Chapter 26 #2
Harley stiffens at the words, her gaze darting away. I slip my arm around her shoulders and pull her close. “We’ll be ready,” I answer for the both of us, even though I feel her shaking against me.
I look back at Quinn, at the wires and tubes and impossibly tiny fingers curling into fists. She’s fighting with everything she has.
And so will we.
Our parents come to visit again, crowding into the quiet room, everyone drawn to the little angel surrounded by glass. The grandmothers press close, their voices hushed but awed. Tears well in their eyes as they whisper over Quinn’s tiny body.
My mom keeps dabbing at her cheeks with a tissue. “She’s perfect. Just perfect,” she repeats, like saying it enough times will keep my little girl safe.
The grandfathers stand a little further back, hands shoved deep into their pockets, their eyes fixed on the monitors like they’re trying to memorize the numbers.
My dad clears his throat once, then mutters something about how Quinn has “fighter’s lungs” even with the tube in.
It isn’t eloquent, but the way his jaw clenches tells me it’s the closest he’ll come to saying he loves her.
Harley stays in the chair beside me, her hand gripping mine so tight my knuckles ache. She doesn’t look at anyone else, just at Quinn. And even though her eyes are rimmed red, there’s something softer in her face today. Something like awe breaking through the guilt.
Kennedy shows up late, barreling in with a bag of snacks for Harley and two cups of coffee.
The nurse immediately tells her to quiet down.
Kennedy rolls her eyes with a smile and leans over Quinn’s isolette, whispering promises about glitter and bows and nail polish, over and over until Harley actually laughs.
It’s a small, broken sound, but a laugh all the same.
The nurse wheels a chair closer, smiling down at Harley. “Your girl is doing so well today. Would you like to hold her again?”
Harley stiffens, her eyes darting to the wires, to the tiny chest rising and falling. Her fingers tighten around mine.
The nurse crouches beside her. “I’ll help you. We’ll keep all her monitors attached. She’ll be safe.”
Harley swallows, nodding slowly, and I feel her tremble as the nurse lifts Quinn from the isolette and places her carefully into Harley’s arms. For a moment, Harley simply freezes, eyes wide … then tears slip down her cheeks when Quinn’s tiny hand flexes against her shirt.
The nurse turns to me next. “Dad, would you like a turn after Mom?”
I calmly nod, my throat too tight to speak.
That’s when the doctor steps in, clipboard tucked under his arm. He glances at Quinn and smiles.
“She’s doing really well,” he says. “So well, in fact, we think it’s time for the next step. We’ll begin weaning her off oxygen support this afternoon and see how she tolerates it. If she continues at this pace, we may even be able to start feeding trials in the next few days.”
I feel Harley’s breath hitch against my shoulder, her tears spilling faster, but for once they aren’t just from fear.
The doctor looks between us, his expression kind. “She’s stronger than she looks. And she’s getting stronger every day.”
I lean down, kissing Harley’s damp hair. “Just like her mom,” I whisper against her temple.
The apartment is dark except for the soft glow of the lamp by the couch. Harley sits hunched forward, the pump whirring quietly on the coffee table. Her hair is damp from the shower, falling in a messy curtain around her face, while her hands steady the bottles that collect each slow drop.
She looks exhausted, shadows carved under her eyes, but she doesn’t complain. Doesn’t say a word. Just stares at the thin stream of milk like it’s both a miracle and a punishment.
When the pump finally clicks off, she pulls the bottles away and sighs, shoulders sagging. Barely an ounce sits at the bottom. She stares at it like it’s somehow betrayed her.
“It’s not enough,” she whispers.
I slide down onto the couch beside her, taking the bottle gently from her hand. “It’s more than she had yesterday. It’s something. And it’s yours, Harley. That makes it enough.”
Her lip trembles. She pulls her knees up to her chest, careful of the incision, and buries her face in them. “I don’t feel like a mom. I just feel broken.”
I set the bottle down and wrap my arm around her, tugging her against me. “You’re not broken. You’re hurting. And you don’t have to go through it alone.”
She doesn’t answer, just keeps her face hidden.
I take a deep breath, pressing my lips to her hair. “I think you should talk to someone. A therapist. Just for a little while. I’ll go with you, sit in the room if you want, whatever it takes. But I can’t keep watching you carry this by yourself.”
Her shoulders shake under my arm. For a moment, I think she’ll push me away. But then she whispers, so quiet I almost miss it.
“What if they think I’m a bad mom?”
I tighten my hold on her, my voice fierce. “Then they’re not the right person. The right one will see what I see, a woman who loves her baby so much it’s tearing her apart. And they’ll help you see it too.”
Harley finally lifts her head, her eyes swollen and tear tracks glistening. She searches my face for something I don’t know if I have. Then she nods once. Tiny, but real.
“Okay,” she breathes. “I’ll try.”
I kiss her temple, pulling her close again. “That’s all I ask.”