Chapter 31
[Trinity]
Dart has been in my bed since before Mom’s Night Out. Since the night I told him I wanted him to watch Mirabelle while I return to work.
Tomorrow is my first day back after six weeks.
“Ah.” I wake with a jolt, sitting bolt upright in the middle of the night. My heart races. My hands are clammy. I’m too warm. I feel like I’m on fire, but I’m not.
Dart was.
In the dream I’d been having, he crashed into a wall, the car instantly engulfed in flames. He couldn’t get out. He wasn’t getting out.
My breath comes in stuttering waves. Like I’m hyperventilating. Like I’ve inhaled too much smoke and can’t breathe.
“Baby.” Dart’s hand runs up my back, but I flinch. He pulls back, holding his hand up in the air as he sits beside me.
“You’re okay,” he says. Not asking me if I am, but reassuring me.
I glance around the room. I’m in the house. I’m in my bed.
A crack of thunder rumbles. The sound feels like it hit the roof. Mirabelle lets out a cry, but I’m frozen. Paralyzed.
Dart scrambles to the end of the bed, soothing her with his hand on her belly. The bassinet gently rocks.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” I say, my voice as shaky as my limbs. My hands tremble as I swipe them through my hair. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What happened?” he asks quietly, Mirabelle settling for the moment.
Dart scoots back toward me. Our legs are trapped in a tangle of sheets.
“You were racing again.” I pause, trying to catch my breath. Visions of the crash still linger in my head. The flames. Dart. “You were in an accident.”
Just saying it sets my heart raging. “And you crashed. The car caught fire. And the flames . . .” I gasp for air, breathing heavily again.
“The flames,” I choke, falling toward Dart, who catches me, tugging me to his side.
“I’m right here, baby. I’m safe.” I wrap my arms around his middle, clinging to him.
“It was so scary,” I admit. “I’m scared.”
He pets my hair and strokes my back. “I got you. You have me.”
But did I have him? For how much longer?
Dart falls to his back, taking me with him, and continues to hold me as I hold him.
Another groan of thunder. A crack of lightning. Mirabelle cries out again.
“Is it silly that I want her closer?” I whisper, wanting to gather everything I love near me.
Dart shakes his head. “I’ll get her.” He crawls toward the end of the bed again and lifts Mirabelle, settling her to his chest.
“Shh, baby girl. I got you. Dart is here.”
Dart. Will she call him Dart? Or should she call him something else?
The thought is not for now. He brings Mirabelle to me, and I tuck her against my heart, lounging back on pillows he props against the headboard. I know all the reasons why you shouldn’t place an infant in a bed, but I want to hold her, keep her close for a little while.
I want Dart close as well, and as if he read my thoughts, he scoots lower on the bed, but wraps his arms around my stomach, laying his head on my chest as well.
“We’re all safe,” he says, whispering to Mirabelle. “We’re all here.”
Everything I love is in this bed, I tell myself. Everyone I love.
Because I love Dart. And I love Mirabelle.
And I don’t ever want to lose either of them.
In the morning, I’m headed back to work after a handful of tears and extra kisses for Mirabelle.
The morning is a rush of reacclimating myself with the nurse’s station, being assigned a pod—a section of three private incubators with newborn infants—and getting stopped by co-workers endlessly asking about Mirabelle.
Most people only know I’m adopting an infant. I don’t share how she was born right in this unit to a young mother, or how Mirabelle came to me. The story needs to settle. It doesn’t matter how Mirabelle came to me, only that she will be mine one day soon. Only a few more months.
When Mirabelle is older, perhaps I’ll tell her about how she ended up on my back porch, maybe make a little fairy tale out of it.
The beautiful stork who delivered her.
The innocent maiden, willing to give her to me.
The protective mama bear I became.
It’s a work in progress.
And not even an hour into my shift, I get a text message from Dart.
When is your break?
I instantly burst into laughter, easing all the tension of the morning. The text reminds me of the first one he sent me, which I surmise is his intention. With a quick response, I tell him the time and get back to work, almost forgetting about the message when a new baby boy is brought to my pod.
As I stare down at him with tubes and tape stuck to him, my heart breaks even more than it used to for the innocent babies I’ve cared for in the past. I picture Mirabelle.
Wires and medical tape all over her little body.
Under LED blue lights, to break down bilirubin.
A ‘bili’ blanket beneath her. Halogen spotlights.
Her little eyes taped shut for protection.
My stomach pitches a little bit imagining her so tiny. So fragile. And yet a fighter. A survivor.
When I get buzzed that someone is waiting for me outside the NICU doors, I don’t even second-guess who it could be. I exit the unit to find Dart standing there with Mirabelle sleeping in her car seat.
“What are you doing here?” I laugh, relief in the sound at the sight of them. “Is everything okay?” I glance at Mirabelle again, my thoughts from only moments ago still lingering in my head.
Then I glance at Dart. He looks good in his jeans and a tee with a car logo on the front.
I try not to think about the dream I had last night.
“We’re all good. I just thought I’d bring you lunch.” He holds up a brown paper sack.
I typically just grab something from the cafeteria, and I hadn’t even thought about a noontime meal this morning when I left, too emotional about leaving them.
“I forgot all about lunch.” I twist my arm, glancing at my watch, noticing he’s right on time for my break.
“Well, let’s share this one.” He nods toward the sack.
“You okay?” I ask, squatting down to adjust Mirabelle’s head, hoping not to wake her, but still wanting to touch her soft skin. A subtle reminder that she’s my little fighter.
“I think Mirabelle misses you.” He scratches the back of his neck.
I stand and smile. “Rough morning?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all. She’s an angel.”
I continue to stare at him, wondering what he’s doing here. I mean, I’m excited to see him, but he looks a little . . . vulnerable.
“Okay, I might have missed you, too.” He sheepishly glances at me and slips his hands into his jeans pockets.
I tuck my arm into his, leaning against him. “I miss you guys, too.”
“You kind of scared me last night.”
I raise my brows, as if I don’t know what he means.
“That dream,” he says, untwining my arm from his so he can wrap his arm around me and pull me into his side, pressing a kiss to my temple. “You were really scared.”
I was scared. Afraid of what it might mean. Was it a premonition? Or was it just stress about returning to work? Did it reveal deep fears that I try not to consider but still linger inside me?
I didn’t know.
“I’m sorry about that.” Like I can control what my mind does during the night. I pull back so I can look him in the eyes.
“Just want to reassure you that I’m still here.” His whiskey eyes are dark when he’s serious, concerned about something.
“I know, baby,” I say, cupping his cheek.
“Guess we should go eat. I know you only have thirty minutes.”
The not-so-glamorous life of a nurse. Lunch on the fly.
He glances down at Mirabelle. “I can’t take you out to my truck and make out with you, can I?”
I laugh, reminded again of our second kiss. The one where he made an excuse to see me.
“Probably not a good idea.” I pat his chest. “But you can still kiss me.”
I lean forward, and he cups the side of my jaw. The kiss is short but sweet.
As sweet as the daisy I find in the sack when we get to the cafeteria to share my lunch.