Chapter 17 #2
She laughs, a sound that's half sob. "Brooklyn Tessa MacKenzie. That's... that's actually beautiful."
"So, we agree? We have a name?"
"We have a name." She reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together. "Our daughter is Brooklyn."
I squeeze her hand, feeling something settle in my chest. Brooklyn. Our daughter finally has a name.
There's a knock on the door, and Tessa pokes her head in. "Everyone decent?"
"As decent as we get," Patrice says.
Tessa enters, followed by Gage carrying enough coffee to caffeinate a small army. "Brought reinforcements. Also, Marnie sent care packages. She's worried you're both wasting away."
"Marnie's a saint," I say, accepting one of the coffees.
"A saint who packed six dozen cookies," Gage adds, setting a massive basket on the side table. "She said, and I quote, 'Hospitals have terrible food, and new parents need sugar.'"
"She's not wrong." Patrice eyes the basket with interest. "What kind of cookies?"
"All of them, apparently. Chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, snickerdoodles, some kind of lemon thing—"
"Lemon cookies?" Patrice interrupts. "Give me those immediately."
Tessa hands over a container of cookies, and Patrice's grateful moan is possibly inappropriate for a hospital setting.
"So," Tessa says, settling into the other visitor chair. "How's the baby doing today?"
We all exchange a look.
"Actually," Patrice says, "we just named her. Like, five minutes ago."
Tessa sits up straight. "You did? What is it?"
"Brooklyn," I say. "Brooklyn Tessa MacKenzie."
Tessa's face crumples. "You named her after me?"
"Middle name," Patrice clarifies. "Brooklyn is for both our moms. But yes. Tessa."
"Oh my god." Tessa's openly crying now. "I'm the godmother and the namesake? I can't handle this emotional responsibility."
"You'll be fine," Gage says, but his voice sounds suspiciously gruff.
"Brooklyn," Tessa repeats through tears. "That's perfect. That's—" She stops, wiping her eyes. "Can I meet her? I mean, officially meet her now that she has a name?"
"Visiting hours are from six to eight tonight," I recite. "But yes. We'll all go together."
"Perfect." Tessa composes herself, though her eyes are still shiny. "And how are you two holding up? Actually holding up, not the polite answer you give nurses."
Patrice and I exchange a look.
"We're exhausted," Patrice admits. "Terrified. Overwhelmed. She's so small, and there are so many wires, and what if something goes wrong—"
"Nothing's going to go wrong," I interrupt gently. "Dr. Martinez said she's doing great. Gaining weight. Breathing on her own. All good signs."
"I know. I just—" Patrice breaks off, shoving a cookie in her mouth instead of finishing the sentence.
"You're allowed to be scared," Tessa says. "You're both allowed to be scared. This is scary."
"Former Army Ranger," Gage points out. "Probably been through scarier."
"Nothing's scarier than this," I say honestly. "Nothing."
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the four of us, eating Marnie's cookies and drinking coffee that's probably violating some kind of hospital caffeine policy.
"So," Gage finally says. "Are they letting you guys go home soon, or are you planning to move into the hospital permanently?"
"They offered to discharge me yesterday," Patrice says. "I refused."
"She's not leaving without Brooklyn," I explain.
"Neither are you, apparently," Gage observes. "Saw you sleeping in that chair last night. Can't be good for your back."
"My back is fine."
"You're like six-four. That chair is made for people the size of Tessa."
"Hey," Tessa protests.
"You know what I mean." Gage turns back to me. "Seriously. You two need to take care of yourselves, too. Brooklyn needs healthy parents."
He's not wrong. We've been taking turns sleeping in hospital chairs, eating whatever people bring us, and generally living like refugees in a medical facility.
"The nurses said Brooklyn might be here for two more weeks," Patrice says quietly. "Maybe three. I can't just... leave her here alone."
"She won't be alone," Tessa points out. "She's got round-the-clock nurse care. The best in the state, according to Dr. Martinez."
"I know. But I'm her mother. I should be here."
I reach for Patrice's hand again. "We'll figure it out. Maybe we can split shifts. I'll do mornings, you do afternoons, we both do evenings?"
"And you'll actually go back to the cabin and sleep in a real bed?" Patrice asks skeptically.
"If you will."
She considers this, worrying her bottom lip. "Okay. Deal. But if anything happens—"
"They'll call us immediately," I promise. "We're only fifteen minutes away."
"More like ten if Trace drives," Gage mutters.
Another knock interrupts us. Dr. Martinez appears in the doorway, looking official in her white coat.
"Sorry to interrupt," she says. "But I wanted to give you both an update on your daughter."
My stomach clenches. "Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," she assures us quickly. "Better than fine, actually. She's gained two more ounces since this morning, which is excellent progress. Her oxygen levels are stable, and we were able to reduce her monitoring a bit."
Relief floods through me. "That's good?"
"That's very good. It means she's getting stronger. At this rate, I'd estimate another ten days to two weeks before we can discuss discharge."
"Two weeks," Patrice repeats. "So, by February?"
"Approximately, yes. But we'll take it day by day." Dr. Martinez smiles. "She's a fighter. Takes after her parents, I think."
After Dr. Martinez leaves, promising to check in tomorrow, we all just sit there, processing.
"Two weeks," I finally say. "We can handle that."
"We can," Patrice agrees.
"And then you bring Brooklyn home," Tessa adds. "To the cabin. Which you'll need to get ready for a baby."
"We'll figure it out," I say. "We've got two weeks."
Patrice laughs, and Tessa laughs, and even Gage cracks a smile. I realize I'm smiling too—the first real smile since Brooklyn was born.
That night, during the evening visiting hours, we all crowd around Brooklyn's incubator.
Tessa's openly crying again, which seems to be her default state around the baby. "She's so perfect. Look at her tiny hands. Trace, did you see her hands?"
"I've seen her hands," I assure her. "They're very small."
"The smallest hands," Tessa agrees. "Brooklyn Tessa. I'm honored. I'm going to spoil you so much, little one."
"Please don't make my daughter a terror," Patrice says, but she's smiling as she reaches through the incubator's portal to touch Brooklyn's hand.
The baby's fingers curl reflexively around Patrice's pinky, and I watch Patrice's face transform into something so tender it makes my chest ache.
"Hey, Brooklyn," Patrice whispers. "It's Mom. We finally named you. Sorry it took so long. Your dad and I are still figuring this out."
Brooklyn makes a small sound, her eyes staying closed.
"She knows your voice," Jennifer says, checking monitors. "Babies recognize their mother's voice from being in the womb. It's very calming for her."
Patrice blinks hard, clearly fighting tears. "Really?"
"Really. Talk to her as much as you want. She loves it."
So Patrice talks. She tells Brooklyn about Florida, about moving to Alaska, about Tessa and Gage and the ridiculous amount of cookies Marnie sent. She tells her about the snow, about the cabin, about how much everyone's looking forward to bringing her home.
And Brooklyn just listens, her tiny chest rising and falling steadily, surrounded by monitors and wires but safe.
I look at Patrice, then at our daughter, then at Tessa and Gage crowding around the incubator like proud relatives.
All four of us—no, all five of us.
This is my family now.