Chapter 17
Trace
The first thing I learn about the NICU is that it runs on a schedule more precise than anything the Army ever threw at me.
Feeding times. Diaper changes. Temperature checks. Weight measurements. Visiting hours. Everything happens according to a protocol designed by someone who clearly never met an anxious new parent who just wants to hold his kid.
"You can't just walk in whenever you want," Jennifer, the day shift nurse, explains on day four.
She's patient with me, which I appreciate since I've asked her the same questions approximately seventy-four times.
"The babies need consistent routines. But you're welcome during visiting hours, which are—"
"Eight to ten AM, one to three PM, and six to eight PM," I recite. "Got it. Memorized it. Tattooed it on my brain."
She smiles. "Good. Now, have you done kangaroo care yet?"
I blink. "Have I done what?"
"Skin-to-skin contact." She gestures to my shirt. "You take your shirt off, we put the baby on your bare chest, cover you both with a blanket. It helps regulate her temperature, heart rate, breathing. Plus, it's excellent for bonding."
My brain short-circuits somewhere around "take your shirt off."
"You want me to take my shirt off," I say slowly, "in a hospital full of people, and hold my daughter against my bare chest?"
"That's the general idea, yes."
"And this is... medically recommended?"
"It's one of the best things you can do for a premature baby." Jennifer's already pulling the privacy curtain around the incubator. "Dad's heartbeat is calming. Your warmth helps her maintain body temperature. And honestly, it's incredible bonding time."
I look down at our daughter through the incubator's plastic walls. She's awake, her tiny eyes blinking at nothing in particular. Four days old and already I'd throw myself in front of a grizzly bear for her.
Taking my shirt off in a hospital? Easy.
"Okay," I say. "Let's do this."
Jennifer helps me get situated in the rocking chair beside the incubator—which, for the record, is designed for people approximately half my size. My knees practically hit my chest.
"Comfortable?" Jennifer asks.
"Not even a little bit."
"Perfect. Now stay still while I get her ready."
She opens the incubator with practiced efficiency, checking monitors and adjusting wires. Our daughter—god, we really need to name her—barely stirs as Jennifer carefully lifts her out.
"Support her head," Jennifer coaches as she transfers the baby to my chest. "That's it. One hand behind her head, one under her bottom. Good."
The weight of her settles against my sternum, and something in my chest cracks wide open.
She's so small. Four pounds, six ounces as of this morning—she's gained four ounces, which everyone assures me is excellent progress—but she still feels impossibly tiny against my chest. Her whole body fits between my collarbone and my solar plexus.
"How's that feel?" Jennifer drapes a blanket over both of us.
"Terrifying," I admit. "What if I drop her? What if I breathe too hard and she falls off?"
"You're not going to drop her. Just relax." She adjusts the blanket, making sure the baby's covered but not smothered. "Babies can sense tension. Take some deep breaths."
I breathe. Our daughter shifts slightly, making a tiny squeaking sound that absolutely destroys me.
"That's it," Jennifer says. "She's already settling in. See how her heart rate's dropping? That's good. That means she feels safe."
Safe. With me. This tiny human who arrived seven weeks early, hooked up to more monitors than seems reasonable, trusts me enough to feel safe.
No pressure or anything.
"I'll be back in thirty minutes to check on you," Jennifer says. "Press the call button if you need anything."
Then she's gone, and it's just me and my daughter and the quiet beeping of her monitors.
I look down at her. Her eyes are closed now, her breathing slow and even. One impossibly small hand rests against my chest, right over my heart. Her fingers are so tiny I'm pretty sure my pinky is bigger than her entire hand.
"Hey, raspberry," I whisper. It's what Patrice calls her—called her, when she was still in the womb. "It's your dad. We met the other day, but you were pretty busy being born, so I don't know if you remember me."
She makes another tiny sound. I'm choosing to interpret it as recognition rather than gas.
"Your mom's sleeping right now. She's exhausted. Turns out growing humans and then pushing them into the world is pretty tiring. Who knew?" I adjust my hand slightly, making sure her head's supported. "She's amazing, by the way. Your mom. Strongest person I know. You're lucky you got her genes."
The baby shifts, her hand curling slightly against my chest.
"I know I wasn't around for the first part," I continue, because apparently I'm the kind of guy who has full conversations with infants now.
"That's on me. Well, technically it's on your mom for not telling me you existed, but we're working through that.
The point is, I'm here now. And I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me, kid."
My throat gets tight. I clear it, trying to keep my voice steady.
