Chapter 38 Spencer
THIRTY-EIGHT
SPENCER
Eventually, the door opens.
Dr. Levinson looks older in person—gray at the temples, balding, a little portly, and carrying the unmistakable weight of too many years and too many nights like this. But his eyes are kind.
I’m on my feet before the door finishes swinging open, both eager and terrified.
“Spencer,” Dr. Levinson says, tipping his head in greeting.
I shake his hand, hoping he can read my gratitude. An anchor of gratitude I can’t quite say aloud.
“This is Rhea,” I say, turning toward her. “Esme’s mom.”
She stands, face as white as a sheet. Waiting, Wondering.
Dr. Levinson reaches for her hand. “Good to meet you, Rhea. You’ve got one hell of a little fighter on your hands, I’d say.”
She nods. And I feel a swell of pride in my chest that makes it feel like it might burst.
He shifts his weight, folding his hands in front of him.
“Toddlers are particularly vulnerable to RSV—especially when it presents this aggressively. Honestly, many children with the numbers she had… don’t make it.”
My stomach flips.
“But,” he continues, “I think we’re past the worst of it. She’s still in a critical window—we’ll monitor closely over the next twenty-four hours—but we’re encouraged by the way she’s responding.”
“We were able to use some newer respiratory interventions,” Dr. Levinson says. “Intubation was avoided—just barely—but the care she received in the air and immediately upon arrival may very well have saved her life.”
My knees almost give out.
He pauses. “I don’t know if he told you, but I’ve known this one—” he nods toward me, “—since he was a toddler. Went to med school with his uncle. Still play poker with his dad once a month like clockwork.”
It’s the kind of privilege I know comes with wealth and connections. The kind I often hear about and resent. But tonight I feel nothing but gratitude and relief.
“So, it’s all a lot to take in.” He acknowledges, “What questions do you have?”
The room is quiet for a moment. He waits.
I should let Rhea go first, but she doesn’t seem able to start. Maybe she wants me to ask, still needs to catch her breath and still her mind.
And, at the exact same moment I start to speak, her words tumble out, too.
“When can we see her?” We both ask it. In unison.
Dr. Levinson smiles—small, tired, but real.
“Right now,” he says. “She’s settled, but just for a few minutes. She’s stable, but still in a delicate window.”
Dr. Levinson glances between us—his face kind but serious.
“Before you go in, let me prepare you a little for what you’ll see.”
I tighten my grip on Rhea’s hand.
“She’ll likely be asleep,” he says. “Between the sedation we used to help ease her breathing, and the sheer exhaustion her body’s been through—it’s normal. Good, actually. She needs the rest.”
I nod, feeling the sting behind my eyes.
“She’s on high-flow oxygen through a nasal cannula. It’s not invasive, but it might look bulky on her face. Just know—it’s helping her. A lot.”
Rhea asks, “Is she… in pain?”
“I don’t believe so. She’s being monitored closely. She has an IV for fluids and medication—small port on her right hand. There’s also a heart rate monitor, oxygen saturation clip, and a few other leads for vitals. It’s a lot of wires, I know. But everything’s doing its job.”
He pauses, then softens.
“She's in a calm, controlled environment. Quiet. Dim lights. One nurse in the room at all times. You can talk to her. Touch her hand. Just be gentle. Her body’s doing hard work, even now.”
We both nod in understanding.
“We normally allow one visitor at a time,” Dr. Levinson adds, “but for now, we’ll make an exception. Just a few minutes—go in together. Let her hear your voices. Let her know she’s not alone.”
The nurse opens the door and gestures us in with a small nod.
The room is dim. Soft beeps and hums fill the air—steady, clinical, low-volume, but constant. I step in behind Rhea and stop cold.
There she is.
Esme.
So small. So still.
She’s lying on the bed, a tiny oxygen cannula taped beneath her nose, her chest rising and falling faster than it should. There’s an IV taped to the back of her hand—her fingers wrapped in gauze and medical tape like a doll’s.
Wires trail from her chest to a bank of machines that pulse and blink and record numbers I don’t understand.
I’ve seen hospital rooms like this before. In TV shows. Movies. Investor presentations. I was even in one for a few days myself, after my accident.
But not like this. Not with her in the bed. Not with my heart in my throat.
I hesitate. Hold back. My knees feeling weak.
But Rhea doesn’t miss a beat.
She crosses the room without hesitation—no sign of the woman who collapsed into my arms an hour ago. Her movements are sure, steady. Her grief hasn't disappeared. It’s just… repurposed.
Refocused.
Her mother instincts have kicked in, full force.
She takes Esme’s hand and speaks softly to her, brushing her forehead with careful fingers.
“Hi, baby. Mama’s here, okay? You’re doing so good.”
Her voice is warm but strong, like she’s coaching Esme through something important.
“You were in the helicopter and you were so brave.”
She reaches in and pushes the hair from Esme’s forehead, and replaces it with a kiss.
“I love you.”
Somehow, she knows what to do to make the side rail go down, and she bends over the bed, and gently lets her head brush Esme’s chest, without putting any weight on her.
All the while, she just keeps talking, some of it so soft I can’t understand.
And then—God.
She starts to sing. In French.
It’s the same song I heard her singing as she put Esme to sleep at home last Friday.
Dodo, l’enfant do,
L’enfant dormira bient?t.
Sleep, child, sleep,
The child will sleep soon.
It’s barely audible above the monitors. Her voice cracks, but she keeps going. She strokes Esme’s temple with the back of her hand as if touch alone can heal her.
I stand at a distance, tears streaming down my face. No effort to stop them. No effort to hide them.
This little girl. This woman. They will be the undoing of me.
Then Rhea glances up at me, nods and motions me toward the little bed.
“Just talk to her,” she whispers. “Let her hear your voice.”
But I can’t move. I’m frozen. I shake my head, overwhelmed.
She reads it all in an instant, and reaches for my hand.
“Just tell her you’re here.” she says, barely above a breath.
I nod.
She smiles—soft, reassuring, maternal in a way that pierces right through me. And I look at the girl and realize, there’s no time for pride. There’s no time for righteous indignation and legal maneuvers.
Today could be all there is.
And so I let myself say it.
“Hey, Esme, it’s me. Your daddy.”
And then - because it’s true and because it matters, “I love you.”