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I look down at Lana’s drowsy form, she looks exhausted, drained, every bit afraid.
“Hey, baby.” I lean in, kissing her forehead.
She smirks, but it doesn’t reach her heavy, dejected eyes. “Where is he?” She starts to sit up, wincing when she pushes herself too far. I lightly lay her back with a gentle hand.
“Mama, lay still. I’ll get the doctor then we’ll get you up and we’ll see our son.”
She nods, gauging me. She looks unsure, like she can’t trust me.
“I need to see him, Kingston. Please.”
“Okay, just a second, baby.” Standing up, I kiss her forehead one more time and go in search for Dr. Barrett. When I find him, he comes into the room, checking her out, all while she sits there like stone, looking toward the door like she’s searching for Princeton, waiting for him to appear.
“Okay, your vitals are normal. Let’s get you a wheelchair and we will take you in to see little man.” Dr. Barrett smiles. I return it, but once again Lana shows no emotion. Her anxious body is willing us to move faster. She wants to get there, and I hope when we finally see him it will ease the edge.
Helping her into the chair, we roam down the hall under the fluorescent lights that make everyone and everything look bleak. Entering the dimly lit room, we see all the machines surrounding the dome in the center. Instantly, I feel my tears coming on as Lana slowly lifts from the chair, bringing her hands to the glass. She begins to cry, her body shaking as I stand behind her.
“Lana, no need to cry. He is doing quite well.” Dr. Barrett stands on the opposite side of us. I look down at Prince, paying close attention to his chest as it rises and falls steadily. The smile on his face widens then shrinks over and over again. He looks healthy, besides all the fucking tubes going into his nose and mouth and the patches attached to his tiny chest.
I feel like a failure, watching my newborn son fight and my woman moan in pain as she watches our life lie in a bed with nothing but beeping machines attached to anywhere his little body can fit. That sudden fear I can’t protect my own comes worming its way into the forefront of my insecurities. Luckily, Lana speaks and distracts me for just a few minutes.
“Then why is he in there?” she asks, irritated.
I rub her back and kiss her head, attempting to pacify her.
“This is a precaution. He came out weighing seven pounds and four ounces, which is healthy. We have him in here to monitor the lungs. We want to make sure they are mature enough. Think of it this way: he has sticky balloons that fill with air when he inhales, and when he exhales, they collapse repeatedly without any complications, and so far, so good. If he goes a full forty-eight hours without any issues, he will be ready to go home.”
“Has there been any issues so far?” She presses for more, watching Princeton with intensity.
I watch him and listen all at the same time, thankful when the doctor lets us know that nothing looks wrong and once again reminding us this is all precautionary. He looks perfect. He looks just like me. I know babies tend to not look like anyone till they’re a couple months old, but he has my eye shape, my nose, my lips. He has Lana’s dimples though, her deep ones whenever she smiles. He looks flawless, like an angel, softening my insides.
His tiny hands twitch every few seconds, his little toes curling whenever Lana talks. That’s when I see it; he smiles whenever her voice is heard. It may be a tic or a reflex, but it happens whenever she speaks, and that’s good enough for me.
“Lana, look how he smiles when you talk. Say something; he can hear you.”
She looks away from the doctor, then to me over her shoulder with a gentle smirk. Looking down, she starts to speak.
“Hey, baby. Mama misses you. You look so handsome. God, I can’t believe how handsome you are. No I can’t.” The sound of her cooing, the sound of her talking to my son, has my heart slowing. Holy hell, that is beautiful.
“Look how goddamn perfect he is, Lana. God, thank you for my son.” I repeat thank you a few times as I kiss her temple, closing my eyes as the remaining tears fall. This is our first moment as a family. I just wish I could be touching him, skin-on-skin with him. Or better yet, watching him skin-on-skin with Lana.
But if this is all we have, I won’t complain. I just want him healthy and safe and ready for home, same with Lana.
For two entire days, I had to watch my little boy lie inside a bubble. It was suffocating not being able to hold him and make nothing more than hand contact. We finally made it home a few days ago, and I haven’t stopped holding Prince. Kingston has been rushing around to get the hospital bag unpacked and me as comfortable as possible, all while still getting some wor
k done.
In the hospital, I hardly slept, constantly hearing Prince cry, except it wasn’t real; it was all in my head. When I finally did get some sleep, my eyes would shut and all I could see was Joel carrying Princeton away from me. My nightmares no longer focused on my safety, but that of my son.
My anxiety has been spiking. I feel on edge constantly, and I feel volatile when anyone but myself gets near my son—even Kingston. Not sure what it is that makes me overly protective and anxiety-ridden, but I’m just hoping it passes.
Joel’s out, free from his chains and on the loose to do whatever he wants to me, to my family. My no contact order still stands, but that piece of paper can’t do anything. What would I do? Hit him with it? Detective Henson insists he believes I’m fine and he has proof that Joel settled somewhere in Southern Utah, further making him believe I’m not in harm’s way.
After the last time Detective Henson talked to Joel and I filed a report with Seattle PD, he backed off. But is this just an act? A way to throw me off his trail? Or am I simply overthinking everything? I hope it’s the latter. If not, then I have every right to stay on edge like I am.
“Hey, baby, has he eaten yet?” Kingston enters the nursery, taking up the doorway with his large frame. Wearing his basketball shorts and his black tee, he readjust his snapback on his head, putting it on backward, showing me more of his tired face. He stayed up with me the entire time I was there, sleeping on the stiff hospital couch whenever I finally got some sleep.
“No, he won’t latch, Kingston. What’s wrong with me?” I huff, overwhelmed suddenly with the fact that Prince has not been nursing since he was born. Maybe two times has he latched, and every other time, he has had to take my pumped milk. The doctor said it’s normal, but I can’t help but feel foreign, like my own son hates me. My milk isn’t what he’s rejecting; it’s me.
