American Sun
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djp73
- Posts: 13163
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
American Sun
Intense few chapters there for sure.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16766
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
Camila's a smart little cookie.Captain Canada wrote: ↑18 May 2026, 17:20What a mature response from Camila, that was really well written.
Wonder how Caine is going to be able to maneuver all of this.
Well, we all know Caine is admittedly ill-equipped for this type of thing.
Hurt people hurt people.Soapy wrote: ↑18 May 2026, 21:37gimmick aside, Mireya is objectively a terrible personredsox907 wrote: ↑17 May 2026, 03:40finally caught up dear lord
curious if you had that CPS beat planned, or if me pushing that agenda sparked the idea
Mireya still messy ass fuck. Sucking dick, sleeping with Jas, pregnant with a baby, and still telling Sena she "really wants her" bffr
Sena gonna take a quick drop when she realizes Mireya ain't what she thinks she is
something tells me EJ gonna get caught with the work being lazy
Temporary packs a thing?Soapy wrote: ↑18 May 2026, 22:09hadn't finished the last two updatesSoapy wrote: ↑18 May 2026, 21:37gimmick aside, Mireya is objectively a terrible personredsox907 wrote: ↑17 May 2026, 03:40finally caught up dear lord
curious if you had that CPS beat planned, or if me pushing that agenda sparked the idea
Mireya still messy ass fuck. Sucking dick, sleeping with Jas, pregnant with a baby, and still telling Sena she "really wants her" bffr
Sena gonna take a quick drop when she realizes Mireya ain't what she thinks she is
something tells me EJ gonna get caught with the work being lazy
SIKE!
Like CC said, extremely well written the last two episodes, in particular the labor scene. Your best work to date
I did say it was stronger for her not to die before
backing out two-ish weeks before fall camp starts?
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16766
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
Katama / Tlanequiliztli
Caine sat in the chair at the side of Mireya’s bed with his elbows on the mattress and his forehead pressed to the back of her hand. The bones of her fingers sat against his skin and the coolness of them hadn’t changed since he had first taken her hand hours ago. His eyes were closed. His breathing moved through his chest in a rhythm that matched the count on the monitor beside the bed.
Sara was on the couch under the window. She lay on her side with an arm folded under her head and the hospital blanket pulled to her shoulder. Her breathing was slow. Her face had settled into the crease of her elbow and the skin at her temple pressed against the bone of her forearm.
The monitor ran its count in green. The numbers turned over in a steady rhythm that had become part of the room, the same way the hum of the air conditioning had become part of it, the same way the click of the IV drip had become part of it. The second IV bag was most of its way down, the fluid level sitting low in the plastic, the line running slow into the cannula at Mireya’s wrist.
Mireya’s chest rose and fell. The movements were shallow. The gown rose a fraction with each breath and settled back. Her lips were parted and the dry skin at the center of them had cracked in a thin line that ran from the edge of her lower lip down toward her chin. The pale gray still held at her temples and ran down to her jaw and the skin under her eyes had gone dark.
Her eyes moved under the lids. The movement was small, a shifting behind the thin skin that pulled the lashes a fraction to one side and back. Her lashes caught against her cheekbone where the lids pressed down. Her fingers twitched inside Caine’s grip.
Her eyes opened.
She blinked, the lids came down heavy and came back up slower. Her eyes held on the ceiling and didn’t track She blinked again. Her eyes moved off the ceiling and found the window and stopped on the slats and the bar of light coming through them. The light fell on her face, her eyes on the bright lines between the slats, her breathing unchanged.
Her tongue moved once against the roof of her mouth. The dryness of it pulled at her throat when she swallowed, the muscles along the side of her neck working under the skin to move it through.
Her eyes tracked across the room in a slow pass that stopped on the couch. Her eyes stayed on Sara’s shape and her breathing moved through the same shallow rhythm.
Her eyes moved along the length of her own body under the sheet, down the line of her chest and her ribs and her hips to the place where the sheet lay flat. The bump was gone. The sheet lay across her abdomen without the rise that had been there, the cotton settling into the space between her hips where there was nothing to hold it up. Her chest moved. She held her breath at the top and the hold lasted longer than the breaths before it had lasted. She let it out and pulled another one in and the second breath came in deeper than the ones that had come before it and her shoulders lifted a fraction off the pillow with the pull.
She found the top of Caine’s head, his dreads spilling across the back of her hand, the ends of them reaching past her wrist onto the sheet. His forehead was warm against her knuckles and she could feel the slow pull of his breathing through the contact, his weight shifting against her hand with each breath.
Her fingers closed around his hand, the grip weak.
Caine’s head came up. His eyes found hers, the whites of them gone red along the inner edges and the red ran into the corners.
“Mireya.”
His voice came out rough. His thumb moved once against the back of her hand.
Sara was already pushing up from the couch. The blanket fell off her shoulder and pooled on the cushion behind her. She moved around the bed, her hip came against the rail beside Mireya’s head and her hand went into Mireya’s hair. Her fingers worked through the strands at her temple where the sweat had dried and matted them against her skin. The pad of her thumb passed along the bone of her temple in a slow stroke that followed the curve of it from her hairline to her cheekbone and back.
“Mija.”
Mireya’s mouth opened. A dry sound came out of it, a rasp that broke before it reached a word. She swallowed. The muscles in her throat worked and the swallow pulled tight against the dryness. She tried again.
“Mi bebé.”
Sara’s hand stayed in her hair. Her thumb kept its pass along the bone of her temple. “Está viva, mi amor. Está viva.”
Mireya’s eyes closed. A breath caught in her chest. The catch held for a beat and then the air moved through in a stutter that stopped at her teeth before it made it out. It caught again. Her chest hitched against the gown, running through her shoulders and pulled at the IV line at her wrist.
She opened her eyes and looked. “¿Dónde está?”
