Chapter 14 Saffron #2
After we hung up, I texted Snapper. Mom just called. They are inducing labor today. I’m flying to Napa.
His response came immediately. Good. Your sister needs you. I’ll keep an eye on things here.
I went to the airline website and found a seat on the next available departure. Within an hour, I had clothes thrown in a bag and was driving to the airport. By early afternoon, I was on a plane heading north.
I took a car service from the airport straight to the hospital. My dad was in the waiting room, pacing and checking his phone. He wrapped me in a tight hug when he saw me.
“I am so glad you’re here.”
“Where’s Mom?”
“She is with Felicity and Wagner. They are only letting two people back at a time.”
The hours crawled by. While Dad paced, I sat and tried not to think about the wine fermenting four hundred miles away. There was nothing I could do about it anyway. Bit and Cru had it covered.
Mom came out periodically with updates. “She’s doing great. Progressing well. It shouldn’t be too much longer.”
At six-thirty in the evening, Wagner appeared in the doorway, looking exhausted but elated.
“It is a girl,” he said. “Eight pounds, six ounces. Felicity did great. We named her Beatrice Diane.”
Relief flooded through me. Dad teared up, and I embraced Wagner.
“Can we see them?” Dad asked.
“Soon. They’re just getting cleaned up. But—” Wagner’s expression shifted. “The pediatrician heard a heart murmur. They’re running tests.”
The relief evaporated. “What does that mean?”
“They don’t know yet. It could be nothing—lots of babies have murmurs that resolve on their own. It could also mean she needs surgery. They’re monitoring her overnight and doing an echocardiogram tomorrow morning.”
Dad’s hand found my shoulder and gripped tight.
We stayed at Felicity and Wagner’s house that night. The guest room I was in was comfortable, but I doubted I’d sleep much. How would any of us, not knowing what tomorrow would bring?
Around nine, I called Snapper. He picked up on the first ring.
“Hey. How’s it going?”
“Felicity and Wagner had a baby girl. She’s eight pounds, six ounces. But she has a heart murmur.”
“Jesus, Saff. Is that bad? I mean, it sounds bad.”
“Not sure. They’re running tests. It could be nothing, or it could mean she needs surgery.” I sat on the edge of the guest bed, staring at the wall. “Wagner looked terrified. Felicity is trying to be strong, but she is falling apart.”
“How are you?”
“Scared. Tired. Wishing you were here.”
The admission came out before I could stop it.
“I can be on a plane in an hour,” he said. “It’ll put me there by midnight.”
“No. You need to stay there. The wine—”
“The wine is fine. It is just sitting in tanks. Bit and Cru have it covered.”
“I know. But—”
“But what?”
“It is complicated.”
Another pause. Then, “Okay. But if you need me, I’m there. One phone call, and I’m on my way.”
“I know. Thank you.”
“Will you call me tomorrow after the tests?”
“I will.”
After we hung up, I lay in the dark and let myself cry. I cried for Beatrice and for Felicity. I cried because I wanted Snapper here so badly it hurt.
The next morning, the tests confirmed that Beatrice had a ventricular septal defect—a hole in the wall between the lower chambers of her heart. It was not immediately life-threatening, but it was serious enough to require surgical repair.
They scheduled the operation for the following Tuesday. Five days from now. Five days to wait and try not to imagine all the things that could go wrong.
I texted Snapper constant updates. He immediately replied, steadying me even though he was four hundred miles away.
How are you holding up? he asked Saturday night.
I’m okay. Scared. I sat in the guest room at Felicity’s house, staring at my phone. Beatrice is so tiny. The surgery seems huge.
She is tougher than she looks. She gets it from her aunt.
How is the wine doing?
It is fine. Do not worry about it.
I am trying not to.
I miss you, I typed.
I miss you too, sweetheart.
Tuesday morning arrived gray and cold. We convened in the surgical waiting room at six in the morning—Mom, Dad, Wagner’s parents, and me. Wagner and Felicity were with Beatrice, at least until the surgery started. Then they’d be in another waiting room just for the parents.
The doctor told my sister that the surgery could take as long as six hours. I couldn’t fathom that. Six hours to open her tiny chest, repair a valve in her heart, and close her back up.
I texted Snapper to say the surgery was about to start.
His response came immediately. She is going to be perfect. Just like her aunt.
I held onto those words like a lifeline.
The first hour crawled by. No news. That was normal, they’d said. We would only hear if something went wrong.
Felicity came out to where we waited, saying she needed to be with her family, then paced, unable to sit still. Wagner stayed near her, murmuring things I couldn’t hear. My mom prayed, her lips moving silently. Dad stared at the television mounted in the corner, not really watching.
I texted Snapper. One hour down.
It’s gonna go great. I know it.
At hour two, a new family came in. Their daughter was having her tonsils out.
The mother was chatty, nervous, trying to fill the silence with small talk.
I wanted to scream at her that tonsils were not the same as open-heart surgery.
That her daughter would be fine and my sister’s might not be.
But I couldn’t think that way, let alone say it.
Two hours in, there still wasn’t any news.
My chest felt tight, compressed. Every time the door opened, we all turned as one, with our hearts in our throats, but it was never someone looking for us.
