Losing Gabriel (14 page)

Sloan couldn't see that happening. Dawson would never go for it. Just her and the baby…? Torn between past and present, she went silent, her mind churning with feelings and fears.

Jarred stood, looking down at her. “I know I've thrown a lot at you. You don't have to decide this minute. Just think about what I've said, okay?” He reached into his shirt pocket and handed her a business card. “This is how to reach me.” She studied the card—the bold black lettering, the line drawing of a guitar—and nodded. He walked to the porch's top step. “After that baby's born, once you know what you want to do, call me either way. I won't look for another singer until I hear from you. But don't wait too long, Sloan. We've got to get this moving.”

Sloan sat on the porch long after Jarred drove away in his Mustang, which shone with new black paint, chrome hubcaps, and booming subwoofers, proof that he did have some money. From down the street she heard a dog bark at the mailman coming up the sidewalk of the quaint neighborhood. While she watched the postal guy's progress, she reminded herself of two truths: Jarred knew her weaknesses, her sweet spots. With Dawson she had security and comfort. Life wasn't perfect between them, but she trusted him.

Yet that evening when Dawson came home, stinking of sweat and grass clippings, she said nothing about her morning visitor.

S
loan went into labor seven weeks before her due date. The pain started in her back, woke her from sleep. It hit in waves and made her yelp. She woke Dawson, who ran upstairs and woke Franklin. “I hurt,” she said through clenched teeth when Franklin came to her bedside. “Bad! I hurt bad. Make it stop!”

Franklin took her hand. She held his in a death grip. “Let's run you into the hospital for a quick check.”

“Isn't it too soon for the baby?” Dawson asked over his father's shoulder. “I mean, the doctor said September.”

“Let's get her looked over. Just to be sure.”

Confident. Assured.
His father, Dr. Berke, a rock. Dawson helped Sloan to the car.

The nurse on the maternity ward confirmed that Sloan was in labor, called her doctor, and whisked her into a room. Dawson stood blinking in the brightly lit hallway, feeling lost and powerless. Suddenly Dr. Ortiz rushed down the hallway from the elevator, gave him a wave, and disappeared into the birthing room. Franklin appeared wearing hospital green from head to toe.

“What's happening? Why are you in scrubs?”

“Because we can't stop her contractions and because I'll be his pediatrician. You want to come in? You're the father. You're allowed.”

Dawson felt paralyzed. They'd gone to a few birthing classes. He'd seen the videos, but now the world was in upheaval, and he couldn't grab hold of anything solid inside himself. “Just…help her.”

“Do you want to call her mother?”

Dawson shook his head. “Sloan doesn't want her here. She told me so months ago.”

Franklin vanished into the room.

Minutes later, Dawson heard voices through the closed door. Doctor talk, hectic scramblings, no baby's cry. His heart went stone cold.

Sloan was asleep, the soft night-light over the bed spilling on her face, the rest of the room in deep shadows. Dawson stood over her, a knot of emotion stuck in his throat. He reached down and smoothed her forehead. “You did good.”

An hour before, Franklin had come out of the birthing room, swept the green cap off his head, and offered a tight smile. “There's a complication.”

Dawson fought his gag reflex. “What's wrong?”

Franklin put his hand on Dawson's shoulder. “He's little…four pounds. And his lungs need some time to mature. He's on oxygen and we need to fatten him up. Sloan's just fine, sleeping. She's being taken to a room.”

“What do you mean…about…his lungs?” Dawson's thoughts swirled around the baby.

“Just not ready to breathe on their own, not uncommon in preemies.”

“But he's okay. He'll be okay…won't he?”

“He's in the NICU and he's
my
patient now.” Franklin rested his hand on Dawson's shoulder. “He's getting the best care possible. Just not ready to take on the world yet.” Franklin ventured a smile. “He's got your black hair. A full head. Just like you had when you were born. I wish your mother…” Franklin pressed his thumbs into his closed eyes. “Sorry. Just tired.”

Dawson could only nod. How many times in his life had he wished for the same thing?

Franklin offered a wry grin, wiping away the sadness of loss. He squeezed Dawson's shoulder, shaking it like a dog with a toy. “And I'm a grandfather. What do you know!”

