"Have you thought of a name for her yet?" Katie asks.
I look up at the nurse watching me from the doorway. She's been here every step of the way, keeping me updated on Ivy and helping me process each milestone of my daughter's transition from the womb to the incubator to the real world.
My daughter's tiny fingers curl inside mine as I cradle her against my bare chest. Something I’ve admittedly come to look forward to every day. They tell me she's doing well, and every day seems to be a new learning curve. So far, I’ve accomplished feeding her and changing her diapers, though I still feel as if I'm fumbling through the process every time.
She hasn't been allowed to meet any of the other family just yet, but they've been able to see her through the window of a special visiting room, offering smiles and waves with tears in their eyes.
Ivy is still in the ICU, still asleep. Unchanging, even as my world is changing every second. She should be here for this. She should be holding our baby's hand too. Stroking her hair and laughing at how terribly I fail when I try to bottle-feed her, or as I’m trying to ascertain which part of the diaper is back and which is front.
It's all so overwhelming and painful. And it's all I can do to focus on each moment rather than the large picture in front of me. The one where the dark reality is, I might not ever get to see Ivy with our baby.
"I don't want to pick a name until her mother wakes up," I confess quietly.
Katie offers me a sad smile, leaning against the doorframe. "I get it. But at some point, that little beauty will need a name. Maybe you can think of something you would both like. Her mother's middle name, perhaps."
"Perhaps." I shrug noncommittally.
Agreeing means admitting that Ivy won't ever be able to help me choose, and I don't think I can ever accept that.
Katie slips away quietly, leaving me alone with my daughter. Her eyes are less cloudy now, and when she looks up at me, there is a fascination in her features as her gaze moves over my face. I was so convinced she would be terrified, but all I see is wonder. I understand that because I feel it, too, whenever I look at her.
So small. So fragile. The tiniest fingers and toes. Skin softer than I even knew was possible. It seems like everything is a threat to her, and I am already dreading how I will manage to protect her from the overwhelming dangers of this world.
"You are beautiful," I whisper to her. "Just like your mother. I think you will meet her one day soon. Let us hope."
Her eyes grow sleepy, and she scrunches up her face, a tiny smile forming as she starts to drift off. Katie told me newborns do that sometimes when they have gas or when they are cozy. I suppose right now, she must be cozy.
It is the smallest sign of relief in this landscape of uncertainty.
"We're going to miss you, little beauty." Katie strokes the baby's cheek, and I nod at her.
I appreciate everything the staff has done for us. If I'm being honest, I would not have survived these last few weeks without them guiding me every step of the way. But now we are being discharged, and I am free to take my daughter home.
A new, alarming journey.
"Thank you, Katie."
She hands me the diaper bag and holds the door open, where Marco is already waiting for me in the hall.
"Everyone is waiting to meet her," he informs me. "The staff cordoned off a section of the waiting room on the fifth floor for the occasion."
I grimace, and Marco shrugs. At times like these, being at a Society hospital is not necessarily a good thing. They can be too accommodating when they think it will please their patients.
I follow Marco down the hall, and we step into the elevator together. He glances down at the baby and then back at me. "You look like a natural."
"None of this came naturally," I answer dryly.
My brow is sweating, and I'm clammy, already considering a hundred different things that could go wrong. The elevator getting stuck. The cables snapping, plummeting us to the ground floor. Trapping us in here without formula for the baby. A gas bubble getting caught in her belly that I can't dislodge. Vomit. Poop. Pee. Those are only just the beginning.
There will be colds and shots at the doctor's office. And boys. Oh God, she's going to date someone eventually. And I'll have to murder him, and then she's going to hate me too.
I glance at Marco with panic in my eyes. "I don't know if I can do this."
"You can." He reaches out, squeezing my arm. "You will just take it one day at a time. Don't think about anything else. Just this minute. Then the next. Don't even think about tomorrow yet. We'll worry about that when it comes."
I release a shaky breath and nod. Just this minute. I can do that.
The elevator opens, and I step out, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. A group of smiling, eager faces is waiting for us when we turn the corner into the waiting room. Eva is the first to approach, so excited she can barely contain herself.
"Oh my god," she whispers, eyes huge. "She's so beautiful."
"I know." I nod approvingly.
Antonia squeezes in beside her, followed by Eli, Hazel, and Colette, and Jackson too. They all make complimentary observations, gushing over my daughter while she watches them curiously.
"Can I hold my granddaughter?" Eli asks.
I meet his gaze, and something softens in me. When I consider it, he seems surprised, and I think I am too. I'm surprised how relieved I am to have him here at this moment.
I move to hand the baby over, and panic ensues again as I withdraw her.
"Wait." I glance up at all of them. "Maybe... I should just hold her for now. There are germs, and the nurses said she can get sick easily."
Marco chuckles under his breath, and they all join in with him. I'm not ready to let her go just yet, but they all seem to understand, settling on observing from nearby for now.
The festivities continue for the next thirty minutes while they offer gifts and congratulations, but as happy as they all are, they can't hide the worry in their eyes too. There's a dark cloud hanging over the occasion, and the truth is, there’s only one place I want to be.
When I finally make my escape, Marco takes all the gifts down to the car while I head back down the familiar hall, stopping outside my wife's room.
I stroke my daughter's face, heaviness settling into my soul. "Let's go see your mother, baby girl."