At hour three, Felicity broke down. “It has been too long. Something’s wrong.”
“They said six hours,” Wagner reminded her.
“What if…?” Tears streamed down my sister’s face.
My mom wrapped her arms around her. “Beatrice is going to be fine, Felicity. The doctors are making sure of it.”
“You don’t know…”
“I do know.” Mom spoke quietly but fiercely. “I know it because she is a Staglin and a Hope, and we do not give up. She is going to fight, and she is going to win.”
I texted Snapper. Felicity is falling apart.
Be there for her. That is all you can do. You’re doing great.
But I wasn’t. I was sitting in a waiting room while my infant niece’s chest was cracked open, while surgeons worked on a heart so small it seemed impossible to fix.
I thought about her little fists, how her fingers had curled around mine when I had held her hand through the NICU isolette. I thought about how she had opened her eyes once, just for a second, and seemed to look right at me.
I thought about Snapper hoisting Neva onto his shoulders at Halloween. I thought about Reagan calling me Tía. I thought about the future I’d imagined—the one with kids and chaos and candy.
What if Beatrice never got to trick-or-treat? What if she never got to be three years old? What if this was it—I got up and walked out of the waiting room. I couldn’t let Felicity see me fall apart, not when I was supposed to be here for her.
At hour five and a half, my hands were shaking. Felicity had stopped crying and gone silent, which was worse. Dad and Wagner both paced, and my mom’s lips still moved in silent prayer.
Wagner’s mother kept checking her watch like she could speed time up through sheer force of will.
I did too. When six hours came and went, I felt like I’d crawl out of my skin. Where was the surgeon? Why hadn’t he come out yet?
At six hours and forty-five minutes, the door opened.
We all stood in a semicircle around the surgeon, my sister, and brother-in-law.
“The surgery was successful,” he said, and the relief that swept through the room was physical.
Wagner caught Felicity when her knees buckled, and my parents and Wagner’s both hugged.
I stood shaking, wiping away tears as fast as they fell.
“We were able to repair the defect,” the surgeon continued. “She did very well. Better than expected, actually. She’s in recovery now. Strong vitals. No complications.”
He gave us more details—Beatrice’s heart was pumping properly, but she would be in the NICU for a few days.
After he left, I texted Snapper with trembling fingers. She made it through. She is okay.
Call me, Saff.
I stepped out into the hall and pressed the speed dial for him. “Hey,” I said when he answered.
“God, it’s good to hear your voice. How are you?”
Exhausted. Grateful. Wrung out. Relieved beyond measure. “I’m okay. I miss you.”
“I miss you too, sweetheart. Tell me you want me to come and I’ll be on the way.”
I said I would and that I’d call him again later, once we were back at the house.
When I returned to the waiting room, Felicity and Wagner weren’t there.
“The doctor said they could see her,” my mom explained.
Ten minutes later, the door opened and my sister motioned to me. “Bea needs to see her godmother,” she said, wrapping her arm through mine as she led me into the NICU.
“You can touch her,” Felicity said.
I reached through the isolette and laid my hand on her tiny arm. “Hey, Beatrice,” I whispered. “You did so good. You’re so strong.”
Her eyes opened, just for a second. Dark eyes, unfocused but there.
Tears streamed down my cheeks, but I smiled.
Felicity hugged me. “Thank you for being here.”
“Where else would I be?”
The days that followed blurred into a routine of morning visits to the hospital, then helping Felicity, who was recovering from childbirth while trying to be strong for her daughter. I ran errands, got food, and tried to be useful in whatever way I could.
How’s the wine? I texted Snapper one evening.
Good. Bit says we are on track.
I should be there.
You are exactly where you need to be.
He periodically sent photos of the wine tanks with their blinking monitors. His truck parked at the winery. Normal things. Reminders that life was continuing without me.
I sent photos back. Beatrice improving, growing. My parents smiling. Felicity holding her daughter.
We talked every night. It was the only thing that made the separation bearable.
“I wish you were here,” I said one night, lying in bed.
“I wish I was too.”
One afternoon, I was alone in Beatrice’s room while Felicity napped and my parents grabbed lunch. I sat in the rocking chair, holding my niece for the first time since her surgery.
She was so light in my arms. So fragile. The incision on her chest was covered with gauze and surgical tape. She made little snuffling sounds in her sleep.
I started humming without thinking. An old lullaby my grandmother used to sing. The melody came back to me like muscle memory.
Beatrice’s eyes opened, and she looked up at me.
“Hey, sweet girl,” I whispered. “You are so brave.”
Her little mouth opened wide, and she yawned. Then she settled against my chest, her ear over my heart.
I sat there, rocking her, humming, feeling her breathe.
And I thought about the future. I thought about Snapper hoisting kids onto his shoulders.
I thought about Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas mornings.
I thought about a life that included this—babies and family and love so fierce it was terrifying.
I wanted it. God, I wanted it. All of it.
But before I could, I needed to make sure our family didn’t lose everything.
Beatrice continued improving daily, and the doctors were optimistic about discharge within the week—just in time for Thanksgiving. And that meant I could go home soon too.