Page 9 of Christmas On Call
She parked the cart outside pod four and surveyed her festive kingdom. The parents’ circle was already forming:seven exhausted adults hunched on mismatched folding chairs, arranged in a loose, lopsided semicircle around the cart and the nurses’ station whiteboard. There was a rhythm to these gatherings, a current that pulled each family into the center and spun them out again, slightly lighter than before. It was the opposite of isolation. Max loved it, even when it left her raw at the end of shift.
She made the rounds with her ladle, filling paper cups, adding two marshmallows for the mother in pod two, three for the grandmother who always wept silent and stoic by her granddaughter’s isolette. She stopped in front of the father from pod five—just a kid, really, in a Dodgers tee and hospital bracelet—and offered the cup like an olive branch.
He took it in both hands and blinked at her. “Thanks,” he whispered, voice rough with sleep.
“You’re welcome,” Max said. She squatted to his level, balancing on the balls of her feet, and offered her best don’t-freak-out smile. “She’s holding her own tonight,” she said, soft enough that only he could hear. “Stable for the last six hours. That’s a win.”
His lips quivered, then steadied. “I just want to take her home,” he said.
“You will,” Max promised. “One day, you’ll tell her this story, and she’ll think you’re the biggest hero in the world.”
He managed a breathy laugh. “She’ll think I’m a wreck.”
“Same thing.” Max grinned, and he grinned back, and for a moment it was enough to keep both of them going.
She moved on, weaving between the chairs, past the mother with the fidget spinner who never made eye contact, past the grandparents who’d built a tiny fort of blankets and prayer beads at the corner. At each stop, Max refilled cups, took inventory of the faces, and tried to catch the first flickers of hope when aparent realized their baby was still breathing, still fighting, still theirs. All on their first Christmas morning together.
There was a deeper energy in the air, something fragile and defiant that shimmered just beneath the surface of exhaustion. Maybe it was the aftermath of the code—they’d pulled Baby Rodriguez back from the edge, and word had already trickled through the unit, igniting relief. Or maybe it was the knowledge that, out there in the regular world, normal people were asleep in their beds, or wrapping last minute presents, or trying not to set fire to their Christmas turkeys.
Here, at least, they had each other. Max believed in that with a stubbornness that sometimes surprised even her.
She caught the faintest movement by the supply closet: a flash of white coat, the clean line of a lab coat and severe bun. Doctor Patel, lurking at the periphery with her clipboard still clutched like a shield. Max wondered if she ever actually slept, or if she just downloaded new protocols into her brain while recharging in a closet somewhere.
She pushed the thought aside and focused on Mrs. Chen, who sat apart from the others, her hands wrapped so tightly around her cup that the paper had gone soft and soggy. Max approached, crouched, and waited until Mrs. Chen looked up, blinking away the shine in her eyes.
“He’s making progress,” Max said, gentle as she could. “I saw him grab your finger yesterday. That’s strong for a thirty-weeker.”
Mrs. Chen gave the tiniest nod. “He’s just so small. I never thought this would happen.”
“Small is good. Less to cart around when he finally goes home, and sometimes life throws funny things at us, but it will all be okay. He’s making great progress.” Max said. “Did you want more marshmallows?”
Mrs. Chen nodded again, this time with a shy half-smile. Max plucked two from the bag and dropped them in, swirling the liquid with a tongue depressor until they softened at the edges.
“How’s your husband?” Max asked. “I saw him in the hall earlier. Looked like he could use a nap.”
“He is…very tired,” Mrs. Chen said, but there was a flicker of amusement in her voice now, a memory of how things used to be. “He stays because he worries I will not.”
“He’s right to worry,” Max said, deadpan. “I’ve seen the way you watch over your boy. Fiercest mom on the unit.”
Mrs. Chen looked down at her cup, the marshmallows melting into a pale froth, and Max saw her shoulders relax a fraction. Connection: established, however briefly.
Around the circle, conversation ebbed and flowed. Some parents swapped milestone stories—“He opened his eyes for the first time” was the evening’s favorite, but a close second was, “She took a whole bottle, no tube feed”—while others just sipped cocoa and watched, content to absorb the warmth of other people’s hope. The energy was delicate, like a soap bubble. Max moved carefully, not wanting to pop it.
A sudden laugh—high, unexpected—rippled through the group. The grandmother in the blanket fort had just told a story about her own daughter’s first Christmas, a disaster involving a poorly wired string of lights and a shattered angel figurine. The joke wasn’t that funny, but in the early hours surrounded by the machinery of life and death, it landed like a miracle. Max let herself laugh, too.
She checked on the twins’ parents, who’d spent the last hour counting and recounting fingers and toes on every Polaroid they’d taken since birth. The mom, eyes ringed in purple, looked up at Max as she approached.
“You think we’ll get to dress them up for pictures tomorrow?” she asked, voice barely more than air.
Max didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely. The hats came in last night. I’ll pick the best ones for you.”
The dad managed a weary thumbs-up, and Max offered a pinky swear, which the mom returned, giggling quietly.
Midway through her third round, Max found herself glancing at the door again. Doctor Patel hadn’t moved, but she was half watching—just a faint reflection in the glass, the outline of her stance unyielding, eyes unreadable. Max remembered the way those same eyes had locked on hers during the code, the steadiness, the intensity. She wondered if Patel ever let herself drift closer to the fire, or if she just monitored it from a safe distance, always the observer.
The cocoa was running low. Max topped off the last few cups, then stood back, hands on hips, and surveyed the group. There was something beautiful in the way they sat together, shoulders brushing, heads bowed in laughter or in comfort. Under the tinsel and fairy lights, with the scent of chocolate and cinnamon in the air, it looked almost like a normal holiday party—if you ignored the tubes and monitors and the fatigue etched in every face.
The clock above the whiteboard flicked to 3:17. Max felt the time in her bones.
