Chapter 15 - NO ONE REHEARSES THIS PART
"We may need to deliver today," Dr. Bell said.
I looked at the wall clock because it was easier than looking at her. Four seventeen. I'd spent three years thinking I could tell the difference between a normal afternoon and the one that changed my life. Apparently I couldn't.
"But she's early," I said.
"Thirty-five weeks. We're concerned about your blood pressure and about the baby. We need to make the safest decision we can with the information we have."
I nodded, then shook my head. "I didn't bring her clothes."
The doctor waited.
"That's a weird thing to say. Sorry."
"It's not weird."
I wanted to ask whether it was my fault. Whether I'd done too much, fought too much, cried too much. Dr. Bell explained that pregnancy complications weren't punishments for having a bad few months. We talked through the monitoring and why the team might recommend delivery sooner than I'd imagined.
Laura arrived with her hair still wet from the rain. She was carrying the white gift box because I'd asked her, in a panic, to bring the socks.
"I brought the charger too," she announced. "Your phone is somehow always at three percent."
"My shoes don't match."
"That's your problem?"
"It is right now."
She pulled up a chair and held my hand without saying anything else.
At seven, the doctor recommended an urgent delivery. The baby's monitoring wasn't reassuring enough to wait, and my blood pressure remained a serious concern despite treatment. The nurses moved with the calm precision of people who knew exactly what needed doing.
I didn't feel brave. I felt cold, then embarrassed about shivering, then angry that I was embarrassed at all.
Laura squeezed my hand before the team took me in. "Your mom would have been proud of you," she said.
"She would have complained about the parking."
Laura laughed with tears in her eyes. "Yeah. She really would have."
The operating room was brighter than any room had a right to be. Someone asked what music I liked. I couldn't think of a song. My mouth tasted like metal.
Then I heard a thin cry.
It wasn't the huge movie-cry I'd expected. It sounded like a squeaky hinge.
"Baby girl," someone said. "She's here."
I tried to turn toward the voice. "Can I see her?"
A nurse raised her just enough for me to catch a glimpse: a small face, dark wet hair, furious little fists. Then the neonatal team carried her to a warmer for assessment.
"Why isn't she coming back?" I asked.
"She's breathing, but she's having trouble keeping up," the nurse explained. "The neonatal team is helping her. They'll keep you updated."
I stared at the spot where she'd disappeared.
We named her June. I hadn't decided before that moment. Maybe I chose it because my mother loved that month. Maybe because it sounded like something warm and ordinary. I didn't need a better reason.
After surgery, I was being monitored closely when Maddy brought me a cup of ice chips and read a text from Laura's phone.
"The doctors say June is stable for now," she told me. "They've moved her to the NICU to support her breathing and keep a close eye on her."
I looked down at the bracelet on my wrist. It had my name and a number on it. Somewhere else, my daughter had a bracelet with the same number.
"I want to see her," I said.
"As soon as they say it's safe."
Hours later, with help, I reached the NICU. June lay under soft lights with a tiny mask supporting her breathing. There were wires, warm blankets, and a nurse with purple-framed glasses talking gently as she worked.
"Hi, June," I whispered. "I'm the one with the bad shoes."
Her fingers closed around the tip of mine.
For the first time since that day in the hallway, I believed I might get to keep something beautiful.
Then an alarm sounded at the next monitor. A nurse came quickly to June's bedside, checked the readings, and called another clinician over.
I stepped back, my hand still in the air.
"What's happening?" I asked.
May you like
The nurse looked toward me. "We're checking her oxygen level. Please give us a moment."
And for the longest moment of my life, I could do nothing but stand there.