Ivy's room has remained unchanged during the course of my brief visits these past few weeks. The only difference is that beneath the hospital bedding, the protruding belly has retreated. Her small frame takes up little space, and I never realized how fragile she was until I saw her this way.
I remember my time in the hospital, between surgeries and rehabilitation and recovery. My feet would touch the end of the bed, even with my head at the top of the mattress. Ivy's feet don't even come close to the edge.
She is delicate in a way I've never noticed before. The human fragility I fully intended to exploit when I married her now frightens me more than anything.
I love her.
I love her so fucking much I can't stand to see her like this any longer. And as I linger at her bedside, holding our daughter, I consider the darkest possibilities. The truth I can no longer deny.
I want to bring her home, but it’s not even an option. Not with the level of care and monitoring she needs. Too many things could go wrong. But leaving her here feels unnatural. She doesn’t belong in this place. She should be with our daughter and me, wherever we are.
They keep mentioning the long-term care facility. A place where she will undoubtedly have everything she needs, should something go wrong. But how could I ever allow her to be in a place like that?
It isn't fair for her to be trapped in this state. I know that, but what alternative is there? It's not as simple as making a decision of life or death. She can still breathe on her own. They feed her, and sustain her, and monitor her. Her brain is alive. Her organs function. But there is some invisible barrier we can't seem to breach, no matter what we try.
Every day, I live with the fear that she will slip away from me. But I also dread the long-term consequences if she doesn't. What will become of her? Will she lay like this for the rest of our lives? Will she still be trapped in this bed when I take my last breath?
And what about our daughter? All the milestones Ivy will miss. Her first words. Her first steps. Her school years, and then, inevitably, her wedding.
I close my eyes and mourn all over again until the baby starts to fuss. Quietly, I rock her in my arms until she calms, marveling over the fact that she does this for me. That I have the ability to calm anyone.
"There's someone here I'd like you to meet," I whisper to Ivy as I lean down and lower our daughter to her chest, holding her there.
She squirms against her mother, her tiny body settling in as her eyes grow heavy. After a few moments, she falls asleep that way, and I continue to hold her there, long after my arms have gone numb and my back begins to cramp.
I can't say exactly why, but this moment feels important. Like I need it to go on for as long as it possibly can.
"That's our daughter," I tell her in a hushed voice. "Can you feel her, Ivy? Can you come back for us now?"
My eyes move over her face, my voice breaking as I go on, each declaration more desperate than the last.
"I'll do it all. I'll feed her. Change her diapers. Get up with her in the middle of the night. You won't have to do a thing if you don't want to. You can keep resting, just as long as you're here with us."
"Mr. De La Rosa." A soft knock on the door interrupts us, and I look up to see one of the nursing assistants standing there.
"I'm so sorry," she says, gesturing to the familiar cart in front of her. "It's bath time."
"Right." I offer her a tight nod and gently remove my daughter from Ivy's chest, cradling her in my tired arms.
"I know you usually offer," the nursing assistant says as she wheels in the cart with the plastic basin. "But you've got your hands full now."
I frown as I acknowledge her observation. Since Ivy has been here, I felt like it was my job to take care of her in this way. The only way I still could. But now, I can't.
"It's okay," the assistant assures me. "I'm sure she's just happy to have your company."
I blink up at her, replying without giving it enough thought. "Do you believe she's still in there?"
She freezes, her features morphing to panic before she carefully resumes her clinical smile.
"Well, I don't think any of us really knows for certain." She glances over her shoulder, eyeing the door, and then lowers her voice to a whisper. "But between you and me, how is she still doing all of this? Breathing, functioning, delivering a baby? How could she perform all these miracles if she wasn't in there?"
Her words bring me a long-overdue sense of relief from an unlikely ally. Everyone else has been very careful with their words, cautious about giving me too much hope while trying to draw me closer to accepting what they see as reality. But this woman just confirmed it's not as crazy as it might seem to think otherwise.
"Thank you." I glance at her name tag, which I never bothered to check until now. "Madison."
She smiles and gets to work, lifting the blankets and slowly washing my wife's legs and towel drying them before moving onto her upper extremities. She hums while she works, massaging Ivy's muscles a little, and I think about how much I owe these staff members. It's something that can't be quantified. A debt of goodwill. And at that moment, I make a silent promise to myself. I will find out who Madison, Katie, and all the other nurses are and what they need. Student loans paid. Houses. Cars. Whatever it may be, I will provide that for them because they deserve nothing less for the dedication they have shown my wife.
"Hey, look at that." Madison smiles, pointing at Ivy's arm. "She has goose bumps."
"She does?" I perk up, leaning over to see it.
Madison nods, reaching to lift Ivy's wrist, and then her eyes widen in shock. "Oh my God."
"What?" I move around to that side of the bed. "What is it?"
"She twitched. I swear... I felt her wrist move."
A flicker of hope alights in me as we stand there side by side, staring down at Ivy's arm. It feels like a dream. And the longer we watch with no activity, the more I'm questioning if Madison is insane like me. Seeing things that aren’t there.
"You try." She releases Ivy's arm and gestures for me.
Shifting the baby slightly, I free my right arm and reach for Ivy's hand. But it doesn't twitch. It does something else entirely. Her fingers curl so slightly, I'm certain I must be imagining it.
"Is that just a reflex?" I whip my gaze back to Madison.
She looks nervous but giddy at the same time. "I think we better get the doctor in here."