Caine’s thumb moved on the back of her hand. “She down the hall. They got her in the NICU. I put eyes on her.”
Mireya’s grip on Caine’s hand tightened by a fraction. The tightening pulled through her fingers and stopped. The grip had nothing in it. “Quiero verla.”
Sara’s hand kept moving in her hair. “Lo sé, mija. Pronto. As soon as you can sit up. The doctor has to come check on you first.”
Mireya’s eyes closed again. Her breath pulled in shallow and her shoulders hitched once. Her head turned on the pillow toward Caine. Her cheek pressed against his hand where it still wrapped hers, the skin of her face settling against his knuckles, the warmth of the contact running between them.
“I didn’t get to see her.”
“I know, mi amor.”
“They took her. Se la llevaron.”
“I know.”
“I screamed for her.”
Caine’s hand tightened around hers. His other hand came up and his thumb moved once against her cheek.
Sara’s fingers stayed in Mireya’s hair. “She heard you, mi amor. Ella te oyó.”
The tears came slow, built along the lower lids and sat there, held by the lashes, until the weight of them pulled the first one loose and it tracked down the side of her face into her hair.
Caine reached up with his free hand and wiped her eyes. His thumb caught the wet where it had reached her hairline and pressed it away. The next one came and he wiped that one too, his thumb tracing the same path down the side of her face, the pad of it passing over the skin below her eye where the dark had settled.
“How long?”
“Most of a day. They had you sedated. You lost a lot of blood. They gave you transfusions,” Sara said
Mireya’s eyes went past Sara to the ceiling. Her chest pulled a breath in and let it out. The breath came out long and ran into the hum of the air conditioning and the click of the IV drip and the count of the monitor beside the bed.
Her eyes closed. Her breathing settled into the rhythm it had held before she woke, the shallow pull and release that moved the gown a fraction with each pass. Her fingers loosened in Caine’s grip. The loosening was slow, the muscles letting go in stages, her hand going slack inside his.
Mireya’s eyes opened and she looked back at Caine. “Tráela.”
“Mireya.”
“Por favor. Tráela. Quiero verla.”
Caine’s eyes went to Sara across the bed. Sara held his eyes for a beat. Her jaw was set and the muscle at the hinge held under the skin. Then she nodded. The nod was small, a single dip of her chin.
“I’ll find a nurse. I’ll see what they can do.”
His forehead lowered again to the back of Mireya’s hand. The dreads fell forward and the ends of them brushed against her wrist. He stayed there for one more breath. His chest rose against the edge of the mattress and fell. Then he straightened and stood and her hand came out of his and rested on the sheet where he left it.
Mireya watched him cross the room, his stride long, his arms at his sides. His hand found the handle and he pulled it. The light from the hallway cut across the floor in a band that reached the foot of the bed and pulled back as the door swung closed behind him.
Sara’s eyes came down to Mireya’s face. The tears were still coming. They tracked from the corners of her eyes into her hair and the hair at her temples had gone dark with them. Sara’s hand moved in her hair again, the fingers picking up their rhythm where they had left off.
Sara bent and pressed her lips to Mireya’s temple. The skin under her lips was warm and damp and the salt of the tears had reached it. Her breath moved against Mireya’s skin and the warmth of it spread across her temple and hairline.
Mireya turned her face into Sara’s. Her cheek pressed against Sara’s cheek, the side of one face against the side of the other. Mireya’s free hand came up off the sheet. The IV line pulled with the motion. Her hand found the back of Sara’s neck. Her fingers curved against the skin there.
And Sara held still against her.
Mireya pushed herself up against the pillows. Her arms shook with the effort and the gown pulled where it had bunched under her back. She shifted her weight until the pillows took it.
Dr. Khalil walked in with two nurses behind her. The first nurse carried a tablet against her forearm, the screen dark, her thumb resting on the edge of the case. The second carried a blood pressure cuff in one hand and a small kit balanced against her hip, the zipper of the kit half open. Dr. Khalil pulled a rolling stool from the corner of the room with one hand, the wheels catching on the linoleum before they spun free and brought it to the side of the bed to sit.
Sara was on the couch under the window. She sat up with her hands folded in her lap, one over the other. Her shoes were on. Her eyes moved between Mireya and the doctor.
Caine stood against the wall by the bathroom door with his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were on Mireya.
“Good morning, Mireya,” Dr. Khalil said. “I’m Dr. Khalil. I’m the OB on service. I was in the room yesterday morning when they brought you back.”
Mireya’s eyes moved off the doctor’s to the door and back.
“When can I see my baby?” Mireya said.
“We’re going to run through some checks first,” Dr. Khalil said. “As soon as we’re done and I’m comfortable with where you are, we’ll talk about getting you down to the NICU.”
“Then let’s go. I’m ready.”
“Let’s start with how you’re feeling. Any pain? Any dizziness? Light-headed?”
“No. I’m fine. ¿Cuándo puedo verla?”
“Mireya, I need you to work with me,” Dr. Khalil said. “I know you want to see your daughter. The faster we get through this, the faster that happens.”
Mireya’s jaw worked and she nodded.
The nurse with the cuff stepped to the side of the bed. She unwound the cuff from its loop and wrapped it around Mireya’s upper arm, threading the end through the metal ring and pulling it snug against the skin.
Mireya held her arm out, palm up, the inside of her elbow facing the ceiling. Her eyes went to the door. The cuff inflated. The pressure of it squeezed against her arm and the veins at the inside of her elbow stood out where the cuff pressed. The nurse watched the gauge, her thumb on the valve. The needle climbed and held and started back down. The cuff deflated in a slow release that left a band of red on Mireya’s skin where the fabric had pressed.
The nurse read the numbers to the other nurse. The other nurse tapped them into the tablet, her thumb moving twice across the screen.
Dr. Khalil looked at the numbers on the tablet.
“Still on the low end,” Dr. Khalil said. “We’re going to keep the second line running for now.”
