Chapter 12 - The Night She Came Early
The first pain came while Ortiz was reading the message.
Low.
Deep.
Different.
I pressed a hand against the mattress.
Dr. Sloan had told me to report anything that changed.
For once, I didn’t try to be brave.
“I need the nurse.”
Adrian was at the door before I finished.
A doctor examined me.
The baby’s heart rate stayed strong, but the contractions didn’t settle.
They moved me to labor and delivery.
Everything sped up.
Questions.
Consent forms.
A monitor around my belly.
A nurse asking whether I wanted Adrian in the room.
I looked at him.
He stood back, waiting for the answer.
“Yes.”
That one word almost broke his face.
The doctor explained what they were watching and why.
I asked questions until I understood.
Nobody shoved a pen into my hand.
Nobody called my fear confusion.
When the next contraction came, I gripped Adrian’s arm.
“I’m mad at you.”
“I know.”
“I’m still mad.”
“I know.”
“Don’t mistake this for forgiveness.”
“I won’t.”
Then I cried because I was scared and exhausted and she was coming too soon.
He pressed his forehead to my hand.
“You don’t have to make me feel better.”
I looked at him.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
A startled laugh escaped him.
It sounded almost like grief.
Outside, a snowstorm began pressing against the windows.
Chicago traffic slowed.
Flights were delayed.
Somewhere, Victor was missing.
Somewhere, Lucia was deciding what to do next.
Inside that room, my world narrowed to the next breath.
Then the next.
Hours later, the doctor told me the delivery couldn’t wait.
Our daughter wasn’t tolerating labor the way they wanted.
They explained the operation.
I signed.
Adrian changed into hospital scrubs with hands that kept missing the ties.
“You look terrible,” I told him.
“You look beautiful.”
“Try telling the truth.”
He leaned close.
“I’m terrified.”
“So am I.”
In the operating room, he sat near my head.
A blue drape blocked my view.
I felt pressure.
Movement.
The awful stretch of waiting.
Then a small, angry cry cut through the room.
I started sobbing before anyone spoke.
“She’s here.”
Adrian stood enough to see.
His hand flew to his mouth.
“Claire.”
“Is she breathing?”
“Yes,” a nurse said. “She’s getting some help, but she’s breathing.”
They brought her close for a moment.
Tiny face.
Dark damp hair.
A furious little mouth.
“Hi, Evelyn,” I whispered.
Then they took her to the neonatal team.
Adrian kissed my forehead and followed where I told him to follow.
The operation continued.
I kept listening for news.
When the nurse returned, I knew something was wrong.
“Your daughter is safe,” she said quickly.
May you like
Then she looked toward the door.
“A woman just tried to enter the NICU using your name.”
