I chuckle. There’s my girl.
“We’re going to get through this, I promise.”
She looks up at me and her lower lip trembles. “I wish you were right.”
Before I can ask her what she means, the doctor is in the room, pulling on gloves and sitting down.
I’m directed to hold one of Nova’s legs while the nurse holds the other.
“You can do this,” I tell Nova. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
She begins pushing and it isn’t long until the baby is out.
That precious cry you wait desperately to hear isn’t there and it isn’t coming. There’s solemnness in the air and it creates a heaviness, like the whole world is pressing upon our shoulders.
The doctor places the baby on Nova’s chest and she begins to cry harder than before. She touches him hesitantly, like she’s afraid to break him, though it would make no difference. He’s small, so small. He could fit in the palm of my hand, I’m sure of it. He has a smattering of dark hair, that I’m sure would’ve only grown more plentiful if he’d made it to full term. His fingers and toes are all there and tiny and completely perfect. Their nails already formed. His eyes are closed, his lips slightly parted. If I wanted, I could pretend he’s sleeping.
I didn’t realize it, but tears are streaming down my face.
I let go of Nova’s leg and lean against her, our heads bowed together as we look down at our son.
Tiny and perfect and ours.
Ours to protect.
Ours to cherish.
And now, ours to mourn.
The doctor lets me cut the umbilical cord and then takes the baby to clean him up. Nova protests, crying harder, and I’m sure she’s having flashbacks to Greyson being taken from her. This has to be much worse.
Beckett’s been taken forever.
I grab a tissue and dry her face of tears. She turns her red-rimmed eyes to mine.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m such a failure. I’m so—”
I press my lips to hers, silencing her apologies, but her lips are frozen beneath mine. When I pull away, confused, she turns her head in the other direction avoiding me.
Slipping.
Slipping.
Slipping.
No matter how hard I grip, I’m losing her.
Beckett is clean and wrapped in one of those blankets with the blue and white stripes with a little hat on his head. It barely fits and keeps slipping off. Nova clenches him close to her chest, her tears never ceasing. I don’t think mine have either, but I’m not aware of them.
The door cracks open and I see our friends, waiting hesitantly to be invited. I wave them inside.
Nova doesn’t look up or say anything to them, not that I expected her to.
I clear my throat. “Meet our son, Beckett.”
“He’s so small,” Thea whispers, creeping closer. “He looks like a little doll.”
“He’s perfect.”