“Fine,” Mireya said. “What’s next?”
Dr. Khalil reached into the pocket of her coat and took out a penlight. She clicked it on..
“Follow the light for me,” Dr. Khalil said.
She moved the light from the corner of Mireya’s left eye across to the right. Mireya’s eyes tracked it. The pupils contracted as the beam passed across them and widened again as it moved away. Dr. Khalil brought it back. Mireya’s eyes followed. Dr. Khalil clicked the light off and put it back in her pocket.
She held up her index finger in front of Mireya’s face.
“Squeeze,” Dr. Khalil said.
Mireya wrapped her hand around the finger. Her knuckles went white where the skin pulled over them. She squeezed. Mireya’s brow pulled together. The line between her eyebrows deepened. She squeezed harder. Her forearm flexed and the tendons stood out at her wrist.
“Okay. Other hand,” Dr. Khalil said.
She switched hands. The grip on this side was the same.
“That’s normal for where you are,” Dr. Khalil said. “We’re going to build you back up.”
Mireya’s hand dropped to the sheet.
“¿Cuándo puedo verla?” Mireya asked. “When can I see her?”
“We have a few more things to do,” Dr. Khalil said. “Bear with me.”
Dr. Khalil pressed two fingers against the side of Mireya’s neck. The pads of her fingers settled into the space below the jaw where the pulse ran close to the surface. Her other hand turned at the wrist and her eyes went to her watch. She counted. Her lips moved with the count. She moved her fingers to Mireya’s wrist, to the arm without the cannula, and pressed them against the skin where the veins ran blue under the surface. She counted again.
“Heart rate’s coming down,” Dr. Khalil said. “That’s good.”
“Then I’m fine,” Mireya said.
“Not yet. I want to listen to your chest.”
She pulled the stethoscope off her neck. The tubing uncoiled from where it had sat against her collar. She fit the earpieces and held the bell in her palm for a beat, the metal warming against her skin. She pressed it to Mireya’s chest through the gown.
Dr. Khalil held it there. She moved it. She moved it again, her fingers repositioning the bell an inch to the left, her head tilted a fraction as she listened. She came around the side of the bed and pressed the bell to Mireya’s back.
“Breathe in and out for me,” Dr. Khalil said.
Mireya pulled a breath in. Her chest expanded against the gown and the cotton stretched across her ribs. She let it out.
“Again,” Dr. Khalil said.
Mireya pulled another breath in and let it out. The breath was shallow and the exhale ran shorter than the inhale.
Dr. Khalil straightened. She pulled the earpieces out and looped the stethoscope back around her neck. “Lungs sound clear. No fluid.”
“Then can I—” Mireya said.
“I want to check your bleeding,” Dr. Khalil said.
She nodded at the nurse with the tablet. The nurse set the tablet on the rolling tray beside the bed and came around to the other side. She positioned herself at the edge of the mattress and looked at Mireya’s face.
“I’m going to lift the sheet, Mireya,” the nurse said.
Mireya nodded.
The nurse lifted the sheet. She folded it back to Mireya’s knees. The pad between Mireya’s legs was heavy, the cotton of it dark where the blood had soaked through and spread to the edges. The nurse worked with steady hands. She eased the soiled pad out and passed it to the other nurse, who held a biohazard bag open at the side of the bed. The bag crinkled as the pad dropped into it. The nurse positioned a fresh pad and smoothed the edges and pulled the sheet back up over Mireya’s legs.
“Bleeding’s slowed,” the nurse said. “Still heavy but slowed.”
“Good.” Dr. Khalil turned back to Mireya. “I want you to sit up and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Slowly. Tell me if you get dizzy.”
Mireya pushed against the mattress. She got her shoulders up. She shifted her hips and swung one leg toward the edge of the bed. The blood drained out of her face. The color went first from her lips then from her cheeks and the pale that replaced it ran down to her jaw. Her eyes went unfocused. She closed them. Her hand found the rail and gripped it.
Dr. Khalil’s hand was on her shoulder. “Stay with me. Breathe. In through your nose.”
Mireya breathed. She breathed again. The second breath came in deeper than the first. She opened her eyes. The room had stopped moving.
“Slowly,” Dr. Khalil said. “Other leg.”
Mireya swung the other leg over. She sat on the edge of the bed. The gown bunched against her thighs where her weight pressed it into the mattress.
“How do you feel?” Dr. Khalil said.
“Fine,” Mireya said. “I’m ready to go.”
“We’re going to stand you up. On three,” Dr. Khalil said.
Dr. Khalil nodded at the nurse. The nurse came around to Mireya’s other side. The two of them braced under Mireya’s arms, their hands flat against her ribs, their weight settled back on their heels.
“One. Two. Three,” Dr. Khalil said.
Mireya’s feet found the floor. Her weight came down through her legs and her knees folded. The fold was fast. Her hips dropped and her shoulders went forward and the gown swung loose from her frame. Dr. Khalil and the nurse caught her weight before she went down. Their arms locked under hers, Mireya’s feet barely on the floor, her body suspended between them.
They lowered her back to sit on the edge of the bed. Dr. Khalil kept her hand on Mireya’s shoulder.
“Okay. Down. Lie back,” Dr. Khalil said.
They helped her swing her legs back up. Mireya’s chest was moving fast. The gown rose and fell in a rhythm that was faster than the monitor beside her. The sweat had come up at her hairline and the hair there had gone dark where the moisture reached it.
“Your pressure isn’t there yet,” Dr. Khalil said. “We push it too fast, you pass out in the hallway. That doesn’t help you get to your daughter.”
Mireya’s eyes had gone wet. The moisture built along the lower lids.
“Then put me in a chair,” Mireya said. “A wheelchair. I don’t have to walk.”
“I’m going to talk to the team and see what we can arrange,” Dr. Khalil said.
“When?”
