Page 103 of Under Story

“Get the blankets,” Eli says, turning him onto one side.

All Laurel wants to do is hold him, but she scrambles to her feet. The current has carried them some distance down the shore. As she jogs through sand, the endorphins that helped her swim begin to ebb. The burn in her legs is excruciating by the time she reaches the chairs. She throws the hospital bag over one shoulder and grabs all of the towels she can.

The tears come as she runs back to them. Eli holds Silas, talking to him, trying to keep him warm. His teeth chatter even after they’ve wrapped him in blankets. Laurel dries him with a towel, and they put his clothing on.

Eli carries Silas to the car. Laurel climbs into the backseat, and he places the child in her arms.

Only now does she allow herself to really look at him. His skin is a wrinkled, grayish blue. His hair has grown in patches, and his eyes are as unfocused as an infant’s.

His identity, though, is unmistakable. Laurel stares at the shape of his hands and the birthmark on his thumb. She never thought she’d see his face again. Other faces—millions of faces. But not this one.

—

They call the emergency room from the highway. When Eli lurches into the parking lot, medics streak toward them with a stretcher.

Silas is wheeled into an X-ray, then a CT scan. Laurel and Eli know the risks: water in the lungs, seizures in the brain. They sit in the surreal purgatory of the visitors’ area. Every so often, a cell phone rings or a soda tumbles out of the vending machine. After the frenzy of the beach, Laurel feels useless. She cannot think. There is no space for anything but her most fervent wish.

A nurse calls their names. They follow him to a small room. Minutes pass before a doctor knocks. Laurel melts into Eli when she hears that Silas’s tests have come back clear.

“His lungs are strong,” the doctor says.

Laurel and Eli follow the nurse to the neonatal intensive care unit. The other visitors are at least two decades older than they are, and the patients are well above seventy. Silas lies in the smallest incubator, which is still five feet long. His chest is covered with electrodes. Laurel cranes over the plastic dome. Plumped by fluids, his wrinkles have faded, and his eyes seem clearer.

She is desperate to hold him, kiss him, take him far away from here. But before Laurel and Eli can bring Silas home, all three must undergo genetic testing. The results won’t come back until morning. A nurse leads them to the vacant room where families stay overnight. None of the cots are free, so Eli finds a pair of chairs.

Laurel shivers in the air-conditioning, wearing her swimsuit and cover-up. Despite all her preparation, she’d forgotten to pack clothes for herself.

“Take these, dear,” says a gray-haired woman on a cot. Laurel saw her in the NICU, reading to an ancient-looking man in an extra-long incubator. She hands Laurel thick socks and plaid flannel pajamas.

“You don’t have to do that,” Laurel says, but the woman waves her off.

“Extra pair,” she says. “I always pack too much.”

Laurel changes in the bathroom. Another visitor has left a tube of toothpaste on the sink, so she brushes her teeth with a finger.

“Better?” asks the older woman when Laurel returns.

“Much. I can’t thank you enough.”

“I only wish I had a pair for your husband.”

The other visitors are watching her and Eli. Their expressions range from nosiness to pity.

“Don’t mind them,” the woman says. “I saw you with your little boy. The only thing that you should do right now is celebrate.”

—

Laurel wakes throughout the night, desperate for Silas, beset with the wrongness of being away from him. In the morning, Eli brings coffee back from the hospital café. Laurel can only take a few sips. Finally the nurse appears, and they follow him into the hallway.

“Well, you were right. He’s yours.” The nurse’s tone is chipper, but he doesn’t stay longer than he has to, as though—for their sake—he wishes it weren’t true.

The doctor asks to see Laurel and Eli privately. She encourages them to consider counseling and provides a pamphlet (When Life Begins Late). There are support groups, she says, for parents in exactly their position.

Laurel nearly laughs. She feels that high. She thinks, but does not say, This is the happiest day of my life.

—

Silas is discharged that evening. Despite his appearance, he has a newborn’s motor skills. He can’t speak or walk, and his head droops to his chest. Laurel expected this, but to witness it is bewildering. They purchase a week’s supply of formula, as well as a specialized wheelchair and a pediatric car seat. The nurse shows them how to transfer Silas, and to collapse the wheelchair so that it fits in the trunk.