39. Rowan #3
The nurse checks the transport monitor while keeping the bed beside mine. "He weighs four pounds, one ounce."
I stare at him until his foot moves against my fingers.
Then they take him.
Recovery passes in pieces.
My blood pressure drops enough after surgery that the nurses keep me downstairs longer than I want.
Zoya and Maren remain stable under neonatal observation.
Callan needs more respiratory support at first, then less.
Every update is better than the one before, but none of them gets me upstairs fast enough.
Erik stays with me instead of following Callan.
I tell him twice that he can go. The second time, he looks at me instead of assuming the permission means I want him to leave. "Do you want me to go?"
"No." The answer comes with more relief than I want to examine right now. I reach across the sheet and take his hand. "I want you here."
"Then I'm here." Erik settles back into the chair without hesitation.
Mom and Callie come in after midnight. Mom carries my phone and the overnight bag nobody remembered to bring into the first room, while Callie has apparently cried enough to ruin whatever makeup she wore to dinner.
Callie stops beside the bed and looks me over. "You look terrible."
Mom closes her eyes.
I start laughing, then immediately regret it when my incision objects. "You really need new material."
"I panicked." Callie comes closer and takes my hand carefully around the IV. "Humor is what you get."
"I'll accept it." I squeeze her fingers before Mom sits on the other side of the bed.
"Serena told us the girls are doing well." Mom rests the overnight bag near the wall.
"They are." I look toward the door even though I know Callan isn't coming through it. "He's needing less oxygen than he did right after delivery."
Callie nods too quickly. "That's good."
"It's good." Erik shifts forward in his chair and gives her the certainty I can't manufacture right now. "The neonatologist said every change since delivery has been in the right direction."
Callie looks from him to me. "Can we see them?"
"Not yet." I squeeze her hand again. "You will."
Serena comes in a few minutes later with another update.
Callan's oxygen requirement has decreased again.
His blood gases are improving. Zoya and Maren remain stable, although all three babies will stay in neonatal care until feeding, temperature control, breathing, and growth are where the team wants them.
Callie starts crying when Serena finishes.
Mom tries not to.
I don't manage either.
Erik gets tissues from the counter and passes them around without commenting on any of us.
Mom takes one and presses it beneath her eyes. "Your father would've been unbearable tonight."
That surprises a laugh out of me. "He would've had a spreadsheet."
"He would've had three." Mom smiles through her tears and looks toward the ceiling for a second. "One for feeding, one for diapers, and one nobody else understood."
Callie wipes her face with the tissue Erik gave her. "He would've color-coded us."
"He color-coded the electric bill." I look down at the hospital blanket and picture Dad at the kitchen table with three columns open on his laptop. "He would've loved this."
Mom covers my hand with hers. "He would've loved them."
We sit with that for a while without trying to make it hurt less.
By three in the morning, Mom is asleep in the visitor chair and Callie has curled sideways on the small sofa with a hospital blanket over her. Erik has refused every suggestion that he use the second chair to sleep.
I'm awake when Serena opens the recovery-room door at three-forty.
I push myself higher before she reaches the bed. Pain pulls across my incision, and I stop before I make it worse.
Erik stands and adjusts the pillow behind me instead of forcing me back down.
Serena comes directly to the bedside. "Callan is stable. His blood gases improved again, his oxygen requirement has come down, and the neonatologist is comfortable letting you visit."
For several seconds, I only look at her. "Can we go now?"
Serena points toward the wheelchair already waiting outside the room. "Yes. You're riding."
I don't argue.
Erik notices and wisely says nothing.
The neonatal unit is quieter than the floor below. Machines make soft electronic sounds behind glass doors, and nurses speak quietly while they move between rooms. Erik pushes my wheelchair slowly enough that every turn seems to take forever.
When we reach the room, I stop caring how long it took.
Three incubators sit in a row.
Three cards carry the names we spent weeks arguing over.
Zoya Bennett Danilov.
Maren Susanna Danilov.
Callan Jeremy Danilov.
I read each one, then read them again.
Zoya is sleeping with one arm near her face. Maren has already kicked part of her blanket loose, which seems consistent with everything she's done inside me for months. Both girls have monitors attached, but neither needs the respiratory support Callan does.
I stop beside his incubator last.
The tubing beneath his nose is smaller than what covered his face in the operating room. His skin has more color now, and the monitor beside him shows numbers I don't understand well enough to trust myself with.
The neonatal nurse comes over and explains each one before I can ask. His oxygen is down. His heart rate is good. He's maintaining his temperature with help. They expect premature babies at this gestation to need time, and nothing about his current course surprises the team.
I listen to every word.
Erik stands beside me without interrupting her once.
When the nurse finishes, she opens the access port and shows us where we can touch him without disturbing the equipment.
Erik looks at me first. "You go."
I put my hand through the opening and rest two fingers against Callan's side. His body is impossibly small beneath the diaper and wires. I can see the rise and fall of each assisted breath.
"Hi." My voice cracks, and I don't bother correcting it. "You've caused enough trouble for one day."
Erik looks down at me.
"He has." I keep my fingers against our son's side. "His sisters came out yelling. He had to make an entrance."
The nurse smiles before moving away to give us privacy.
I stay there until my arm starts aching from the angle. Erik waits without telling me to stop. When I finally withdraw my hand, he takes my place at the incubator.
He opens the access port and puts one finger near Callan's hand.
Our son closes his fingers around it.
Erik doesn't move.
For several seconds, he only looks down at him.
I watch the man who once believed control was the only reliable form of protection stand motionless because a four-pound baby has hold of one finger.
"He has a good grip." I move the wheelchair closer so I can see Callan's hand around Erik's finger.
Erik looks at me only after our son tightens his hold. "He does."
I reach for Erik's free hand.
He gives it to me immediately.
The fear hasn't disappeared. Callan is still premature, all three babies are still in neonatal care, and nobody has promised us an uncomplicated road home. I don't need Erik to pretend otherwise.
I need exactly what I asked him for downstairs.
I lean against his shoulder and let him carry some of my weight while our son keeps hold of his finger.