“Give me an hour,” Dr. Khalil said. “I want to get another unit into you and check your labs one more time. If everything looks the way I want it to look, we’ll get you down there before lunch.”
“An hour,” Mireya said.
“An hour.”
Dr. Khalil stood up from the stool. The wheels rolled back an inch on the linoleum as her weight left it. She looked at Sara on the couch. She looked at Caine against the wall. She looked back at Mireya.
“I’ll be back,” Dr. Khalil said. “Try to rest. The faster your numbers come up, the faster we move.”
She walked out. The nurses followed. The second nurse pulled the door closed behind her and the latch seated into the frame.
Mireya’s eyes went to the ceiling. A tear broke from the lash line and tracked down the side of her face into her hair..
Caine pushed the wheelchair down the corridor. The rubber of them was smooth under his palms where hundreds of hands had worn the texture out of them. Mireya’s hand rested on the IV pole that rolled beside the chair, her fingers loose around the metal, the pole’s casters clicking on a different beat than the wheels of the chair. Sara walked on the other side of the chair with her hand on Mireya’s shoulder.
Mireya’s hair had been pulled back into a loose knot at the base of her neck. The strands at her temples that had been matted against her skin for two days were still damp from where Sara had worked a wet cloth through them before the nurse came. The hospital gown had been replaced with a clean one, the cotton pressed flat against her collarbones, and a robe was folded over her lap. Her feet were in the grippy socks the nurse had handed her before they left the room, the rubber dots on the soles catching the light where her feet rested on the footplates.
They turned a corner. The signage on the wall read NICU in blue block letters with an arrow underneath. The double doors at the end of the corridor had a window each, the glass laminated with a wire mesh that broke the light from the other side into small squares.
Caine slowed the chair as they approached. A nurse was waiting at the doors.
“Hi, y’all,” she said. “I’m Tanya. I’ll be with your daughter today.”
Mireya’s hand tightened on the IV pole. Her fingers closed around the metal and the knuckles went white under the skin.
Tanya looked at the three of them. Her eyes moved from Mireya to Caine to Sara and back to Mireya.
“Before we go in, I’m gonna walk y’all through a few things,” Tanya said. “Hands washed at the sink inside the entry. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. Gowns and masks on top of what you’re wearing. No phones at the bedside. Voices low. Touch is allowed through the porthole only, and I’ll guide your hand when we get there.” She paused. “You ready?”
Mireya nodded.
Tanya looked at Caine, then at the chair. “We can bring the chair through,” she said. “But most parents prefer to stand if they can.”
Mireya pushed against the armrests. Her arms shook. Caine stepped around to her side and slid his hand under her arm and lifted. His palm settled against her ribs and he took her weight as she got her feet under her. Her weight came off her own legs and onto Caine’s arm at her ribs, the bulk of it resting against him. Sara took the IV pole, her fingers closing around the metal where Mireya’s had been.
They went through the doors. Tanya held one open and they passed through. The air on the other side was warmer than the corridor and carried a different smell, something between antiseptic and the plastic of new tubing.
The wash station was along the wall to the right. A stainless steel sink ran the length of it with a pedal at the base and dispensers mounted on the wall above.
“Two minutes under the water,” Tanya said. “Soap from the dispenser on the left. Between the fingers, around the wrists, under the nails.”
Mireya held her hands under the faucet and her hands shook. Caine moved in beside her. He pressed the soap dispenser with the heel of his hand and the foam came into his palm, took Mireya’s hands and washed them. His palms moved over the backs of her fingers, between them, around her wrists. The soap lathered against her skin and he worked it into the spaces between her knuckles and along the lines of her fingers. He rinsed. He pulled a paper towel from the dispenser on the wall and dried her hands, pressing the towel against each finger and the hollows of her palms. He tossed the towel and washed his own. Sara washed hers at the other end of the sink.
Tanya handed them gowns and masks. Sara helped Mireya into hers, holding it open behind her and guiding her arms into the sleeves and tying the strings at the back of her neck. Caine tied his own at the back of his neck, his fingers working the strings into a knot against his skin. Sara tied hers. They pulled the masks over their faces
They walked into the ward. The light was low and warm, different from the flat fluorescent in the corridors. The isolettes were spaced along the walls with monitors above each one running their counts in green and blue. Two other parents stood at an isolette across the room, the mother seated in a chair pulled close to the isolette, the father standing behind her with his hand on her shoulder.
Tanya led them to the third isolette on the left. She stopped beside it and stepped to the side.
The placard on the front of the isolette read ROSAS GUERRA in handwritten marker on a piece of tape. The letters were slanted, written fast, the G larger than the rest.
Caine’s hand tightened at Mireya’s ribs.
Mireya stopped walking. Her weight settled fully against Caine’s side. Her eyes went to the isolette.
Her daughter was inside it.
She was smaller than the sensors taped to her chest. The diaper they had put on her had been folded down at the waist and it still looked too large on her, the edges riding up past her hips. The tube was taped to her cheek and ran to her nose, the tape holding the tube in a curve that followed the line of her face. The IV line ran from the back of her hand to a pump on the pole beside the isolette, the line thin enough to disappear at certain angles. Her fingers were curled against her palm.
Mireya’s hand came up off the IV pole and pressed against her mouth. The sound that came out of her was small and stayed behind her hand and the mask. Her shoulders drew in.
Caine’s other arm came around her front and held her against him. Sara stood behind them. Her hand pressed against Mireya’s back between her shoulder blades.
Tanya gave them a beat. She waited until Mireya’s breathing had found a rhythm.
“Mireya,” Tanya said. “Would you like to touch her?”
Mireya nodded. Her hand stayed at her mouth.
“Bring your hand around to the side here,” Tanya said. She positioned herself at the porthole on the near side of the isolette. “I’ll open the port. You’re going to put your hand flat on her chest, fingers spread, and hold it still. Don’t stroke her. The pressure is what she needs. The stillness is what calms her. Do you understand?”
