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I hear a chair scrape across the floor, and I want to squeeze his hand. Tell him not to let go. And I remember he came for me. He was racing to get to me.
But where was I?
Warm fingers brush my forehead. He’s pushing my hair back. I like when he does that. And then he’s close, and I can feel him, feel his warmth. Smell his scent. Familiar. I breathe it in.
I make a sound, but it’s hard to move. Everything feels heavy, but I hear a choked sound come from him as he lays his cheek against mine. I want to hug him. I want to hold on to him.
And when he pulls back, I try harder to open my eyes. I force all my energy into just opening my eyes, and I see him. I see his face close to mine, inches from mine. I see his hazel eyes. I see tears inside them, and then his hand is on my face cupping my cheek, and he’s so beautiful. Even sad like this, I love him so much. It’s all I can think about. All I can feel.
But then I hear the baby’s cry again. It’s coming from farther away, and I see Santiago’s mouth move into a smile when he hears it, and he shifts his gaze in the direction of the sound. I follow it too, and I see figures in white coats, maybe six of them standing around me, looking down at me, their faces blurring as I struggle to keep my eyes open. I look down the length of my bed to the door but stop, confused, and I close my eyes and force all of my energy to move my hand over my belly.
It’s flat.
They all go into a panic when the beeping becomes frantic, and Santiago’s hand is gone. He’s gone. And my baby’s gone. And all I feel is the trickle of a tear slide down along my temple before I sleep again.
38
Ivy
This is a different kind of sleep than it’s been. Not so heavy. And I hear voices as I start to wake up, wondering again where I am when my eyes open, and a stranger comes into blurry focus.
“Good morning, Ivy,” he says. “It’s me, Dr. Singh. It’s good to see you again.”
I turn my head when I see movement in my periphery. It’s not as heavy as it was a little while ago. Santiago comes into view, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. His hair is standing at all angles, and his eyes look so red and tired.
But then he smiles, and the thing he’s holding moves and makes a sound.
My hand creeps toward my stomach.
“This is our baby, Ivy. Can you see her?” Santiago says.
I can’t, though. All I see is a bundle of blankets. Our baby. Her.
“Here. Here she is.”
And there she is. Her little weight on me as Santiago holds her against my chest, her tiny cheek against me. Her breath warm and her lips soft when she nuzzles against my neck her mouth searching for something to latch onto.
I want to move. I want to hold her. Bring her to my breast. But it’s too hard, and he must sense it because he takes my arm and sets my hand over my baby’s bundled form. I feel the tears come as I turn to look at her little face, at her eyes that open just for a moment, that barely focus on me before they close again. She is having as hard a time as I am keeping them open.
“It’s okay. Go to sleep. We’ll both be here when you wake up. You just keep waking up. Do you understand me? You just keep waking up.”
39
Ivy
It’s easier to open my eyes the next time. It’s dark in the room but for a night-light plugged into the wall and the ghostly green of the machines. This time, it’s just Santiago and me. No doctors. And he’s asleep.
I watch him. He must have drifted off because he’s seated in a chair with his head resting on a pillow lodged between the chair and the wall. It can’t be comfortable. Beyond him, I see a cot. It’s empty. He must have brought the pillow over to keep an eye on me.
I manage to lift my arm and reach toward him. I look at my hand as I bring my fingers to his cheek. My fingernails are cut short and the wedding band looks like it’s too big on me. My engagement ring is gone. I want to brush his hair back, but it’s harder than it looks to be precise so I let my hand fall onto his thigh, and he startles awake.
After a moment of confusion and worry, his eyes focus on mine, and his expression changes to a warm smile spreading across his face.
