Page 113 of Pregnant in Plaid
Another knock interrupts us. Dr. Martinez appears in the doorway, looking official in her white coat.
"Sorry to interrupt," she says. "But I wanted to give you both an update on your daughter."
My stomach clenches. "Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," she assures us quickly. "Better than fine, actually. She's gained two more ounces since this morning, which is excellent progress. Her oxygen levels are stable, and we were able to reduce her monitoring a bit."
Relief floods through me. "That's good?"
"That's very good. It means she's getting stronger. At this rate, I'd estimate another ten days to two weeks before we can discuss discharge."
"Two weeks," Patrice repeats. "So, by February?"
"Approximately, yes. But we'll take it day by day." Dr. Martinez smiles. "She's a fighter. Takes after her parents,I think."
After Dr. Martinez leaves, promising to check in tomorrow, we all just sit there, processing.
"Two weeks," I finally say. "We can handle that."
"We can," Patrice agrees.
"And then you bring Brooklyn home," Tessa adds. "To the cabin. Which you'll need to get ready for a baby."
"We'll figure it out," I say. "We've got two weeks."
Patrice laughs, and Tessa laughs, and even Gage cracks a smile. I realize I'm smiling too—the first real smile since Brooklyn was born.
That night, during the evening visiting hours, we all crowd around Brooklyn's incubator.
Tessa's openly crying again, which seems to be her default state around the baby. "She's so perfect. Look at her tiny hands. Trace, did you see her hands?"
"I've seen her hands," I assure her. "They're very small."
"The smallest hands," Tessa agrees. "Brooklyn Tessa. I'm honored. I'm going to spoil you so much, little one."
"Please don't make my daughter a terror," Patrice says, but she's smiling as she reaches through the incubator's portal to touch Brooklyn's hand.
The baby's fingers curl reflexively around Patrice'spinky, and I watch Patrice's face transform into something so tender it makes my chest ache.
"Hey, Brooklyn," Patrice whispers. "It's Mom. We finally named you. Sorry it took so long. Your dad and I are still figuring this out."
Brooklyn makes a small sound, her eyes staying closed.
"She knows your voice," Jennifer says, checking monitors. "Babies recognize their mother's voice from being in the womb. It's very calming for her."
Patrice blinks hard, clearly fighting tears. "Really?"
"Really. Talk to her as much as you want. She loves it."
So Patrice talks. She tells Brooklyn about Florida, about moving to Alaska, about Tessa and Gage and the ridiculous amount of cookies Marnie sent. She tells her about the snow, about the cabin, about how much everyone's looking forward to bringing her home.
And Brooklyn just listens, her tiny chest rising and falling steadily, surrounded by monitors and wires but safe.
I look at Patrice, then at our daughter, then at Tessa and Gage crowding around the incubator like proud relatives.
All four of us—no, all five of us.
This is my family now.
