Page 133 of Crazy Imperfect Hearts

Christa puts him back for me, and I watch as he settles in, relaxes, and immediately dozes off.

When I look up, I see Regan crossing the room. And, holy crap, I can’t stop staring at her chest.

“Yeah, yeah, my milk came in.” She tugs at her top. “Nothing fits anymore. It’s annoying.”

“It’s… wow.” I lean close. “Is it wrong that I’m turned on around all these babies?”

She giggles and it reaches all the way into my body and wraps around my heart. I love her laugh. It’s not something I’ve heard a lot over the past five days.

“My dad is with me. He’s just outside. It looked like you were getting ready to leave.”

I see Darrin behind the glass and wave him in. The rule is no more than two family members in the NICU at a time. “I was going for breakfast. Can I bring you anything?”

“Dad made it for me. He came over early. Mom was still at the hotel sleeping after being here until about two in the morning.”

I love how accepting her parents have been. Even if Darrin sometimes still looks at me like I’m the pervy teen jerking off while watching his daughter. I get it though, now that I’m a dad. If Mitchell were a girl and I ever caught a boy pleasuring himself at her image, I’d pummel him to the ground.

Just as Darrin walks up and I’m set to leave, the alarm near Mitchell’s incubator sounds.

My heart splinters. Regan cries out. Christa rushes over.

Unlike before when we witnessed this happen, a gentle shake doesn’t have the alarm stopping. Christa pulls something out from a drawer under the incubator. It’s a mask. She puts it over his face.

“What’s going on?” Regan asks, holding onto me so fiercely I’m sure I’ll have bruises on my arm.

“He just needs a little positive pressure ventilation,” Christa says.

I watch the nurse’s face for any telltale signs of panic. Because me—I’m fucking panicking. I’m panicking so hard it’s turning my insides to mush, and I very well might vomit. But her face gives nothing away. Either this isn’t the dire emergency the three of us standing here think it is, or she’s really good at hiding it.

The alarms continue to go off. How long has it been? How long can they continue to sound? How long can my son go without breathing before… before…

The alarms cease.

Regan cries out. This time in relief. And she falls against me.

My arms encase her. “Shhh. I’m here. I’ll always be here. He’s going to be okay.” I turn to Christa. “Right?”

She doesn’t respond. Instead, she removes the mask then holds a stethoscope to Mitchell’s chest.

“Christa?”

She listens intently on one side, then the other. Finally I think I see a hint of relief cross her face.

“It’s okay. He’s fine. I was just checking for pneumothorax—collapsed lung—which can sometimes happen when we bag and mask them.”

Regan buries her head in my shoulder, sobbing.

“But he doesn’t have that?” I ask.

“No. He’s good. I’ll listen to his lungs again in a minute to be sure.”

“Does this mean he’s getting worse?” Regan asks from her perch against me.

“Not at all,” Christa says. “It just means his nervous system isn’t quite there yet.” She touches Regan’s back. “It’ll happen. He might never have another spell. And if he does, it might be like the others and not this one.”

“But it might not be,” Regan says to put a point on it.

Christa’s shrug is not all that reassuring. But I get it. She can’t predict the future. And she’s not going to stand here and lie to us.

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