Chapter 32
MAYA
"Push, Emma. Now!" The contraction hits, and Emma bears down, screaming through the effort.
I'm watching the monitors. The baby's heart rate is dropping, but still within an acceptable range.
"I can see the head," the doctor says. "One more push. Come on, Emma."
"I can't..."
"You can. Push!"
Emma pushes with everything she has. Chase is crying, whispering encouragement that gets lost in Emma's screams. Jackson's gripping the windowsill, his knuckles white.
And then there's a cry. It's weak, but a cry nonetheless.
"It's a girl," the doctor announces.
She's so tiny, so impossibly tiny. Her skin has that translucent quality preemies have—pink with patches of white and yellow, so delicate you can see the veins beneath. Her limbs flail, and her cry sounds more like mewling. The NICU team moves in immediately.
"Let me see her," Emma gasps. "Let me..."
They hold the baby up for half a second, just long enough for Emma to see her daughter before they whisk her away to the warming table in the corner.
I move closer, watching them work. Years of training kick in, and I'm reading their movements, understanding what they're doing before they do it.
"Respiratory distress," one of the neonatologists says. "Suction. Get me the CPAP ready."
They're suctioning her airways. The baby's crying stops. That's bad, that's very bad.
"What's happening?" Emma's trying to sit up. "Why isn't she crying? Why..."
"She's having trouble breathing," I say, keeping my voice calm. "Her lungs aren't fully developed yet; they're helping her."
"Is she..."
"She's going to be fine. Look, they're putting her on respiratory support, that's normal."
The NICU team works quickly. CPAP mask over her tiny face, IV line in her umbilical stump, monitors attached to her chest and feet.
"Stats are stabilizing," someone says. "Oxygen sats are coming up. Sixty-five. Seventy. Seventy-five."
"What does that mean?" Chase asks, his voice shaking.
"It means she's responding to treatment, her oxygen levels are improving." I move back to Emma's side. "She's fighting, Em. She's strong."
The neonatologist approaches. "We need to transport her to the NICU. She's stable but needs intensive monitoring: respiratory support, temperature regulation, and feeding support. Standard for thirty-two weeks."
"Can I hold her?" Emma's crying.
"Not yet. I'm sorry. She needs to be in the isolette immediately. But you can see her before we take her up."
They wheel the isolette over. Inside is the tiniest human I've ever seen, four pounds at most, skin almost translucent, eyes fused shut, breathing mask covering half her face.
But alive.
Emma touches the glass of the incubator, her palm pressed against it near her baby’s tiny hand.
"Hi, Sofia," Emma whispers. "I'm your mama. You're going to be okay, you're so strong."
Then they're taking her away. The NICU team moves fast, rolling the isolette toward the elevators. Emma's sobbing, Chase is holding her, and looking lost.
Jackson's just staring at where the baby disappeared, face pale.
I follow the NICU team. "I'm a pediatric nurse. Can I come up? Her mother's my best friend, I can help explain things to the family."
The neonatologist nods. "Fifth floor. Ask for Dr. Stone, he'll be handling her case."
I head back to the delivery room. They're cleaning Emma up, removing monitors, and helping her into a clean gown. She looks destroyed.
"Where is she?" she asks immediately.
"NICU, fifth floor. They're getting her settled. We can go up as soon as you're stable."
"I want to go now."
"You just gave birth, you need..."
"I don't care what I need. I want to see my daughter."
The delivery nurse exchanges a look with me. "Give us twenty minutes to finish up here, then we'll take you up in a wheelchair."
Those twenty minutes feel like hours. Emma's crying, Chase is pacing, and Jackson's standing at the window, staring at nothing.
I pull him aside. "You okay?"
"She's so small. I've never seen anything that small."
"She'll be okay."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
He looks at me, really looks at me, and there's something in his eyes that makes my breath catch. Gratitude and awe and something deeper, something that makes me want to close the distance between us and forget we're in a hospital with his sister ten feet away.
"You were incredible," he says quietly. "The way you just... You went into nurse mode. Like you'd been doing it your whole life."
"I have been doing it my whole life, I just forgot for a while."
Something shifts in his expression. "You saved them. Emma and Chase would've fallen apart without you."
"I didn't save anyone, the medical team..."
"You kept them calm, kept them informed. That matters." He touches my face, just briefly, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. "I'm in awe of you."
The moment stretches between us, charged and fragile, and I want to lean into his touch, want to tell him that watching him support his sister through this has only made me love him more. But the nurse appears with a wheelchair, and the moment breaks.
"Ready?"
We head up to the NICU in a small caravan. Emma in the wheelchair, Chase pushing her, Jackson and I following. The fifth floor is a lot quieter. The entrance to the NICU has strict rules: wash your hands, no jewelry, and limited visitors.
