Page 75 of Forever Christmas
Dad nods.
The words about Gavin’s father being somewhere in the hospital die on my lips. Later. They haven’t found the NICU, obviously. We have time.
“So, good news all around,” Dr. Griffin says, pointing to the screen. “This is the foramen ovale. The flap is undersized, but it’s created enoughof a seal that there is no reason to intervene at this stage. We will send you a referral to come see us at six months, and we’ll evaluate again. Probably if anything is still a problem, we’ll deal with it around his second birthday. It’s quite possible it will fix itself.”
I want to faint. He’s fine? They don’t have to do anything?
Dr. Griffin shuts off the iPad and tucks it under his arm.“He’s doing amazingly well for being seven weeks early. I’m turning this over to the neonatologist, but I don’t need to assess him again unless they tell me he has some distress.”
Ethan sends up a major wail as a disc is attached to his chest.
“He seems like he’s getting plenty of oxygen to me.” Dr. Griffin pats my shoulder. “He’ll be just fine.”
Now that Ethan has let out a cry, I am mesmerizedby him.
He’s lying there, surrounded by people, but no one is comforting him. He’s all alone on that bed, the heat lamp above him.
I step forward carefully, slowly, the way you might approach a deer. If this is some dream, I want to keep it intact, as smooth and perfect as the still surface of a pond.
He is not encased in an Isolette, just placed on a little baby bed with low sides. I reachforward with my fingers. I’m not sure they will touch anything. He could be a figment of my imagination.
“Ethan,” I say, and he stops crying. His arms and legs wiggle, his head cocked, as if he’s listening to me. “Ethan,” I say again.
My hand brushes his skin. He startles for a moment, but as he draws in a breath to cry, I say it again. “Ethan.”
He doesn’t cry. He waits. This is one thing inthis bright terrible world that is familiar to him. My voice.
“Can I hold him?” I ask.
Several of the people standing around look at each other in their blue caps and masks.
“Of course you can.” A woman pushes forward, holding a diaper and a little cap. She is in colorful scrubs like nurses wear, her hair plaited into a crown of braids.
“Let me get this on him,” she says. Everyone moves asidefor her, and the group begins to disperse.
She lifts Ethan by the legs and slides the small white diaper beneath him. “Let’s hope you fill this right up,” she says to him in a quiet easy voice.
The nurse fastens the diaper and slides her hands beneath him. “Dad, pull that chair over here.” She angles her head toward a cushioned office chair against the wall.
The room is empty now except forthis nurse, my dad, Gavin, and me. A hush has fallen within the walls. The noises of the NICU, beeps, whirs, and alarms, are well outside.
Gavin sets the chair by the crib, and I sit down.
Of all the moments that align from our time with Finn, this one brings me the most peace. The nurse walks around the crib, careful to keep the wire on the disc from tangling, and lifts the baby to me.
“Puthim directly against your skin,” she says. “He needs to be kept warm.”
I tug on the string on my gown and let it fall open enough to give him space.
The nurse places the baby against my chest and draws the gown over him, shifting my arm to hold him securely.
Ethan is warm and soft and does not cry. His head rests just below my neck. He takes in a stuttering little breath as my heart beats justbelow his ear, as though he is relieved finally to know something. It is the sound he knows best.
His eyes close. Time has stopped. There is only this small creature, his tiny breaths, and the rhythm in my chest.
Ethan.
For just a moment, I see Finn there. Maybe it’s the shape of Ethan’s ear or the way his hair whorls just above it.
Gavin places his hand on the baby, his strong work-toughenedfingers cupping his head. My dad sniffs, rocking back and forth on his feet, his hands clasped.
No one needs words now. The hard stuff is behind us.
We have survived the worst.
