Page 115 of Crazy Imperfect Hearts

Mine. Ours. I swallow hard. We have a son who belongs to us.

They wheel him over to me.

I try to sit up, but Dr. Russo is still down there waiting for the afterbirth. “Can I hold him?”

“Soon,” a doctor says. He opens the side of the incubator. “You can touch his hand right now, but we need to get him to the NICU for assessment.”

I reach in and touch his tiny hand, almost the only part of him that isn’t currently under a hat or blankets. I can’t quite believe he’s real. “He’s not crying anymore,” I say in distress.

“He’s tired,” one of them says. “Being born so tiny is exhausting. You’ll be brought to the NICU to see him as soon as you’re able.”

They start to move away. “Wait!” I call out and touch his hand again. “I love you.” The words come out along with a hundred tears.

“I love you, too,” I hear Lucas say behind me, emotion etched in his words. When I turn to look at him through my tear-blurred vision, I could swear he’s not only looking at Mitchell, but at me.

“Lucas,” I say, finally letting myself succumb to every fear I never let myself have, and I bury my head into his chest as our son gets whisked away.

Chapter Forty

Lucas

After Dr. Russo finishes up with Regan, the nurse helps get her changed into a pair of pajamas.

“When can we see him?” Regan asks.

“As soon as you want,” Mackenzie says.

Regan looks like she’s going to get up.

Mackenzie stops her. “Whoa, there. You may be unsteady on your legs for an hour or so because of the epidural. I’ll send in a wheelchair.”

When the nurse leaves, we’re alone. Alone and without our kid. I sit in the chair feeling overwhelmed by everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours.

“He’s going to be okay,” Regan says. “I just know he is. Did you hear his little cry?” Her hand covers her heart.

My phone vibrates on the side table. I’ve been ignoring it for the past few hours.

“Are you going to answer that?” she asks, eyeing it.

“I want to see Mitchell first.” My heart thumps. It’s the first time I’ve ever called him by his real name. Heisreal. I have a son. I’m a father.Holy shit.

“Lucas, you alright?”

I nod. “I think it just hit me. Regan, we have a kid. We’re parents.”

There’s a knock on the door and then it opens. But it’s not Mackenzie with the wheelchair. It’s one of the team of doctors who whisked Mitchell away.

I stand. “What is it? Is everything okay?”

He smiles. “Everything is fine. I’m Dr. Ford. I’ll be your son’s neonatologist during his stay.”

“I went to high school with your daughter, Leanne,” Regan says.

Dr. Ford smiles again. I get the idea he has to do that a lot to reassure the freaked-out parents of his patients. “Yes, that’s right. I believe you were on the volleyball team together. Anyway, I wanted to update you on your son and tell you what to expect.”

“Mitchell,” Lucas says. “His name is Mitchell Lucas Montana.”

“A strong name,” Dr. Ford says. “Mitchell looks good. He’s just a hair under five pounds. He’s breathing on his own with a little oxygen support to help keep his lungs open. He’s likely going to stay in the NICU for a week, perhaps a little longer. We’ll be closely monitoring his vital signs and providing necessary medical interventions like oxygen therapy and feeding support. Before he goes home, he’ll have to be stable in terms of breathing, heart rate, and temperature regulation. He’ll also need to be feeding orally, breast or bottle. And of course he’ll have to be free of any medical complications that require ongoing monitoring or treatment.”

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