Mireya nodded.
Tanya opened the porthole. The seal popped with a small sound, the rubber gasket pulling free of the plastic frame. The air from inside the isolette came through the opening, warm and close.
Tanya guided Mireya’s hand toward the opening. Mireya’s wrist passed through. Her fingers spread on the way down. Tanya’s hand stayed under hers, easing it, her palm cupping the back of Mireya’s hand, controlling the descent.
Mireya’s hand landed on the girl’s chest. Her palm covered it. Her fingers reached past her shoulders on either side. Her thumb rested against the line of her collarbone, the bone so small under the pad of her thumb that she could feel both edges of it. The skin under her hand was warm.
Mireya’s chest pulled a breath in. The breath caught. Her shoulders shook against Caine. A sob broke out of her chest and the sound of it pressed against the mask and came through muffled and wet.
Caine held her steady. His arm stayed across her front. He bent his head and his mouth came close to her ear, the mask pressing against her hair where the knot had loosened.
“I been thinking about a name,” Caine said.
Mireya’s hand stayed on her daughter’s chest. The rise and fall of the chest underneath her palm was so small that the motion came through her fingers as a pulse, not a movement.
“Micaela,” Caine said. “Esta vez tú eres lo primero.”
Mireya’s breath caught again.
“Porque es una luchadora, como su mamá,” Caine said.
Mireya nodded against his shoulder. The nod pressed her forehead into the muscle of his arm. Her hand stayed on Micaela, the pressure of them steady on the small chest.
Her voice came out small, pressed through the mask and into the warm air above the isolette.
“Micaela.”
She said it again. The second time was smaller than the first.
“Micaela.”
Sara’s hand pressed against her back.
Mireya’s voice dropped below where the mask could hold it. The words came out barely there, pushed through her teeth on the tail of an exhale.
“I did this.”
Sara’s hand stopped on her back.
“¿Qué dices, mija?” Sara asked.
Mireya shook her head. Her hand stayed on Micaela’s chest. The tears came down her face, caught in the mask and ran under the fabric onto her chin. The cotton of the mask darkened where the moisture soaked through.
“Mireya,” Sara said. “¿Qué dices?”
Mireya shook her head harder. The knot at the back of her neck loosened with the motion and a strand of hair fell forward past her ear and stuck to the wet of her cheek. The crying climbed in her chest. The sobs came faster, each one pulling in over the one before it, and her shoulders folded in toward Caine. Her hand pulled back from Micaela’s chest. The motion was too fast, and her fingers caught on the lip of the porthole on the way out. Tanya caught Mireya’s wrist and guided it through the opening, her fingers firm around the bones of Mireya’s wrist.
Mireya collapsed against Caine. Her full weight came off her feet and into his chest. The wail came out of her then. It started low, down in her chest, behind the mask, and it climbed. It climbed past her teeth past the cotton of the mask and filled the space between the isolettes. The sound of it hit the walls and the monitors and the glass of the isolettes and came back.
Caine’s arms closed around her. He looked at Tanya over Mireya’s head. He shook his head once. Tanya nodded. She closed the porthole. The seal sounded, the rubber gasket pressing back into the frame.
Caine bent and got one arm under Mireya’s knees and lifted her against his chest. Her weight settled against him. Her arms came around his neck and her fingers gripped the fabric of his gown at his shoulders. Her face pressed into his shoulder. The wails kept coming, the sound of it pressing through his gown and into his skin.
Sara grabbed the IV pole and followed them out. The pole’s casters clicked on the tile behind Caine’s footsteps. The two other parents across the room had turned to look. The mother’s hand had come off the isolette in front of her and rested on the father’s hand at her shoulder.
Tanya walked ahead of Caine to the doors. She held one open for him, her body braced against the weight of the door, her hand flat on the glass. He carried Mireya through. Sara came through behind them, the pole clicking.
Caine set Mireya down in the wheelchair and crouched in front of her, his hands on her knees.
Mireya’s hands were pressed against her face. The mask had pulled down to her chin, her palms flat against her eyes and her fingers curved over her forehead. The wail had dropped into long shaking sobs that pulled through her shoulders and moved the chair a fraction with each one.
Sara stood beside the chair. Her hand went into Mireya’s hair. Her fingers worked into the knot that had loosened and held there, her palm against the back of Mireya’s head.
Caine looked up at Sara. His hands stayed on Mireya’s knees.
“Voy a ir a buscar a Camila,” Caine said.
Sara nodded.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” Caine said.
“Ve,” Sara said. “Yo me quedo con ella.”
Caine stood and walked to the end of the corridor. His stride was steady. His arms were at his sides. He turned the corner and was gone.
Sara crouched in front of the wheelchair where Caine had been. Her knees found the tile and her hands replaced his on Mireya’s knees. Her thumbs pressed against the bone.
The sobs kept pulling through Mireya’s shoulders.
Caine sat in the chair on one side of Mireya’s bed with his elbow on the mattress. Sara sat in the chair on the other side, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes on Mireya and Camila.
Camila was in the bed against Mireya’s body. Mireya’s arms were wrapped around her, one across Camila’s chest and the other tucked under her head. Camila’s stuffed eagle was pressed against her chest in the crook of Mireya’s arm, the wing flattened where Mireya’s elbow pinned it down. Camila’s curls spread across Mireya’s collarbone and the side of her neck. Mireya’s face was pressed into Camila’s hair, her nose buried in the curls.
“Mami, the lady at the front of the building gave me a sticker,” Camila said. “It was a butterfly. I put it on my hand and then it fell off because I washed my hands.”
Mireya’s lips pressed to the top of Camila’s head.
“Abuela says I can’t put stickers on the table because then they get stuck and you have to scrape them,” Camila said. “But the butterfly was already on my hand.”
Mireya hummed against her hair. The sound of it moved through the curls and into Camila’s scalp.
