You look terrible,” Dr. Farber says, without looking up from Naseem’s charts. “You need to stop sleeping on that couch, Sama. The nurses are starting to think you’re homeless.”
My fingers are still numb and clumsy from the cold.
“I went home this morn—”
“To get a change of clothes, I know,” she says with an eye on the duffel bag. “They say you go every few days.”
The nurses, traitors, who bring cupcakes, crosswords, and magazines and bits of gossip every day. They brought blankets and a pillow last week, and since then, it hasn’t been so cold in the evenings.
Dr. Farber turns to the incubator.
“And how did you sleep, little Naseem? You aren’t too cold, are you? No, it’s nice and warm in there. You should see how cold it is outside! Snow everywhere. Do you know what snow is?”
She removes the box’s plastic lid. His eyes are open for the occasion.
“You’ll see it soon. It’s white and cold and it melts. And you can play with it when you’re a little older… Let me listen to your heart.”
Unwrapping her stethoscope, she warms the tip with her hands and breath before touching his chest. She smiles at him. “I can hear your heart.” Then she turns to me. “Would you like to listen?”
Heart. Beat.
Faint at first, barely audible, till she adjusts the metal piece, then a sudden avalanche of fluttering wings. I can hear your heartbeat, Naseem. I hold my breath, watching his chest rising and falling, air flying in and out. No mask, no tubes. Keep going, ya zghir. Keep going.
“He’s doing well,” she says minutes later, closing the transparent box.
“Small but consistent progress. Good boy. Soon we can start thinking of discharge.”
I blink, blindsided, blinded like someone blasted with sun. Midday sun, middle-of-July sun, a skyful, a sunflower field of suns spilling through an open window, drenching the room.
“… no promises, but barring complications…”
I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t bask in it, drink it in like honey-sweetened lemonade. A breeze dances through that open window. I shouldn’t let it. I shouldn’t let myself hope, begin to fantasize, about a sweaty, sandy beachy afternoon in that July. A little voice that asks, Ice cream, please? Naseem will want… chocolate and sprinkles, maybe. Sprinkles melting rainbows into a colorful, dripping mess, from a soggy cone… I shouldn’t.
But then Dr. Farber says, “And look at that, Ms. Zayat: Your son is one month old today.”