Chapter 27: Corabelle
I’m trying to get free of my IV so I can go down to the NICU myself.
“You just had a baby an hour ago,” Mom says as I struggle to get up and put on a clean gown to walk the halls.
“I’m fine, Mom,” I say. I want to see him. I won’t be stuck in my room again with another baby. Last time I missed everything.
I examine the IV still attached to a saline bag. They never took it out.
I’m about to take the pouch off the metal stand and carry it when pretty much the very last person I ever expected to see walks in the room.
“Corabelle!” June says, rushing forward. She’s holding a big blue bear and smashes it between us in a hug. “Where’s the baby? Where’s my nephew?”
I look over her shoulder at my mom. Why is Gavin’s sister here?
She glances guiltily at my dad.
“How did you get here?” I ask her.
“We drove all the way from New Mexico!” June says. “Dad was so grumpy!”
Uh-oh. “Your dad is here?” I ask.
“And Mom!” June says. “We couldn’t miss the baby being born!”
Oh God.
“Where are your parents?” I ask. Now I really have to get up. I lift my arm, pondering the tube. Maybe I can just rip it out.
“They went down to the nursery,” she says. “We’ve been in the waiting room just down the hall. I decided to come here.” She leans in. “It’s after visiting hours, so I had to be sneaky.”
I pick up the call button and press it. I need a nurse, right now.
My legs are less stable than I think they will be, though, and when they wobble, I have to sit back on the bed.
“I told you,” Mom says. “Gavin is going to have to navigate this on his own.”
“But it’s his dad,” I say.
“My dad does ruin everything,” June says.
“Did you tell them about the baby?” I ask Mom. “Gavin was going to let them know at Christmas.”
Mom’s eyes flicker over to Dad again. “We just didn’t think it was right, since the baby might be sick.”
I draw in a breath to really let her have it, but she holds up her hand. “I knew you might be upset, Corabelle, but Alaina never got over not getting to see Finn before he died. I couldn’t let that happen again. So I told them, right after we were up at Thanksgiving.”
“And again today,” I say.
“And again today,” she confirms.
The nurse comes in, the one from the first night with her perfect ponytail. Adrianna, I think. “Everything okay?” she asks. “I saw you had that baby!”
“I need this out,” I say, lifting my arm. “I urgently need to go to the NICU.”
“The doctor hasn’t given me the go-ahead to unhook it. You’re getting antibiotics in case an infection caused the early labor.”
“Then I’ll just have to pull it out myself.” I start ripping at the tape.
“Just let me unhook you,” Adrianna says. “We can put it back in when you come back.” She squeezes the line going in and pulls it from the base of the IV lead. A small alarm sounds, and she shuts it off.
It’s a relief not to be tethered. I ignore my wobbly legs and head for the door.
“We’re going with you,” Dad says.
“They won’t let her in the NICU,” Adrianna says, pointing to June.
“I’ll stay with June,” Mom says.
Dad draws my arm through his elbow. “Let’s take our time, Tinker Bell,” he says.
We walk more slowly outside the room. Most of the doors are closed, blue and pink mums hanging on several.
I try the name again in my mind.
Ethan. Ethan Mays.
It’s hard to imagine he is real. I saw him only for a moment.
The baby is like a mirage in the desert. You’re desperate to see it, and there it is. But you blink a few times, then it’s gone again.
“Just beyond the corner here,” Dad says. “I walked these halls a few times while we waited.”
The NICU has windows all the way down. There is no one at the desk inside the entrance to buzz us in.
I walk along the wall, fingers pressed to the glass. It’s my nightmare all over again. The rows of babies in their Isolette prisons, moms rocking in chairs. Nurses bent over monitors, checking stats.
I can’t hear anything yet, but already my ears are filled with the helicopter sound of the ventilator.
My feet stumble, and my dad grabs my arm. He wants to say something about how I shouldn’t be here. I can feel the words forming on his lips. But he doesn’t say it. Stubborn Corabelle, I bet he thinks. And I am.
Then I see Gavin in a room at the end. I can’t walk up to that room, as it’s on the opposite wall. But it’s glass on the side that faces the NICU. They are surrounding a crib.
I want in. My feet in their nubby-bottomed socks fly back down the hall. Adrenaline hits my veins and my legs no longer feel weak.
A woman is just sitting back down in her chair at the entrance. I show her my wristband through the glass. “My baby has been brought here.”
She nods and smiles, pressing a button so the door unlatches.
I’m in, but I know the drill and pause at the washing station to hastily scrub down. My dad will have to fend for himself, because as soon as I’m dry enough not to drip, I take off down the aisle, past the rows of babies that blink with lights and hum with monitors, past a nurse shutting off an alarm, past rocking mothers and fathers camped out on chairs.