Dr. Stone meets us at the doors. "Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell? I'm Dr. Stone. Your daughter is stable and responding well to treatment."
"Can we see her?" Emma asks.
"Of course. But I need to prepare you, she's very small, she has a lot of wires and tubes. It can be overwhelming."
"I don't care. I need to see her."
He leads us through the NICU, a large room divided into sections. Isolettes line the walls, each containing a tiny baby fighting for their life. Monitors beep, ventilators hiss, and nurses move quietly between stations.
In the far corner is Emma's daughter.
She's in a clear plastic isolette, naked except for a diaper the size of a playing card. Wires cover her body, the CPAP mask makes her look even smaller, and an IV runs from her umbilical stump to a bag of fluids.
Emma starts crying again. "She's so little."
"Four pounds, two ounces," Dr. Stone says. "She's a good size. Her lungs need support, but she's breathing well with the CPAP, heart rate is stable, no signs of infection or bleeding in the brain. We'll do an ultrasound tomorrow to confirm. Right now, she's doing everything we'd hope for."
"How long will she be here?" Chase asks.
"Typically, babies born at this gestation stay until their due date, so about eight weeks. But every baby is different, she'll tell us when she's ready to go home."
"Can I touch her?" Emma reaches for the isolette.
"Of course. Wash your hands first, then you can reach through the portholes. She'll respond to your touch and voice, that's important for her development."
Emma and Chase spend an hour at the isolette, touching Sofia through the portholes, talking to her, crying. Jackson and I stand back, giving them space, but I'm aware of every inch between us, of the way our arms occasionally brush, of how badly I want to reach for his hand.
We watch the monitors, watch the tiny chest rise and fall with the assistance of the CPAP, and watch the numbers stay stable. Jackson's shoulder is pressed against mine now, and neither of us moves away.
"I can do this," I say suddenly.
"What?"
"Nursing. I can do this again. I thought that after Lily, I'd never be able to work with kids again. But today, when Emma needed help, when her baby girl needed..." My voice cracks. "I didn't freeze, I didn't panic. I just did it."
"You did more than the job; you were incredible."
"I was a nurse, that's all. Just a nurse doing what nurses do." I wipe my eyes. "But it felt good, felt right. Like maybe I can do this after all."
Jackson pulls me into a hug, brief and careful, mindful of Emma and Chase nearby. But in those few seconds, I feel everything. His pride in me, his love, the way he's barely holding himself together after watching his sister go through this.
"You can do anything, Stardust," he whispers against my hair.
Eventually, Dr. Stone insists Emma needs rest. "You just gave birth; your body needs to recover. Your daughter is stable, you can come back in a few hours."
"I don't want to leave her."
"I know. But she needs you to be healthy. Get some rest, eat something. We'll let you know immediately if anything changes."
Reluctantly, Emma agrees. We head back downstairs to a recovery room where Emma will stay overnight for monitoring.
"Go home," Emma tells Jackson and me. "Check on Ethan, tell Mom, tell her everything's okay."
"Are you sure?" I ask.
"Yeah. Chase is staying with me; you two should go. Get some sleep."
We leave the hospital just as the sun's setting. The parking lot is nearly empty, and my hands are shaking now that the adrenaline's fading.
"You okay?" Jackson asks.
"I don't know. I think so." I look back at the hospital. "She's so small, Jackson. So fragile."
"But she's a fighter."
"Yeah. She is."
We're heading to his truck when I spot the chapel sign. "Wait. Can you give me a minute?"
"Of course."
The chapel is small and empty, just a few rows of pews and an altar with generic religious symbols. I sit in the back and let myself fall apart.
I'm crying for Emma, for Sofia fighting for her life upstairs, for Lily, who didn't get to fight, for myself, and the months of thinking I'd never be strong enough to save anyone again.
The door opens, and Jackson slides into the pew beside me.
"I thought you were waiting outside," I say.
"Changed my mind."
He doesn't say anything else, just sits there while I cry. His hand finds mine, and our fingers lace together.
"I can do this," I say again. "I can go back to nursing, I can save lives, I can..."
"You already saved lives today. Emma, Chase, Sofia. They all needed you, and you were there."
"I was terrified the whole time."
"Doesn't matter, you did it anyway."
I turn to look at him and find him already watching me, his eyes full of something that makes my chest ache.
There's so much love there, so much pride and yearning and fear all mixed together.
He looks at me like I hung the moon, like I'm the bravest person he's ever known, and I want to kiss him so badly it hurts.
"Jackson..."
"I know." His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. "I know."
We sit in the quiet chapel, both of us exhausted, both of us emotionally wrung out, holding hands like teenagers afraid to let go. But something's shifted, something fundamental.
I'm not broken anymore. I'm healing, and today proved I can do the work I was meant to do.
Even if it terrifies me. Even if I never stop thinking about Lily.
I can do this.
I can save lives.