Her lips hike at one side when she spots my gawk. Her smile is kind but tired. “Congratulations, Daddy.” She wheels the incubator closer, thawing a piece of my heart that froze over hours ago. “You have a tiny but extremely healthy baby boy.”
Though my mouth twitches, not a word seeps from my lips. I’m too stunned by the familiar features of the little boy’s face to speak. He looks so much like Macy that it is eerie.
Instead of correcting the nurse on the title I’ve not yet earned the right to claim, I crowd Macy’s son’s incubator like I’m a bodyguard protecting the recently born crowned prince.
His heartbreaking wails echo in the corridor, and his strength loosens the noose around my neck enough for me to speak. “I wonder if your nose will have as many freckles as your mommy’s?”
His lips tremble as his eyes rapidly move beneath closed lids, but after a handful of snivels, he stops crying, and his eyes sluggishly open. He looks up at me with the same wonder I feel looking down at him.
The nurse’s big, beaming grin makes it seem as if things aren’t as dire as they are. “I think someone recognizes your voice.”
I smile back, but the pain in my chest grows instead of weakening. If Macy is okay, then why isn’t her son with her instead of with me? That seems odd, and it surges my panic to a point I can’t control.
Ignoring the blood on the nurse’s smock, I swallow the lump in my throat before asking, “Macy? How is she?”
The nurse’s smile falters as unease darts through her eyes. “She’s still in surgery.” I gasp as if she sucker punches me when she adds, “It’s touch and go. If she has family members nearby, ask them to come in.”
After offering me a halfhearted grin that’s supposed to display optimism but only twists my stomach more, she waves over a nursing assistant at a desk near the theater’s entrance. “Can you please take Baby Machini and his father to the nursery? I need to get back in there.”
“Of course.” The nursing assistant gestures to our right with her hand. “This way.”
She leaves, anticipating me to follow.
My tone shows I am torn and conflicted. “I can’t. I promised his mother I’d stay at her side.”
She tugs on my heartstrings in a way I never thought possible. “He needs help we can’t give him. He will only get that in the nursery.” She steps closer, drawing me in with her kind eyes. “They’re doing everything they can for your wife, and now we need to make sure we give her more reasons to fight. Ensuring her son has the best care possible will give her that.”
Absentmindedly, I nod. Macy’s a fighter, and motherhood will make her fight more. I know that.
With my mind made up, I follow the nursing assistant down the corridor, wheeling Macy’s son in front of me. I am present yet absent, functioning on autopilot. Taking care of Macy’s son will give me something to focus on amid the blur. It also seems right.
He’s crying so hard that his eyes are nearly closed, and he clenches a fist outside his blanket. The nursing assistant is right. I can’t offer him the comfort he needs; only his mother can. However, I’ll take care of him as long as he needs.
As the sterile scent of the OR weakens, I lean toward the incubator and whisper promises I’ll die striving to keep. I assure him that everything will be fine and that I will always be there for him. As long as he wants me, I’ll be on his team.
The more I talk to him, the calmer he becomes. He seems at ease, as if he believes in me.
My heart swells with pride as I recall my father’s face when he carried my siblings through the front door of our home. He made similar pledges to them, and I believed every word he spoke.
As far as I am aware, I’m the only child he didn’t keep his promise to.
Sighing so hard it sinks my chest, I steer the incubator toward the elevator that will take us to the nursery. When the doors open, Crew bursts through them, almost knocking over the nursing assistant.
Suddenly, he freezes before he jackknifes back. His pupils dilate when his eyes lock onto the bundle of blue wedged between us. He looks stunned, like he’s seen a ghost. Then his expression shifts to horrified.
“Is she…?”
He can’t finish his sentence, and I’m glad. I can’t think of Macy like that. I refuse.
When he searches my face, needing answers, I murmur, “She’s still fighting.” I should say more and offer him the comfort I need, but I can’t speak. The words are trapped in my throat, as tangled and messy as my heart feels when Crew’s rigid form sinks back enough for me to spot his co-riders.
Alex, Brandon, Adeline, and Markwell stare at me, their faces awash with worry. Their presence is a reminder that we’re not going through this alone. The bureau is family before anything else.
The support takes me aback, but one figure stands out more than the rest.
My dad is in the corner of the elevator, barking orders into his phone. His low, commanding tone exposes that he knows what I don’t want to admit. Aspects of Macy’s attack don’t add up. She was getting close to the outfit responsible for the baby-making trade on this side of the country. They could haveattacked her to silence her, but why would they orchestrate that coup in a parking lot miles from her home base?
They also injected a sedative into her neck, most likely to induce labor, and used the elderly-lady-in-need ruse. They’re not calling cards of a baby-making syndicate. They keep their surrogates in prime breeding condition. They’d never risk damaging the merchandise by forcing a mother into preterm labor. That would increase the chance of a caesarean, which would lower the number of children they could produce.