“Well, congratulations, old man. He's related to me too, you know.” Dawson banked down his fears and returned his father's smile.

Franklin flung his arm around Dawson's neck and hauled him into a fatherly neck-lock. “Right back at you.” They stood grinning stupidly at each other in the hallway, feelings buoyed by each other's pleasure. “You want to see him?”

Dawson had to gown up and wear a mask before going into the neonatal unit. His enthusiasm sobered with every precaution Franklin made him take. The unit was small and its interior dimly lit. Dawson counted seven incubators, but only three held babies. Machines hovered like sentries around each clear plastic shell, emitting beeps and hisses that attested to the work they were doing—sustaining life.

A neonatal nurse, also wearing a gown and mask, greeted them and gestured toward a unit near a wall. Franklin led the way. Dawson followed, but when he looked inside, what he saw so overwhelmed him that he almost turned and ran.

“I know it looks scary, but Dad says he's really doing okay.”

It was the morning after the delivery, and this was Sloan's first look at her son.
Her
son was not the chubby perfect newborns in the photos in the birthing books. Her baby lay splayed out, a tube down his throat with tape holding it in position, the other end attached to a machine that breathed for him. There were wires taped to his chest to monitor his heartbeat, and IVs between his toes to hydrate and feed him. He was rail thin, with gauze pads over his eyes, and so small he all but disappeared under all the medical attachments and warming light. Sloan recoiled.

“Dad says it's temporary,” Dawson assured her. “Breathing problems are common in preemies. But his lungs will grow stronger. He just needs time.”

Sloan heard Dawson's words, but staring down into the incubator pushed against what he was saying and what her eyes were seeing. The newborn's chest rose rapidly, like the beating heart of a bird; his tiny fists were balled, fists so small that they hardly seemed real, doll's hands, maybe clenched in protest to what was happening to his body. She felt queasy, but she couldn't turn away, so mesmerizing was the sight of the baby in the bubble. How could this being who looked more alien than human have possibly come out of her body?

Dawson slipped his arm around Sloan to comfort and assure her. “I know how you feel. I felt the same way the first time I saw him. But his heart's strong. He just needs to fatten up. We…uh…we can touch him through those armholes with gloves.”

She looked from the portals in the plastic incubator to the nearby box of gloves.

“Dad says it's good to touch him, that babies need to be touched. He needs to know we're here. Want to?”

Stroke the baby like she would a sick puppy?
Sloan trembled. “I want to go back to my bed.”

Dawson felt a letdown. He'd hoped that seeing the baby would encourage Sloan, comfort her and make her feel connected. “All right. We'll come back later.” He led her out of the unit, eased her into the mandatory wheelchair, untied her mask, and pushed her down the hall to the elevator. In her room, he helped her into bed. “I know he isn't…” He stopped, started again. “But the main thing is he's going to be all right. Dad wouldn't tell us that if it weren't true.”

She wouldn't meet Dawson's eyes. Across the room, a new vase of blue-tinged flowers had appeared on her dresser with a helium balloon proclaiming
“It's a BOY!”
The vases and flowers were from hospital staffers. None from anyone she knew.

Dawson took her hand. “How are you feeling?”

She hurt inside and out. “I'm sad. For him.” But she was sad for herself too. Sorry she hadn't been able to keep him inside of her long enough so that he was whole and perfect. “I wanted him out so much,” she whispered. “All summer. I just wanted it to be over. Maybe…I shouldn't have—”

“Wishing him out didn't make him come early. Doesn't work that way. He's little, but he'll get great medical care. And so will you. Dad says once your OB clears you, I can take you back to the house.”

“And the baby?”

“The baby stays until he gets cleared to leave. Maybe a few weeks. Or less.” He struggled to find something uplifting to talk about to her, flashed on an idea. “Hey, you know, Dad says we should give him a name so we can fill out his birth certificate. You have any preference?”

Her mind blanked. She shrugged. Most of the men in her life had been of the “pass through” variety. Their names and faces blurred in her memory. She chewed on her bottom lip. “You want to name him after you? Or your dad?”