Page 20 of Absolution

As we leave the office, I glance at her and say the one thing I can promise: “We’ll get him home, Jackie. No matter what it takes.”

She nods once, not looking at me. But she lets me guide her down the hall, back to our babies.

Two weeks later, the worst happens.

We’re home with the girls, Jemma and Iris, settling into our new, chaotic rhythm. Jackie feeds them on a rotation, pumps religiously, sleeps when they sleep. I handle the diapers, the bottles, the laundry. Her mom helps, sometimes her siblings. I tell them I’ve got it, but they stay anyway.

The nursery’s quiet now, pink and cream and softly lit. Across the hall, Levi’s room is nearly ready. Originally, it was meant to be shared, bunk beds for the boys when they were older. Now it’s just a single crib, surrounded by medical monitors and oxygen tanks. Cory helped me haul the bunk beds out to the garage, and Marianne, Jackie’s sister, helped Jackie mount the oxygen shelf and camera. Everything’s clean. Sterile. Prepared. We were supposed to bring him home next week.

That was the plan.

Then the hospital calls.

It’s late, maybe 10 p.m. Jackie’s just finished nursing Iris when the landline rings. We both freeze. Nobody calls the house anymore. Everyone texts.

Jackie answers. Her hands tremble when she hands me the phone after listening for a while.

“Mr. Greyson,” the nurse says on the other end. “It’s Levi. We need you to come in right away.”

By the time we get to the hospital, Levi’s already been intubated again. Alarms still echo faintly down the hallway as we walk to the NICU, hearts thudding.

Dr. Lin meets us outside.

“He’s developed pulmonary interstitial emphysema,” he says, eyes soft but direct. “It’s not uncommon in preemies, especially those with chronic lung issues like Levi. Air is leaking into the spaces between the alveoli in his lungs.”

Jackie squeezes my arm, nails digging in.

“He’s stable now,” Dr. Lin says. “But we’ve had to switch him to high-frequency oscillatory ventilation. It’s gentler on his lungs. We’ve also started corticosteroids and sedated him to help reduce inflammation and give him rest.”

I don’t ask what it means. I already know.

It means more time.

It means more risk.

It means we almost lost him.

When Jackie and I finally see him, he’s still, too still. Tiny chest fluttering under the rhythm of a machine. His body swaddled in wires and tubes, more plastic than skin.

We stay that night in the NICU family room. We don’t talk much, just listen to his monitors through the glass. Every beep a prayer.

The next morning, Dr. Lin sits with us.

“Levi has developed severe BPD, bronchopulmonary dysplasia. His lungs are fragile. The ventilation he’s needed to survive has caused scarring. Right now, he’s surviving. But there will be long-term consequences.”

Jackie stares down at her lap, jaw clenched.

“We’re hopeful,” he adds. “Right now, he’s responding to treatment. He’s stable. That’s what matters.”

But even as he says it, I know. Hope comes with terms and conditions now.

Dr. Lin clears his throat. “We expect he’ll need another three, maybe four weeks in the NICU. If he continues improving, he can go home on low-flow oxygen, medication, and monitors. You’ll need extensive training before discharge, CPR, emergency response, equipment.”

Jackie breathes through her nose, slow and shaking.

I just nod. I can’t speak. Not yet.

Jackie hasn’t said a word since we left the hospital.

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