"I'm probably going to screw up a lot. I've never done this before.
But I promise I'll always show up. I'll always protect you.
And I'll love you forever, even when you're a teenager and think I'm the worst person alive.
" I pause. "Please don't be a teenager for a very long time.
I need at least twelve years to prepare. "
Her breathing stays slow and even, her tiny body warm against mine.
That overwhelming, terrifying, all-consuming love hits me like a freight train.
I thought I understood it when she was born. When I first saw her in the incubator. But this? Holding her against my bare chest, feeling her heartbeat synchronize with mine? This is something else entirely.
"We need to name you," I murmur. "Your mom and I have been arguing about it for days. Everything sounds either too common or too weird. But we'll figure it out. I promise."
I settle deeper into the uncomfortable chair, closing my eyes. The NICU hums around us—monitors beeping, nurses talking quietly, other babies making small sounds. But right now, in this moment, it's just me and my daughter.
And it's perfect.
Thirty minutes later, Jennifer returns to find me still rocking slowly, the baby asleep on my chest.
"How'd it go?" she asks quietly.
"Life-changing," I say honestly.
She smiles. "First time's always the hardest. Ready to put her back?"
No. Absolutely not. I want to hold her forever.
"Sure," I lie.
She transfers the baby back to her incubator with the same practiced efficiency, and I immediately feel the loss. My chest is cold where she was pressed against me.
I pull my shirt back on, feeling weirdly bereft.
"You can do kangaroo care once a day," Jennifer says, adjusting the baby's monitors. "It's really beneficial for both of you."
"I'll be here," I promise. "Every day."
I head back to Patrice's room—she's technically ready to be discharged, but she's refusing to leave the hospital, so the nurses have graciously allowed her to stay in a room down the hall.
I find her sitting up in bed, hooked up to a breast pump that makes a rhythmic whooshing sound that's both mechanical and disturbing.
She looks up when I enter, her expression somewhere between exhausted and mortified.
"Don't say anything," she warns.
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"You were thinking it."
"I was thinking you're incredible for doing that." I gesture vaguely at the pump setup. "Seriously. That looks uncomfortable."
"Uncomfortable doesn't even begin to cover it." She winces as the pump continues its work. "But the baby needs breast milk, and I'm not producing much yet, so—" She waves her free hand helplessly. "Here we are."
I sit in the visitor's chair, unsure how to help. "Do you need... anything? Water? Food? A different chair? A baseball bat for being useless?"
That gets a small laugh. "You're not useless. You're just... awkwardly hovering."
"I'm great at awkwardly hovering. It's one of my best skills."
"I've noticed." She closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the pillow. "How was she? The baby?"
"Perfect. We did kangaroo care. Jennifer said it's good for bonding."
Patrice's eyes open. "You did kangaroo care? Shirtless Trace holding a baby? I'm devastated I missed it."
"You can take pictures next time," I offer. "Make it even."
Patrice shifts slightly, trying to get comfortable while attached to medical equipment. "Did she settle okay?"
"Fell asleep on my chest. Jennifer said her heart rate dropped, which apparently means she felt safe."
Something soft crosses Patrice's face. "She should. You're her dad."
The word still feels surreal. Dad. I'm someone's dad.
"We need to name her," I say. "We can't keep calling her 'the baby' forever."
"I know." Patrice sighs as the pump mercifully shuts off. "But everything either sounds too generic or too weird. Emma? Too common. Persephone? Too much."
I help her disconnect from the pump, trying not to think too hard about the intimacy of the action. "What about something with meaning? Something that represents... I don't know. Strength? Survival?"
"So, we name her Athena? Valkyrie? Rambo?"
"Rambo is a terrible baby name."
"Obviously." She sets aside the bottles of pumped milk—barely an ounce, but the nurses say every bit helps. "What about family names?"
I pause. "My mom was Lynn."
"My mom was Brooke."
We look at each other.
"Brooklyn," I say slowly.
"Brooklyn," Patrice repeats. Her eyes widen. "Oh my god. Brooklyn. Brooke and Lynn."
"It's perfect."
"It's—" She stops, her throat working. "It's both of them. Both our moms."
My own throat gets tight. "Yeah. It is."
"Brooklyn." Patrice tests the name, rolling it around in her mouth. "Brooklyn MacKenzie. Brooklyn whatever-we-decide-for-her-middle-name MacKenzie."
"Brooklyn Tessa?" I suggest. "After your best friend?"