I stay awake. I want to be awake in case something happens. At 5:45, someone comes in to check on me. An OB doc. She asks me if I have any pain, if I’ve gotten out of bed yet. She checks me and tells me to rest. She doesn’t know anything about my baby.

At seven thirty, a big man in white scrubs brings me a tray of food. I’m starving but also nauseous from nerves. I try to sit up. I can’t. I find the control, make the bed upright. I pull the table with the tray closer. Lumpy oatmeal, a rock-hard bagel, and a dish of icy pineapple. I make myself eat.

A nurse that’s not Judy comes in. She takes out the pee tube and helps me to the bathroom. I take a shower. It’s hot. So it should feel good. But I don’t feel much ’cause I’m rushing, thinking about Angelo, thinking about how maybe one of the heart doctors is going to come update me but I’ll be in here instead of out there. The nurse stands in the bathroom waiting for me. I think she’s afraid I might fall. She gives me this weird underwear. It’s all fishnet in the front and back but a diaper on the bottom. “For the blood,” she says.

The clock says ten when I’m back in bed. The sheets and blankets have been changed again. I want to know what’s going on with Angelo. But I’m afraid to ask. I only want to hear if it’s good.

I look for my phone. Maybe talking with Yaz or Heavenly or Teri would keep away bad thoughts. I use a clipboard to swing open the closet. There’s a plastic bag at the bottom filled with my stuff. I get up real slow. I feel like a truck ran me over. I look in the bag. Carlos’s coat is on top. It’s pretty wrecked with puke and uterus water on it. My phone’s in the pocket, but it’s out of juice. I put it on the table, hoping Yaz or Heavenly or Teri will bring a charger. I find Heavenly’s unlimited, too.

Back in bed, I pull up the covers and stare at the clock.

“Mari.”

My hand’s on my belly. I feel Angelo kick. I’m in the sonogram room. I must have fallen asleep while Doc was taking pictures.

“Mari, I’m sorry to wake you.”

Doc is next to me, but he’s on the wrong side. He’s always only on my right. Why is he on my left?

“Congratulations on the birth. How do you feel?”

The clock on the wall says five. A new tray of food is on the counter by the sink. I push hair from my mouth. I start to yawn but stop myself.

“How’s Angelo?” My voice cracks.

Doc looks for a chair. There’s only the big lounger at the foot of the bed. He drags it closer and sits.

He looks different. He’s in a sports coat. His hospital ID half hides behind an expensive-looking tie. Heavenly’s catcall whispers in my head, “Qué caché-caché.”

I pull my gown more closed around me.

Doc’s looking at his hands. He twists his wedding band around his finger. I don’t want to think why he isn’t answering my question.

“He’s sick,” he says. “Angelo’s sick. But he’s still with us.”

“Did they do the procedure?” I stare at his ring. It’s pure gold.

“Yes. The whole team came in. They were ready. They knew they’d have to answer to me if they weren’t.” He gives me half a smile. But it’s not the rock-star smile. It’s like he’s worried what I might think of that. I believe him though. Those other docs who work with him probably were afraid of him. I remember how he looked when I showed up with all those cuts and bruises. Angry lion was scary. “It went well,” Doc says. “A technical success. Which is amazing considering his size.”

“His size?”

“He’s small. Since he was born a few weeks early. Sometimes we can’t do the catheterization on premature babies because our equipment is too large. But Angelo’s bigger than most babies are at thirty-six weeks. You did a good job there, mama.” He bumps my arm lightly with his elbow. “You got him as fat as you could.”

I put my hand on my arm. Where his elbow touched it. I can’t take credit for that. Heavenly—and Jo-jo—Teri’s mama, they were the ones feeding me this whole time.

“But we’re not in the clear yet. He still needs our help to breathe. He’s on the breathing machine, the ventilator. We’ll give him a couple of days to recover from the procedure. And then we have to do the first surgery.”

“The Norwood.”

He smiles. “Yes, the Norwood.” He runs a hand over his head. The gold ring disappears in the golden strands of his hair. “Listen.” He reaches out. His fingers touch mine. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I promised you I would be.” He leans over his legs. His whole hand takes my hand. His skin is warm. And soft. “How are you doing?”

I’m staring down at the blanket. At his hand holding mine. My whole arm feels warm. And safe. Angelo’s not dead. He’s sick, but I knew he would be.

“Fine.” I bite my lip to keep away tears.

“Have you seen him yet?”

I nod. “When he came out. They showed him to me.”

“Would you like to see him again? I can take you to him.”

I look at his face to make sure he’s not teasing. Though he should know me well enough to know that type of joke would earn him a jab in the shoulder.

His eyes are steady, more blue now than gold. No teasing. “Come on, I can bring you right now.”

Doc opens the door. There’s a wheelchair waiting. He helps me into it and pushes me down the hallway out to the elevators.

“You can go see Angelo whenever you want. The NICU is always open to parents and grandparents. You just can’t sleep there. And until you’re more mobile, your nurse will have to call Transport to take you.”

“I thought that’s why I have you?” I’m joking. But I wish I wasn’t. I wish he could stay here the whole time Angelo has to.

“As long as I’m here, I’m happy to serve as your transport, madame.” He bows and wheels me into the elevator.

We get out on the ninth floor. We’re in the children’s section. The walls, floors, and ceiling are all colored with shapes—stars and circles, triangles and squares.

“I want to warn you, Angelo looks different than he did yesterday. He has a tube in his nose. To help him breathe. He has two special IVs, one in his groin and one in the stump from his umbilical cord. To give him medicine and monitor his blood pressure.”

Doc hits a metal panel in the wall. A light blue door swings open.