We should go now. Dr. Scott will want to examine you before going over your discharge papers.”

My heart bolts and beats, too loud. I choose not to understand.

“But Naseem can’t leave yet.”

Dr. Farber does not speak. The beat loudens. I should have left my heart outside. I should have known better than to let it in yesterday.

“I’m not leaving without my son!”

My son. The words are real, searingly real. Now look at this mess.

“Ms. Zayat,” Dr. Farber says, cautiously choosing her words. “Naseem will probably be here awhile—”

“How long?” I interrupt.

She does not reply.

“A few days? A week? A month? How long until he can come home?”

She gives me a strange look. The word home ricochets. A doctor should never leave a mother’s question in the air.

“I’m not leaving him alone!”

“He won’t be alone. His monitors are on, and the nurses check in every hour—”

“Every hour?!”

Horrifying possibilities rise and swell: What if something happens and no one is there? What if he cries? What if he’s afraid? What if I am? Paralyzed. My heart seals itself to the incubator wall, my feet to the floor. I could no sooner leave than fly, than the earth break out of orbit.

“Ms. Zayat, he’s in good hands, I promise. He’ll be fine.”

I shake my head. I cannot shake the ton of steely fear off my chest. Dr. Farber does not understand.

“You can visit Naseem every day, then go—”

“Where?”

Where do I go?

“Go home! Sleep in your own bed.”

Again, I shake my head. She doesn’t understand.

“It’s empty.”

The bed, the home, and dark. And how do I tell Naseem, how do I tell my heart I’ll be back, so they can hear me? I hide my face to cry. I used to believe that if I closed my eyes, the dark would not see me either.

Something touches my shoulder. A silver wedding ring. A smell of soap, unscented, just clean. I breathe it in and think just a feeling, just a feeling. You used to say that when you woke up from your dreams. The terror does not disappear, but ebbs. I look up and am in the neonatal ICU again. Dr. Farber removes her hand.

“Sama, I can’t order you to go home, but you’ve got… a long road ahead of you. You must rest. I know you’re scared—”

“He’s all alone!”

“He’s not, and neither are you. Rest. We’ll take care of him so that when he’s ready to leave, you can take over.”

She said when. She said when. A slip of the tongue, probably, but oh, how fragile, fleeting, sudden, and powerful, that thing with feathers. It fills my lungs like a skyful of mountain wind and calms my heart. Dr. Farber sees and nods.

“Do you want to say goodbye to your son? Tell him you’ll be back?”

I look at the boy who has my heart and contemplate the universe of words, in Arabic, English, French, all the languages I know and don’t. They swirl and melt on my tongue. Cotton candy, strands of clouds. White and blue. Powder blue, like his eyes, which I have never seen open. Like the eyes of all children when they are born, regardless of their citizenship.

“I love you,” I mouth, in English, in Arabic, in every language and with every atom in me.

“Ready?” Dr. Farber asks.

I follow her out anyway.