“I saw planes out the window,” Camila said. “A big one and a little one and a helicopter. The helicopter was the kind that’s white with the red cross on the side. Like the ambulance but for the sky.”
Mireya’s arm shifted on Camila’s chest, pulling her closer. The fabric of Camila’s shirt bunched under her forearm.
“Abuela let me shake the cinnamon for the arroz con leche,” Camila said. “I shook it twice. The second bowl had more because I shook it more.”
“Eso suena rico, mi amor,” Mireya said into her hair.
“It was,” Camila said. “I saved you some but Tía abuela Ada said you can’t eat it yet because you’re sick. I told her you like cinnamon and she said you can have it when you come home.”
Mireya’s arm pressed tighter. Her fingers gripped the fabric of Camila’s shirt at the shoulder.
“Daddy, when does mami come home?” Camila asked Caine.
“Soon, mi vida,” Caine said. “The doctors gotta make sure she’s okay first.”
“Mami’s a nurse. She can say,” Camila said.
“She just needs someone else to make sure, too,” Caine said.
“My sister too?” Camila said.
“Your sister too.”
Camila was still for a beat. Her fingers worked at the wing of the eagle where it pressed against her chest.
“What’s her name again?” Camila said.
“Micaela,” Caine said.
Camila said the name. “Micaela.” She said it again, slower, the syllables pulling apart in her mouth as she worked them out. “Mi-ca-e-la.” She paused. “Micaela. Like mami’s name.”
Mireya’s chest hitched once against Camila’s back. The hitch moved through her ribs and Camila’s body rocked forward a fraction with it.
“I like it,” Camila said.
She tilted her head back against Mireya’s collarbone to look up at her face. Her curls pressed flat where her skull rested against the bone.
“Mami, you like it?” Camila said.
Mireya nodded against her hair. Her voice came out small. “Me encanta, cariña.”
Camila settled back against her. The eagle shifted in the crook of Mireya’s arm and Camila adjusted it with one hand, tucking the wing back under.
“Can I bring her my eagle?” Camila said. “She might be scared by herself.”
Mireya’s arms tightened around her, pulling Camila deeper into her chest.
“She can have it until she comes home,” Camila said. “Then we share.”
“Sí, nena,” Mireya said. “You can bring her the eagle.”
Camila nodded. Her chin dipped against Mireya’s forearm and came back up.
“But not tonight because I want to sleep with it.”
“Okay, mi amor,” Mireya said.
The door opened. A nurse leaned her head in. She was not one of the nurses from earlier. Her scrubs were a darker blue and her hair was pulled back under a cap.
“I’m sorry,” the nurse said. “I have to let you know visiting hours ended at nine. We can let one person stay with her overnight.”
Mireya’s arms tightened around Camila. It moved through both arms at once and Camila’s body compressed against Mireya’s chest. Camila felt it. She stopped talking. She turned her head against Mireya’s collarbone to look up at her face.
Sara stood up from the chair. The vinyl of the cushion gave a small sound as her weight left it. She walked to the side of the bed. She put her hand on Mireya’s arm where it crossed Camila’s chest.
“Mija,” Sara said. “La voy a traer mañana.”
Mireya shook her head. Her face stayed in Camila’s hair. Her voice came out muffled against the curls.
“No se la van a llevar.”
Sara’s hand stayed on Mireya’s arm.
“Mija,” Sara said.
“No se van a llevar a mi bebé,” Mireya said.
“Mami, why can’t I stay?” Camila asked.
Caine leaned forward in the chair. His elbows came off his knees.
“Abuela’s gonna bring you back in the morning, mi vida,” Caine said.
“Quiero quedarme,” Camila said.
“Lo sé, mi vida,” Caine said.
The nurse stepped further into the room. She crouched until her face was closer to Camila’s level, her knees bending, her hand finding the rail of the bed for balance.
“We’re going to take really good care of your mommy tonight, sweetheart,” the nurse said. “The doctors and the nurses are here all night. And your daddy gets to stay with her. Okay?”
“I want to stay too,” Camila said.
“I know you do,” the nurse said. “But your mommy needs to rest. You’re going to come back tomorrow.”
Camila’s lip pushed out. Her eyes went to Mireya’s face. Mireya’s face stayed in her hair.
Sara’s hand on Mireya’s arm moved. She slid her fingers under Mireya’s wrist where it crossed Camila’s chest.
“Mija,” Sara said. “Let me pick her up. I have to get her home.”
Mireya’s arms tightened, the muscles in her forearms stood out under the skin.
“Mami,” Camila said.
Sara worked her hand under Mireya’s wrist. She lifted gently. The tendons in Mireya’s arm pulled against the lift. Sara’s fingers pressed into the space between Mireya’s wrist and Camila’s chest.
“Mija, por favor,” Sara said. “Solo hasta mañana.”
Mireya’s muscles loosened in stages, the grip breaking at the fingers first, then the wrist, then the forearm. Sara slid her other hand under Camila’s back. She lifted Camila up off the bed. Camila’s hands came up and grabbed at Mireya’s gown, her fingers closing on the cotton at the collar, the fabric stretching where she pulled. Sara unclasped Camila’s fingers one at a time. She pried the index finger off the cotton. Then the middle. Then the ring finger. Then the pinky. Each one let go with a small pop of fabric.
Sara set Camila on the floor on the far side of the bed. Camila’s bare feet hit the linoleum. The stuffed eagle was still in her hand, one wing hanging from her fist.
Mireya’s arms were empty against her chest. Her hands stayed in the shape they had been in around Camila’s body, the fingers curled, the wrists crossed.
“No,” Mireya said. Her voice came out flat.
Sara crouched to put Camila’s shoes on her feet. She worked the first shoe over Camila’s heel, her thumb pressing the back of the shoe down so Camila’s foot could slide in.
“No,” Mireya said.
