.
She was not the type to cause a fuss, while he most certainly would.
“This is literally a day-by-day thing for us right now. One day, to the next, and then to the next again. That’s how we’ve been told to treat this pregnancy, at least with the hopes we will make it to a safe threshold so that our child is viable.”
Calisto ran his hand through Cross’s mop of black curls. “So today is one of the only days that our son has been able to come in and see his mother this week. And we told him that he would also be able to see his baby brother or sister today on the screen. Do you understand what that means?”
“No,” the tech admitted.
“It means: Fuck. Your. Policy.”
Cross got to see his sibling.
Calisto and Emma learned they were having a beautiful little girl.
A princess.
A Donati principessa.
“Papa?”
Calisto’s eyes cracked open to see the darkness of his bedroom staring back at him. He was acutely aware of how empty his bed was without his wife sleeping beside him. It felt cold and uninviting, but he didn’t have much of a choice.
His bed would continue to be a cold and empty place until Emma was back at home. He spent as much time at the hospital as he possibly could, but with their newly turned four year old, his position in la famiglia, and life in general, his time had to be split between the hospital, home, and the business.
Speaking of Cross …
“Papa, can I sleeps with you?”
Calisto blinked awake further, his gaze focusing on Cross standing just a foot away from his side of the bed. In one hand, Cross clutched his favorite blanket. His other hand was stuck in his mouth. Or rather, his thumb was.
“Cross,” Calisto mumbled.
The boy’s thumb slipped from his mouth with a wet, loud pop. “Yeah, Papa?”
Calisto sighed, trying to decide which issue to deal with first where his son was concerned. The fact Cross was out of his bed, or sucking his thumb. The ‘Papa’ thing was a whole other matter. Cross called Calisto his father whether he was corrected on it or not, however, he had learned not to do it in front of others.
“Why are you out of bed, buddy?” Calisto asked.
“Wanna see Ma,” Cross said simply.
“Ma is at the hospital to—”
“Keep baby Camilla safe. I knows, Papa.”
Calisto had to hold back his chuckle at all the attitude his four year old had managed to stuff into that one sentence. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, noting he needed a good shave, and wondered what fucking time it even was.
“Will baby Camilla come home when Ma comes, too?” Cross asked.
Damn.
For such a little boy, Cross sure asked some difficult as fuck questions.
“Probably not,” Calisto said.
“Why?”
Because their daughter—who they had decided to name early simply to give themselves hope and Cross something tangible as to why his mother was away—would likely be born far too early, even with all the help she had keeping her safe.
How could Calisto possibly explain that to Cross?
“Because baby Camilla might still need more time to let the doctors help make her better,” Calisto settled on saying.
“Oh. Okay.”
That was that, it seemed.
Cross stuck his thumb back in his mouth. Calisto checked the urge to tell the boy to stop, but only because Cross used thumb-sucking as a comfort during difficult moments. He rarely sucked his thumb at all, actually. That behavior only showed itself if he was extremely stressed out, or upset by something. Calisto figured Cross’s thumb-sucking, added onto his questions, and his late night visit to his father’s bed was a damn good indication about just how troubled the boy was with what was happening in his life.
“Wanna see Ma,” Cross mumbled around his thumb.
Calisto frowned. “Me, too, buddy. Me, too.”
But visiting time was hours away yet.
So was morning, according to the clock.
Calisto pulled his son up into the bed, turned on his phone to gallery images of their family, handed it over to Cross to swipe through, and hoped it did something for the boy. It was all he could do, really. At least for a few more hours. Cross found a picture he liked, tucked the phone into the blankets between him and his father, and promptly fell asleep.
Calisto didn’t shut his eyes again.
He couldn’t when he knew that life was waiting to wake him up.
Twenty-nine weeks.
That was how long Emma’s body had allowed the stitch to stay in place before infection forced an early morning C-section.
Camilla Emma Donati.
Named for the two strongest women that Calisto had ever known.
Cross had been so distraught when Calisto told him that his sister had been born, but he would not be allowed inside the NICU to see her.
Emma cried the day her release papers had been signed, yet she needed to leave her daughter behind for God knew how long.
And Calisto?
He soothed his son and held Cross up for hours against the NICU windows so he could peer inside and see baby Camilla. He comforted his wife when she needed him to, and when she would allow him to help.
He never admitted how guilty he felt to see his daughter struggle for a life that he had been the one to beg for her to have. He never said a word about how it killed him to feel her weightlessness or hear her soundless sobs when she tried to cry. Every wire, tube, and lead on her tiny body was like a knife slicing through his skin.
The first time he had been able to hold her, he was terrified. She was dwarfed by his size, but all her little warmth bled into his, and that helped. He wished that she didn’t have to fight for breath, or the ability to eat. He hated seeing her eyes taped shut for those first weeks, when he only wanted to have her look at him, her father. He wanted her home, in his arms or her mother’s, but certainly not in an incubator for well over a month.
Nothing had been harder than leaving the NICU day after day, knowing all their daughter had for comfort were the nurses to hold her, soothe her, or rock and feed her when she needed it. And while those nurses were some of the most amazing people Calisto had ever come in contact with, he also knew they had another half of a dozen babies in the same, if not worse, position than Camilla on any given day.
Fifty-fifty. Those were the chances given to each and every premature newborn born while Camilla waited out her stay in the NICU. Camilla landed on the good side of the fifty-fifty coin. Too many other babies did not.
But Camilla grew.
She became stronger.
She ate.
She made noise.
She gained weight, although slowly.
And the day they brought her home, still preemie small, but alive?
He was even more terrified.
But he loved her still.
God, how loved Camilla was.
His little Donati principessa.
All the hell and fear and the pain was worth it, then.
And Calisto couldn’t regret or feel any guilt for that.