Chapter 18 #2
"She's doing so well," the nurse—Amanda, according to her name tag—says. "Really thriving. You two should be proud."
Proud. As if we've done anything other than panic and occasionally remember to eat.
But looking at Brooklyn, her tiny chest rising and falling steadily, her little fists curled near her face, I feel something other than terror.
Pride. Love. Bone-deep exhaustion. And underneath it all, a fierce determination that this tiny human will be okay.
Because she has to be.
After Amanda leaves, Trace does something unexpected. He starts singing.
It's not a lullaby I recognize. The melody is simple, almost improvised, and his voice is rough and definitely off-key. But the words—
"Go to sleep, little raspberry. Your dad has no idea what he's doing. But he loves you more than breathing. And your mom is the bravest person he knows."
My throat closes up completely.
"Tomorrow we'll mess up the diapers again," he continues, still in that terrible singing voice. "And probably mix up the bottles. And definitely panic about everything. But we'll figure it out together, little raspberry. Because you're worth every sleepless night."
"You have a terrible singing voice," I manage to say.
"I know." He doesn't stop, just keeps that awful melody going. "But Brooklyn doesn't care. She's going to love me anyway. Because I'm her dad. And I'm showing up every single day."
Before I can think better of it, I join in. My singing isn't much better—I couldn't carry a tune if it had handles—but I add a harmony to his terrible melody.
"Your mom's here too, little one. Still terrified. Still figuring this out. But not going anywhere. Because you're stuck with us now."
We sound ridiculous. We're definitely breaking several hospital quiet policies. But Brooklyn's heart rate on the monitor is steady and calm, and Trace is looking at me like I'm singing the most beautiful song he's ever heard.
"We're going to be the most embarrassing parents," I say when we finally trail off.
"Absolutely," he agrees. "But we'll be embarrassing together."
Amanda pops her head back in. "Just so you know, that was adorable. And also, Dr. Martinez wants to see you both. She's in her office."
My stomach drops. "Is something wrong?"
"No, no. She just wants to talk about discharge planning." Amanda smiles. "It's all good news."
We find Dr. Martinez in her small office, surrounded by papers and coffee cups that suggest she's been here as long as we have.
"Have a seat," she says, gesturing to the chairs across from her desk. "I wanted to give you an update on Brooklyn's progress and talk about next steps."
We sit. Trace's hand finds mine again, and I'm grateful for the anchor.
"Brooklyn is doing remarkably well," Dr. Martinez begins. "She's gaining weight consistently, her breathing is stable, and she's regulating her temperature without assistance. All excellent signs."
"That's good," I say carefully. "So... one week?"
"If she continues at this rate, yes. About seven days." Dr. Martinez leans back in her chair. "I know that seems fast, but honestly, she's exceeding all our expectations. Some babies need weeks in the NICU. Brooklyn just needed a little extra time to catch up."
Seven days.
Seven days until we're responsible for keeping a human alive.
"What do we need to do?" Trace asks, his voice steadier than I feel.
Dr. Martinez pulls out a checklist. "You'll both need to demonstrate competency with feeding, diaper changes, and basic care. We'll do a CPR certification class. Car seat test. And we'll make sure you're comfortable with her feeding schedule and signs to watch for."
"Signs?" I ask.
"Breathing changes, color changes, feeding issues. We'll go over everything." She softens slightly. "I know this is overwhelming. But you're both doing great, and Brooklyn is healthy. She just came a little early."
"Seven weeks early," I say. "Because I stressed too much, or traveled too much, or—"
"Stop." Dr. Martinez's tone is gentle but firm. "We've been over this. Premature birth happens. Sometimes there's a medical reason, sometimes there isn't. Brooklyn is healthy and thriving. That's what matters now."
Trace squeezes my hand. "Seven days is doable."
"Seven days is terrifying," I counter.
"That too."
Dr. Martinez smiles. "For what it's worth, every parent feels this way. Even the ones who planned everything perfectly. Babies don't come with instruction manuals."
"They really should," I mutter.
"Agreed. But you'll figure it out. And we'll be here if you need us." She hands us a packet of information. "Read through this tonight. It has feeding schedules, growth expectations, warning signs, and our after-hours number. Call anytime if you're worried."
We leave her office with the packet and matching expressions of terror.
"Seven days," I say numbly.
"Seven days," Trace echoes.
We walk back to the NICU in silence, both processing how fast this is happening. When we reach Brooklyn's incubator, she's sleeping peacefully, completely unaware that her parents are having matching panic attacks.
"We can do this," Trace says, though he sounds like he's trying to convince himself.
"Can we?"
"We have to." He pulls me closer, his arm around my waist. "She's counting on us."
I lean into him, watching our daughter sleep. Seven days is too fast and not fast enough. I want her home with us. I want her here where nurses monitor her every breath.
I want to know what the hell I'm doing.
"What if we break her?" I whisper.
"We won't."
"What if we forget to feed her?"
"She'll remind us. That's what crying is for."
"What if—"
He turns me to face him, his hands on my shoulders. "Patrice. We're going to mess up. Probably a lot. We're going to panic and second-guess ourselves and Google things at three in the morning. But we're not going to break her. Because we love her too much to let anything happen to her."
"Love isn't enough to—"
"It's not enough alone," he interrupts. "But it's the foundation. Everything else we can figure out."
I look up at him. "I'm so scared," I admit.
"I know." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "Me too."
We stand there, holding each other in the middle of the NICU, while Brooklyn sleeps and monitors beep and nurses move quietly through their rounds.
Seven days.
Ready or not.
That evening, Dr. Martinez stops by during our visit with one more update.
"I talked to the team," she says. "If Brooklyn continues improving at this rate, we're looking at discharge in exactly one week. Next Monday."
"Next Monday," I repeat. "That's... specific."
"It gives you time to prepare. Get the cabin ready, finish your certifications, practice all the care tasks." She checks Brooklyn's chart. "You're both doing great. You'll be fine."
After she leaves, Trace and I just look at each other.
"One week," he says.
"One week," I whisper.
Brooklyn chooses that moment to open her eyes and stare directly at us with that unfocused newborn gaze that somehow feels incredibly judgmental.
"She knows we're panicking," I say.
"Of course she does. She's our daughter." Trace reaches into the incubator to touch her tiny hand. "What do you say, raspberry? Ready to come home with the two people who have absolutely no idea what they're doing?"
Brooklyn's response is to yawn, which I'm choosing to interpret as confidence in our abilities rather than boredom with our existential crisis.
"One week," I say again, trying to make it feel real.
Brooklyn yawns again, completely unbothered by the fact that her parents are having a collective meltdown about her discharge date.
Ready or not, she's coming home.
And we'd better figure out what the hell we're doing before then.