Sara worked the second shoe on. Mireya pushed up onto her elbows. The IV line pulled at her wrist. The tape stretched. The monitor’s count picked up, the numbers climbing in the green display.
“No,” Mireya said. “No me la quites. No te la lleves, mami.” Her voice climbed. The flat broke out of it and the pitch rose. “Don’t take my baby. Don’t take my baby.”
Caine was up from the chair. His hands went to Mireya’s shoulders. His palms settled against the bones and pressed her back toward the pillow.
“Mi amor,” Caine said. “Mi amor, quédate conmigo.”
“Don’t let them take her,” Mireya said. “Caine. No dejes que se la lleven. Te lo ruego. Por favor.”
“Mami,” Camila said.
Camila’s eyes had filled. The tears sat along the lower lids and her chin pulled in toward her chest. The stuffed eagle dropped out of her hand to the floor. It landed on its side, the wing bent under it.
“Mami, I want to stay!” Camila shouted. “I want to stay with you and my sister.”
She tried to climb back onto the bed. Her hands found the rail and her foot pushed against the base of the mattress. Sara caught her around the waist. Camila planted her feet against the side of the bed and pushed back against Sara’s grip. Sara’s arms locked around her.
Mireya screamed Camila’s name. The sound of it cut through the room and hit the walls and the monitor and the dark glass of the window.
Camila reached her arms toward Mireya. Her fingers stretched open. Sara lifted Camila up off her feet. Camila’s legs kicked. Her shoes caught the side of the bed frame and one of them came loose and dropped to the floor beside the eagle.
The nurse who had come in stepped back to the door and leaned into the hallway. She said something that carried into the corridor and came back muffled. Two more nurses came into the room. One of them was older, gray at her temples, her movements steady. She went to Sara, put her hand on Sara’s back and walked Sara and Camila toward the door. Camila’s screams for mami layered over Mireya’s screams for Camila, the two voices filling the room from opposite sides, the higher pitch of Camila’s climbing over Mireya’s and the lower pitch of Mireya’s driving under it.
Mireya turned her face to Caine. Her hands grabbed at the front of his shirt. Her fingers closed on the cotton and pulled.
“Caine,” Mireya said. “Caine, por favor. No los dejes. Por favor. Mi bebé. Mi bebé.”
Caine put both of his hands on her face. His palms framed her cheeks. His thumbs rested at her temples. He brought his face close to hers.
“Mi amor,” Caine said. “Mi amor. Look at me.”
Mireya turned to Sara at the door. Sara had Camila in her arms. Camila’s face was pressed against Sara’s shoulder, her body shaking with the sobs. One arm reached back toward the bed, the fingers opening and closing.
“Mami,” Mireya screamed. “Mami, por favor. No te la lleves. Mami.”
Sara’s eyes met Mireya’s across the room. The distance between the bed and the door was eight feet. Sara’s jaw worked once. The muscle at the hinge pulled under the skin.
“Mija,” Sara said. “I love you. Te amo, mija. Volveremos mañana.”
Sara walked out. The door swung closed behind her. Camila’s voice carried through the door and down the hall, the sound of it thinning as the distance grew then it cut off.
Mireya screamed, it tore at the back of her throat and the sound of it broke halfway through then came back stronger on the next breath. She turned to Caine. Her fists came up. She hit him in the chest. The blow landed against his sternum and her fist bounced off. Her arms had no strength behind them. She hit him again. Her knuckles caught the cotton of his shirt and the impact barely moved the fabric.
“Bring her back,” Mireya said. “Bring her back. ¡Devuélvenme a mi bebé! ¡Ahora!”
Caine took the hits. His hands stayed at his sides. His chest took each one.
“Mi amor,” Caine said.
Mireya hit him again. This time catching him in the face. The fingers opened and gripped the shirt and the grip was weak.
Caine’s hands closed around her wrists.
“Mi amor,” Caine said. “Te tengo.”
Mireya pulled against his grip. Her shoulders strained, the pull ran through her arms and into his hands. His hands gave with it, letting her move without letting her go.
“Bring her back,” Mireya said. “Caine. Por favor. Tráela. Tráelas.”
The two nurses were at the side of the bed. The older one looked at Caine.
“We need to get her settled,” the older nurse said. “She’s gonna pull her line.”
Caine nodded. His hands stayed around Mireya’s wrists.
The older nurse moved to Mireya’s other side. She put her hand on Mireya’s shoulder. Her palm was flat and her voice was low.
“Mireya,” the nurse said. “Honey. I’m going to give you something to help you rest.”
The other nurse had a syringe in her hand. She uncapped it. The cap came off with a plastic click. She found the port on the IV line and positioned the tip of the syringe at the opening.
Mireya saw the syringe. Her eyes went wide.
“No,” Mireya said. “No. No lo quiero. Quiero a mi bebé. Quiero a mi bebé.”
The nurse pushed the syringe into the port. The plunger went down. The fluid moved through the line.
Mireya kept screaming. Her voice filled the room. It filled the space between the walls and the ceiling and the floor and it pushed against all of them.
The syringe came out. The nurse capped it.
Caine’s hands stayed around Mireya’s wrists. His grip stayed light.
Mireya’s voice kept going. “Mi bebé. Mi bebé. Tráela. Tráela.”
Her voice started to thin. The top of the scream flattened and the sound that came through was lower, closer to her chest. Her wrists went softer in Caine’s hands. The pulling stopped.
“Caine,” Mireya said. “Caine.”
“Estoy aquí mismo, mi amor,” Caine said.
“Mi bebé,” Mireya said.
Her eyes went heavy. The lids dropped, pulled back up and dropped again. Her head turned on the pillow toward Caine. Her cheek found the cotton.
“Mi bebé,” Mireya said. The words came out close to a whisper that barely cleared her lips.
Her eyes closed. Her hands went slack inside Caine’s. The tension ran out of her forearms, her wrists and her fingers all at once. Her hands lay in his palms with nothing behind them.