I reach the room and Gavin turns. A space opens and I see him.
Ethan.
A nurse opens the door for me. “You must be Mom,” she says, her gray eyes kind. She’s dressed in full scrubs, head covering, and mask. They all are, except Gavin.
“What’s going on?” Are they taking him to surgery already? Is it that bad?
I feel faint, like I can’t take one moment more, as though the floor beneath me is shifting just to throw me off balance.
Gavin takes my arm. “The cardiologist is here. They just took a look at his heart.”
One of the men turns. He lowers his mask. “Hello, Mom,” he says. “I’m Dr. Griffin.” He’s older than Dad, lines crinkling from his eyes and mouth. His short gray hair is very precisely cut, like a poster in a salon.
He holds out an iPad and swipes his finger to bring up a black-and-white image. “I have Ethan’s heart here on my screen. I was just about to talk to your husband about it.”
My dad enters the room behind me. “Grandpa?” Dr. Griffin asks.
Dad nods.
The words about Gavin’s father being somewhere in the hospital die on my lips. Later. They haven’t found the NICU, obviously. We have time.
“So, good news all around,” Dr. Griffin says, pointing to the screen. “This is the foramen ovale. The flap is undersized, but it’s created enough of a seal that there is no reason to intervene at this stage. We will send you a referral to come see us at six months, and we’ll evaluate again. Probably if anything is still a problem, we’ll deal with it around his second birthday. It’s quite possible it will fix itself.”
I want to faint. He’s fine? They don’t have to do anything?
Dr. Griffin shuts off the iPad and tucks it under his arm. “He’s doing amazingly well for being seven weeks early. I’m turning this over to the neonatologist, but I don’t need to assess him again unless they tell me he has some distress.”
Ethan sends up a major wail as a disc is attached to his chest.
“He seems like he’s getting plenty of oxygen to me.” Dr. Griffin pats my shoulder. “He’ll be just fine.”
Now that Ethan has let out a cry, I am mesmerized by him.
He’s lying there, surrounded by people, but no one is comforting him. He’s all alone on that bed, the heat lamp above him.
I step forward carefully, slowly, the way you might approach a deer. If this is some dream, I want to keep it intact, as smooth and perfect as the still surface of a pond.
He is not encased in an Isolette, just placed on a little baby bed with low sides. I reach forward with my fingers. I’m not sure they will touch anything. He could be a figment of my imagination.
“Ethan,” I say, and he stops crying. His arms and legs wiggle, his head cocked, as if he’s listening to me. “Ethan,” I say again.
My hand brushes his skin. He startles for a moment, but as he draws in a breath to cry, I say it again. “Ethan.”
He doesn’t cry. He waits. This is one thing in this bright terrible world that is familiar to him. My voice.
“Can I hold him?” I ask.
Several of the people standing around look at each other in their blue caps and masks.
“Of course you can.” A woman pushes forward, holding a diaper and a little cap. She is in colorful scrubs like nurses wear, her hair plaited into a crown of braids.
“Let me get this on him,” she says. Everyone moves aside for her, and the group begins to disperse.
She lifts Ethan by the legs and slides the small white diaper beneath him. “Let’s hope you fill this right up,” she says to him in a quiet easy voice.
The nurse fastens the diaper and slides her hands beneath him. “Dad, pull that chair over here.” She angles her head toward a cushioned office chair against the wall.
The room is empty now except for this nurse, my dad, Gavin, and me. A hush has fallen within the walls. The noises of the NICU, beeps, whirs, and alarms, are well outside.
Gavin sets the chair by the crib, and I sit down.
Of all the moments that align from our time with Finn, this one brings me the most peace. The nurse walks around the crib, careful to keep the wire on the disc from tangling, and lifts the baby to me.
“Put him directly against your skin,” she says. “He needs to be kept warm.”
I tug on the string on my gown and let it fall open enough to give him space.
The nurse places the baby against my chest and draws the gown over him, shifting my arm to hold him securely.
Ethan is warm and soft and does not cry. His head rests just below my neck. He takes in a stuttering little breath as my heart beats just below his ear, as though he is relieved finally to know something. It is the sound he knows best.
His eyes close. Time has stopped. There is only this small creature, his tiny breaths, and the rhythm in my chest.
Ethan.
For just a moment, I see Finn there. Maybe it’s the shape of Ethan’s ear or the way his hair whorls just above it.
Gavin places his hand on the baby, his strong work-toughened fingers cupping his head. My dad sniffs, rocking back and forth on his feet, his hands clasped.
No one needs words now. The hard stuff is behind us.
We have survived the worst.