Page 74 of The Backdraft
No, she wouldn’t, at least, I didn’t think she would. She wouldn’t want him to be alone.
I swallowed hard around the lump of emotion in my throat, and nodded to the doctor. “Okay.”
He led us down a hallway and to a set of elevators. My feet moved on their own, ghosting on autopilot as Doctor Ambrose stepped inside the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. I didn’t speak—I wasn’t entirely sure I could, my mind only able to focus on those two words.
Your son.
Thankfully, the doctor didn’t try. Not until we got to the NICU, where he pointed to a too-small baby that was more tubes and wires than he was human.
“That’s him,” he said, his voice warm, but it sent chills down my spine, my skin erupting in goosebumps. “I know it may not seem like it, but he’s actually doing remarkably well.”
I nodded quietly. The doctor was right; he didn’t look good. His skin was wrinkled, and his limbs were essentially skin and bones. He looked frail, too frail, and how was he supposed to survive in this world being so small? If he was four pounds, I would’ve been shocked.
“Would you like to see him?” Ambrose asked, and I whipped my head towards him.
“Is that safe?” Looking back at our baby, I couldn’t imagine it was. It didn’t seem like anyone should so much as breathe near him.
He chuckled lightly. “Yes, it’s safe. We’ll get you dressed and you can go in there. You won’t be able to hold him quite yet, but you can see him. Say hello.”
Say hello.
I nodded again, which seemed to be the only thing I was capable of at the moment. “Yeah, okay.”
A couple minutes later, I was dressed head to toe in protective gear, standing in front of the incubator holding my son.
My son.
“Would you like a chair, sir?” a nurse with bright red hair asked, her bright eyes shining over the mask covering her face. She held out a chair to me, and I slowly sank down into it, scared my knee would bump the cart he was on, and somehow break him. “You can put your hands in the holes and hold his hand.”
I looked over my shoulder at her, and she nodded in encouragement. Staring back down at my son, I tentatively put my gloved hand through the hole in the side of the container, placing my finger next to his tiny palm. It flexed open then wrapped around the tip of my pointer finger, squeezing tighter than I would’ve thought possible from his slender fingers.
I gasped, leaning forward.
His eyes were closed, lashes dusting over the apples of his cheeks which were slightly hollowed, still needing weight to fill them out. As I took him in, I couldn’t help but try to place his features. He had Darcy’s nose unquestionably, and his ears, albeit the size of a quarter, looked like mine, as did the dark hair on his head. The tape holding the tubes in his nose and mouth blocked my ability to see his lips, but if he were lucky, he’d have Darcy’s perfect cupid’s bow.
“Can he open his eyes?” I whispered to the nurse behind me without looking at her, scared that the slightest movement would startle him.
“He can. If you talk to him, he might recognize your voice,” she answered, then quietly went to check on one of the other babies, giving us some privacy.
What did I say to a baby? This was the closest I’d been to one in my entire life, and the self-imposed pressure on what to say rendered me mute. For a while, I simply stared at him, watching his chest rise and fall. In the end, I decided on introducing myself.
“Hey, little man,” I whispered, my throat suddenly tight with emotion. “I’m your dad.”
A little squeaking noise emanated from behind the tubes, and he kicked his feet, making me freeze. When his heart rate monitor continued to beep steadily, I laughed breathily. Awe filled my chest at the baby in front of me. Adding my other hand, I gently cupped the top of his head with my palm, a tear sliding down my cheek. “I’m your dad,” I repeated, sniffling as quietly as I could. “I’m your dad, and I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
THIRTY ONE
DARCY
The car was dinging, alerting me to the door being open. I moved a hand to close it, but found cool, unfamiliar plastic in its place, which is when I remembered that it couldn’t be the car door. The truck had hit me in the side, lodging it closed.
The beeping persisted rhythmically, and I fought against heavy lids to open my eyes. All I could see for a handful of seconds was white—my first thought that I died and somehow made it to heaven. God must really not check your Kindle history. But then the room came into focus, and I remembered more.
I was in the hospital.
I’d gotten into a car crash.
They’d transported me to the hospital.
