Page 110 of Pregnant in Plaid
"Sure," I lie.
She transfers the baby back to her incubator with the same practiced efficiency, and I immediately feel the loss. My chest is cold where she was pressed against me.
I pull my shirt back on, feeling weirdly bereft.
"You can do kangaroo care once a day," Jennifer says, adjusting the baby's monitors. "It's really beneficial for both of you."
"I'll be here," I promise. "Every day."
I head back to Patrice's room—she'stechnically ready to be discharged, but she's refusing to leave the hospital, so the nurses have graciously allowed her to stay in a room down the hall. I find her sitting up in bed, hooked up to a breast pump that makes a rhythmic whooshing sound that's both mechanical and disturbing.
She looks up when I enter, her expression somewhere between exhausted and mortified.
"Don't say anything," she warns.
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"You were thinking it."
"I was thinking you're incredible for doing that." I gesture vaguely at the pump setup. "Seriously. That looks uncomfortable."
"Uncomfortable doesn't even begin to cover it." She winces as the pump continues its work. "But the baby needs breast milk, and I'm not producing much yet, so—" She waves her free hand helplessly. "Here we are."
I sit in the visitor's chair, unsure how to help. "Do you need... anything? Water? Food? A different chair? A baseball bat for being useless?"
That gets a small laugh. "You're not useless. You're just... awkwardly hovering."
"I'm great at awkwardly hovering. It's one of my best skills."
"I've noticed." She closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the pillow. "How was she? The baby?"
"Perfect. We did kangaroo care. Jennifer said it's good for bonding."
Patrice's eyes open. "You did kangaroo care? Shirtless Trace holding a baby? I'm devastated I missed it."
"You can take pictures next time," I offer. "Make it even."
Patrice shifts slightly, trying to get comfortable while attached to medical equipment. "Did she settle okay?"
"Fell asleep on my chest. Jennifer said her heart rate dropped, which apparently means she felt safe."
Something soft crosses Patrice's face. "She should. You're her dad."
The word still feels surreal. Dad. I'm someone's dad.
"We need to name her," I say. "We can't keep calling her 'the baby' forever."
"I know." Patrice sighs as the pump mercifully shuts off. "But everything either sounds too generic or too weird. Emma? Too common. Persephone? Too much."
I help her disconnect from the pump, trying not to think too hard about the intimacy of the action. "What about something with meaning? Something that represents... I don't know. Strength? Survival?"
"So, we name her Athena? Valkyrie? Rambo?"
"Rambo is a terrible baby name."
"Obviously." She sets aside the bottles of pumped milk—barely an ounce, but the nurses say every bit helps. "What about family names?"
I pause. "My mom was Lynn."
