Before I Let You Go(78)

“No,” I say, and when he frowns at me, I add hastily, “I just know how hard it is for you to do that, so I want you to wait for the days when I really need you. There are going to be days when . . . maybe she’s sick or we have specialist appointments or CPS visits or . . . God, I don’t even know, Sam.” And I haven’t really been planning my words as I spoke, but that sentence leads to a thought that just falls out of my mouth and suddenly my eyes are full of tears. “I don’t know what’s ahead of us. And I’m scared.”

“I’m scared, too,” he admits.

“You are?”

“Of course I am.”

A tear spills over onto my cheek and I press it away impatiently.

“Sorry,” I whisper, and Sam shakes his head.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Don’t apologize, Lexie. You’re allowed to cry in front of me, for God’s sake. I want you to.”

I nod, and he pulls me close to rest his chin on the top of my head as we hear a hesitant knock at the door.

“Sorry, Sam,” Cathryn calls. “You’re due in surgery in a few minutes.”

Sam’s arms remain locked around me.

“Let them know I’m running late—I need ten more minutes.”

“You can go,” I whisper, and he shakes his head.

“Nope. Not until I finish this.”

“I’m okay, I promise.” I start to pull away, but his arms don’t budge.

“I need this hug, Lexie.”

At that, I nestle back into his embrace and I close my eyes and listen to the steady beat of his heart against my ear. We stay like that for several minutes, until I gently pull away and brush a kiss against his lips.

“Better?” he murmurs, and I smile.

“Much.”

Annie calls me later that evening.

“You have phone privileges back?” I say in surprise when she identifies herself.

“Time off solitary confinement for good behavior,” she says wryly. She sounds good, and I’m surprised by my own optimism as I realize this. It’s been a good day after all.

“So—things are going better?”

“I don’t know,” Annie says after a pause. “I no longer think about running away every time Luke speaks to me, so I’m going to take that as an improvement. Whose idea was Dad’s journal?”

“Mine.”

“Sometimes I think that maybe it’s going to help, so thanks,” she whispers, her voice suddenly uneven. She clears her throat, then says with artificial brightness, “Enough of this—tell me about my girl. How is she doing?”

“She has also become a star patient since we last spoke. She’s completely off the morphine.”

“Wow.” Annie’s voice breaks, and I hear her voice catch on a sob. “That’s amazing.”

“Yep. She’s coming home to my place tomorrow or the next day.”

“Oh, Lexie. Oh, thank you.” Annie is overcome as she laughs through tears. “This is the best news I could have hoped for. So she’s well? She’s . . . normal?”

“For the most part she’s doing brilliantly. There are a few areas we need to work on but . . . yes, Annie, she’s an absolute fighter.”

“Does this mean you can bring her for a visit soon?”

“I hope so. I’ll talk to her doctors.” And yours, I think, but I don’t tell her that Luke has specifically advised me against it.

“I’m so grateful to you, Lexie. I’m going to make all of this up to you. I swear.”

“Well,” I say, and I’m surprised and pleased by this gratitude, “I look forward to that.”

I forgot to buy a car seat.

I got everything else a baby could possibly need; an expensive stroller, all the equipment for the nursery, formula we can actually use, diapers in multiple sizes that will probably not fit her until she’s two, clothes and a mobile and pacifiers and blankets.

So when the doctor tells me that her discharge paperwork is done, and a nurse asks me to bring the car seat in for a test run, I’m mortified to admit that I don’t have one.

I want to cry as I drive myself all the way back to the baby store. It’s not a big deal in the scheme of things—an inconvenience—but it’s an ominous sign. If I can’t remember something like a car seat, what else will I forget? Diaper changes? Bottles? Baths?

I buy the highest-safety-rated car seat, and I drive back to the NICU. I fuss over it in the parking lot, even though the guide at the store installed it, and it’s no doubt set up perfectly. I adjust the straps and play with the seat belt needlessly over and over again for twenty-five minutes, until my phone rings.

“Are you ever coming back?” the nurse asks, and there is laughter in her tone, as if this is a joke. I tighten a strap, and then I loosen it again, and then I realize that all this is for nothing because I have to take the car seat inside so the staff can monitor Daisy while she sits in it. I groan.

“See you in two minutes.”

I head back into the hospital and gather up Daisy. As I lower her into the car seat, I’m almost hoping that she fails the test. It’s all about respiration and body positioning—the car seat keeps the baby upright, and some babies who have been delivered early or have been ill struggle to breathe when lying in that position. Daisy will be monitored for thirty minutes. If at any point her oxygen levels drop, her discharge will be canceled.