“Per favore.” I tilt my head, pleading with Sister Margaret the way I’ve done for years. She huffs and folds her arms, black sleeves draping over her ample chest.
Half-hiding behind me, Ariadna has a grip on the belt loop at my back. I don’t blame her. Sister Margaret has been her typical harsh self so far.
“You think you can come and go as you please, Mr. Nascimbeni. First, you’re here, forcing me to break hospital policy several times a week, and then you disappear completely for five weeks? This is not the way to treat your calling.”
I suppress my entertainment at her choice of words. “Oh, the good sister missed me?”
The hold she has on her own arms tightens further, and when she scoffs, it’s with the understated belligerence of a teenager. “Assolutamente no. It’s been peaceful here without your midnight visits.”
“Well, they’re not always at night. Look at me now, for instance.” I open my arms, palms up. “It’s not even dark outside. You know why I’m here early today?”
She scowls, firmly planted in front of the door to the NICU. Over her dead body, right? She sends Ariadna a furtive glance like she’s been doing since we arrived. Sister Margaret is the curious kind, and she’s been dying to know who I have with me.
“Because I don’t want to mess up my daughter’s sleep schedule.” I pull Ariadna in front of me, and sink my elbows onto her shoulders. “Meet Ariadna Colombini di Nascimbeni,” I murmur, purposely leaving out “Santa.” My little girl is best off not being judged by the infamous side of her family.
Sister Margaret sucks in a breath. “I didn’t know you had a child?”
I nod contentedly. “Ariadna was born and raised in Il Veneto. Weren’t you, tesoro? But now it’s my turn. I finally get to be her father.”
The hardness leaves Sister Margaret’s gaze.
“We’re here with gifts for the little ones,” I say. “Hats this time. My chicks have been busy.”
“Your chicks.” Sister Margaret doesn’t roll her eyes at me in her subtle nun way today. Instead, her focus sinks to Ariadna. “Do you crochet?”
Ariadna bobs her head rapidly, holding the bag open for the nun to look inside. “I made two of the purple ones, and the yellow one with a butterfly on the side. Zia Tatiana, my daddy’s girlfriend, made one too, but my grandma made the rest of them. She’s really good at it.”
“See? My chicks.” I give Sister Margaret an insolent smirk, and there she goes, finally unleashing her customary eye roll.
“Ah, d’accordo. You can visit my babies. But only this once, okay? The hospital doesn’t condone visitors that aren’t family. I believe you know of the website where you can donate money? That is our preferred method of—”
“Grazie, Sister Margaret.”
“Don’t you grazie me. It’s not for you that I let you in. It’s for her.” She bends just enough to shape a wrinkled hand to my daughter’s peachy cheek. “Mr. Nascimbeni?”
“Yes, gorgeous?”
“Don’t touch the babies.”
“Of course not.”
Kristen isn’t here anymore. She’s been dismissed from the hospital. Her mother and father must be thanking the Lord for the miracle of putting her to bed themselves each night, safe, whole, and healthy in their home. I know I do.
Tesoro is still here. The incubator has made her stronger since the last time I saw her. She’s asleep, bird-heart fluttering against the thin skin of her ribs. A miniature bubble forms on the rosebud of her lips with each exhale, and it makes Ariadna laugh.
“She’s so cute! I wish I could hold her.”
I shoot a glance through the window, scanning the corridor for the good sister. I don’t see her anymore. As always, Sister Margaret trusts me with her little ones.
Gently, I clasp Ariadna’s neck and steer her toward the sink. Once there, I spray our hands full of soap. We count down, eyes on the wall clock while we scrub for two full minutes and rinse off. She giggles as I clumsily dry both of our hands with paper towels. With my elbow, I press out a dollop of disinfectant for each of us. “Just pat the foam into your hands and wave at me.”
We stand here, my daughter and I, smiling and waving our hands dry together. “Ciao. There you are,” I say.
“Yes, Pappa. Here I am.”
I stack two pillows on top of the chair in front of Tesoro’s Snow-White bed, Ariadna’s name for the incubator. I help my daughter on top of it so she’s kneeling. Next, I show her the small hole where she can reach inside and pat the baby’s arm.
Her face is made of awe when she looks up at me. “She’s so soft—and warm!”
“Good. She should be cozy in there, right?”
Ariadna nods, a smile spreading the way Gabriela’s does. But her eyes shine like mine did in the mirror this morning.
“You know Sister Margaret, huh?”
“I do. She’s sick of me.” I grin.
“Mostly she loves you. I was in a place like this, sai, Pappa?”
“I do know,” I say, and that is how it begins. I’ve dreamed of this moment since the day I learned of Ariadna’s birth. I’ve imagined sitting here, telling my daughter every fragment of her story the way it’s been for me.
I tell her how her mother and I were young, thoughtless, but never once doubted our love for her.
I tell my daughter of my years at the St. John’s NICU.
I tell her the truth, that each caress I gave was for her.
The money I gave to the hospital was for her, the hats, the booties, the hours sitting close to fluttering bird hearts, soaking in their fragility, watching them grow stronger.
I tell her I’ve watched them come and go from the hospital, because there’s nothing I regret more than not being able to do that for her.
I tell my daughter of the lullabies murmured in a hoarse voice, late at night. I don’t tell her that sometimes I was drunk.
“Which were they?” she whispers, eyes still on Tesoro.
“Oh many, many, but there was this one I sang a lot to you.” I hide my smile behind my hand, rubbing my nose like I itch.
“Sing it,” she pleads.
“Now?”
“Yes, sing it for Tesoro and me.”
I clear my throat. Start to hum the melody. I do it until my pitch doesn’t give to the splendor of our moment any longer.
Fa la ninna, fa la nanna
Nella braccia della mamma
Fa la ninna bel bambin,
Fa la nanna bambin bel,
Fa la ninna, fa la nanna
Nella braccia della mamma.
I smile to my miracle. Gracefully, Ariadna pulls her little hand out of the incubator. She slides off the pillow, opens her arms to me, and I lift her to my lap, closing my eyes when she folds her hands around my neck.
“Pappa”, she whispers.
“Yes, my treasure?”
“That was always my song.”