her, while Michael’s siblings spent more time in than out of jail. We’d given up on everyone years ago. We had each other, and that, we constantly reminded ourselves, was enough.
I wanted to scream that first day. I was only allowed to visit Evan for minutes at a time in the NICU, then it was back to my ownhospital room, where I would lie on my side, my traitorous stomach pooled beside me. Nurses brought me medications. The lactation consultant taught me how to operate the breast pump. I was supposed to sleep, focus on recuperating. Mostly I lay in the dark and reviewed the past thirty weeks in my mind over and over again. Was it the sip of champagne I’d had at New Year’s? Maybe the fumes from the paint I’d selected for the nursery? Where had I failed? If I could just identify the moment, then go back in time …
Michael journeyed between the NICU and my room, an ashen-faced man uncertain of who needed him most, his fresh-out-of-surgery wife or his barely breathing son. He didn’t speak. He didn’t weep. He just moved, ten minutes in this room, ten minutes in that room, as if movement would keep the situation under control. His dark hair started to gray overnight. His strong shoulders seemed to stoop. But he kept walking, room to room, ward to ward, a man on a mission.
I thought Evan would sleep round the clock. All energy conserved for growing, but inevitably, as nurses adjusted his IV or feeding tube, Evan would wake up, staring at us wide-eyed, as if trying to absorb everything about this strange new world.
“He’s a fighter,” the nurses would say, chuckling over his waving fists even as he blocked their movements. “That’s a good sign, honey. He’s a tough one.”
And he would kick his thin little legs, as if in agreement.
Eventually, I was allowed to touch his cheek. Then one day I finally got to cradle him against my chest, Michael standing beside me, his hand gripping my shoulder so tight it hurt.
Evan opened his eyes again. He stared at both of us, eyes so round in his tiny, wizened head.
And we did what parents do in the NICU.
We promised everything—our grand house, our designer clothes, our self-absorbed careers. We promised it all. Our very lives. We would give up every single piece of ourselves. We would do whatever had to be done, we would lose whatever had to be lost.
If only our son would live.
I can’t find the knife. I’ve searched around the ficus tree, along the floorboards, between the folds of the shredded curtains. I take up sofa cushions, peer into every nook and cranny of the entertainment system. I beam my flashlight under furniture and over cabinets. I know Evan’s favorite places. The knife’s not in any of them.
He has it. I know he has it.
He’s outsmarted me.
The sun will be up soon. I can see the edge of the night sky beginning to lighten, and for a moment, I’m so tired, I want to cry.
“Mommy.”
I whirl around. Evan’s standing behind me. He wears his favorite Star Wars pajamas, his hands clasped behind his back.
I’m breathing too hard. I have the flashlight in my hands, so I beam it into his pale face. I don’t want him to see how badly he’s scared me.
“Evan. Show me your hands.”
“I want to see Chelsea.”
“Not right now.”
“Is it morning, Mommy?”
“No, honey, it’s still nighttime. What’s behind your back, darling?”
“Can we see Chelsea?” he asks again.
“Not right now,” I repeat steadily, still eyeing his hands, still waiting to see what he’ll do next.
“I want to go to the park,” he says.
“In the morning, honey.”
“I want to make a new friend today.”
“Evan, turn around now. It’s time for bed.”
Evan abruptly sticks out his hands. He turns them palm up, so I can see that they’re empty, that he hasn’t been holding anything. The expression on his face is guileless, but then, as I watch, I can see it. A shadow moving in the back of his eyes. A faint smile curving one corner of his
I wanted to scream that first day. I was only allowed to visit Evan for minutes at a time in the NICU, then it was back to my ownhospital room, where I would lie on my side, my traitorous stomach pooled beside me. Nurses brought me medications. The lactation consultant taught me how to operate the breast pump. I was supposed to sleep, focus on recuperating. Mostly I lay in the dark and reviewed the past thirty weeks in my mind over and over again. Was it the sip of champagne I’d had at New Year’s? Maybe the fumes from the paint I’d selected for the nursery? Where had I failed? If I could just identify the moment, then go back in time …
Michael journeyed between the NICU and my room, an ashen-faced man uncertain of who needed him most, his fresh-out-of-surgery wife or his barely breathing son. He didn’t speak. He didn’t weep. He just moved, ten minutes in this room, ten minutes in that room, as if movement would keep the situation under control. His dark hair started to gray overnight. His strong shoulders seemed to stoop. But he kept walking, room to room, ward to ward, a man on a mission.
I thought Evan would sleep round the clock. All energy conserved for growing, but inevitably, as nurses adjusted his IV or feeding tube, Evan would wake up, staring at us wide-eyed, as if trying to absorb everything about this strange new world.
“He’s a fighter,” the nurses would say, chuckling over his waving fists even as he blocked their movements. “That’s a good sign, honey. He’s a tough one.”
And he would kick his thin little legs, as if in agreement.
Eventually, I was allowed to touch his cheek. Then one day I finally got to cradle him against my chest, Michael standing beside me, his hand gripping my shoulder so tight it hurt.
Evan opened his eyes again. He stared at both of us, eyes so round in his tiny, wizened head.
And we did what parents do in the NICU.
We promised everything—our grand house, our designer clothes, our self-absorbed careers. We promised it all. Our very lives. We would give up every single piece of ourselves. We would do whatever had to be done, we would lose whatever had to be lost.
If only our son would live.
I can’t find the knife. I’ve searched around the ficus tree, along the floorboards, between the folds of the shredded curtains. I take up sofa cushions, peer into every nook and cranny of the entertainment system. I beam my flashlight under furniture and over cabinets. I know Evan’s favorite places. The knife’s not in any of them.
He has it. I know he has it.
He’s outsmarted me.
The sun will be up soon. I can see the edge of the night sky beginning to lighten, and for a moment, I’m so tired, I want to cry.
“Mommy.”
I whirl around. Evan’s standing behind me. He wears his favorite Star Wars pajamas, his hands clasped behind his back.
I’m breathing too hard. I have the flashlight in my hands, so I beam it into his pale face. I don’t want him to see how badly he’s scared me.
“Evan. Show me your hands.”
“I want to see Chelsea.”
“Not right now.”
“Is it morning, Mommy?”
“No, honey, it’s still nighttime. What’s behind your back, darling?”
“Can we see Chelsea?” he asks again.
“Not right now,” I repeat steadily, still eyeing his hands, still waiting to see what he’ll do next.
“I want to go to the park,” he says.
“In the morning, honey.”
“I want to make a new friend today.”
“Evan, turn around now. It’s time for bed.”
Evan abruptly sticks out his hands. He turns them palm up, so I can see that they’re empty, that he hasn’t been holding anything. The expression on his face is guileless, but then, as I watch, I can see it. A shadow moving in the back of his eyes. A faint smile curving one corner of his
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