Caine eased her wrists down to the mattress and eased her shoulder back against the pillow. He pulled the sheet up to her chest. The cotton settled against her collarbone. He tucked the edge under her arm where the IV line ran.
“We’ll come back to check on her in a few minutes,” the older nurse said.
Caine nodded. The nurses left the room.
Caine sat down in the chair. The vinyl creaked under his weight. He looked at the floor beside the bed.
The stuffed eagle lay on its side where Camila had dropped it, the wing bent under its body, the fabric warm from the room. Beside it, Camila’s shoe rested on its side, the sole facing the bed frame.
He bent and picked up the eagle. He turned it over in his hand. The stitching along the belly had loosened where Camila’s grip had worked it, the thread pulling in small loops from the seam.
He looked at Mireya’s face. Her eyes were closed. Her breathing had gone slow. The monitor’s count had come back down.
He worked her hand open against the sheet, spreading her fingers gently with his thumb, opening the curl of her palm. He set the eagle there and folded her fingers around the wing.
He took her other hand off the sheet. He brought it to his face. He pressed his forehead against the back of her hand, his elbows on the mattress, his head bowed over her fingers.
Caine sat in the chair at the side of Mireya’s bed with his elbows on the mattress and his forehead pressed to the back of her hand. The bones of her fingers sat against his skin and the coolness of them hadn’t changed since he had first taken her hand hours ago. His eyes were closed. His breathing moved through his chest in a rhythm that matched the count on the monitor beside the bed.
Sara was on the couch under the window. She lay on her side with an arm folded under her head and the hospital blanket pulled to her shoulder. Her breathing was slow. Her face had settled into the crease of her elbow and the skin at her temple pressed against the bone of her forearm.
The monitor ran its count in green. The numbers turned over in a steady rhythm that had become part of the room, the same way the hum of the air conditioning had become part of it, the same way the click of the IV drip had become part of it. The second IV bag was most of its way down, the fluid level sitting low in the plastic, the line running slow into the cannula at Mireya’s wrist.
Mireya’s chest rose and fell. The movements were shallow. The gown rose a fraction with each breath and settled back. Her lips were parted and the dry skin at the center of them had cracked in a thin line that ran from the edge of her lower lip down toward her chin. The pale gray still held at her temples and ran down to her jaw and the skin under her eyes had gone dark.
Her eyes moved under the lids. The movement was small, a shifting behind the thin skin that pulled the lashes a fraction to one side and back. Her lashes caught against her cheekbone where the lids pressed down. Her fingers twitched inside Caine’s grip.
Her eyes opened.
She blinked, the lids came down heavy and came back up slower. Her eyes held on the ceiling and didn’t track She blinked again. Her eyes moved off the ceiling and found the window and stopped on the slats and the bar of light coming through them. The light fell on her face, her eyes on the bright lines between the slats, her breathing unchanged.
Her tongue moved once against the roof of her mouth. The dryness of it pulled at her throat when she swallowed, the muscles along the side of her neck working under the skin to move it through.
Her eyes tracked across the room in a slow pass that stopped on the couch. Her eyes stayed on Sara’s shape and her breathing moved through the same shallow rhythm.
Her eyes moved along the length of her own body under the sheet, down the line of her chest and her ribs and her hips to the place where the sheet lay flat. The bump was gone. The sheet lay across her abdomen without the rise that had been there, the cotton settling into the space between her hips where there was nothing to hold it up. Her chest moved. She held her breath at the top and the hold lasted longer than the breaths before it had lasted. She let it out and pulled another one in and the second breath came in deeper than the ones that had come before it and her shoulders lifted a fraction off the pillow with the pull.
She found the top of Caine’s head, his dreads spilling across the back of her hand, the ends of them reaching past her wrist onto the sheet. His forehead was warm against her knuckles and she could feel the slow pull of his breathing through the contact, his weight shifting against her hand with each breath.
Her fingers closed around his hand, the grip weak.
Caine’s head came up. His eyes found hers, the whites of them gone red along the inner edges and the red ran into the corners.
“Mireya.”
His voice came out rough. His thumb moved once against the back of her hand.
Sara was already pushing up from the couch. The blanket fell off her shoulder and pooled on the cushion behind her. She moved around the bed, her hip came against the rail beside Mireya’s head and her hand went into Mireya’s hair. Her fingers worked through the strands at her temple where the sweat had dried and matted them against her skin. The pad of her thumb passed along the bone of her temple in a slow stroke that followed the curve of it from her hairline to her cheekbone and back.
“Mija.”
Mireya’s mouth opened. A dry sound came out of it, a rasp that broke before it reached a word. She swallowed. The muscles in her throat worked and the swallow pulled tight against the dryness. She tried again.
“Mi bebé.”
Sara’s hand stayed in her hair. Her thumb kept its pass along the bone of her temple. “Está viva, mi amor. Está viva.”
Mireya’s eyes closed. A breath caught in her chest. The catch held for a beat and then the air moved through in a stutter that stopped at her teeth before it made it out. It caught again. Her chest hitched against the gown, running through her shoulders and pulled at the IV line at her wrist.
She opened her eyes and looked. “¿Dónde está?”
Caine’s thumb moved on the back of her hand. “She down the hall. They got her in the NICU. I put eyes on her.”
Mireya’s grip on Caine’s hand tightened by a fraction. The tightening pulled through her fingers and stopped. The grip had nothing in it. “Quiero verla.”
Sara’s hand kept moving in her hair. “Lo sé, mija. Pronto. As soon as you can sit up. The doctor has to come check on you first.”
Mireya’s eyes closed again. Her breath pulled in shallow and her shoulders hitched once. Her head turned on the pillow toward Caine. Her cheek pressed against his hand where it still wrapped hers, the skin of her face settling against his knuckles, the warmth of the contact running between them.
“I didn’t get to see her.”
“I know, mi amor.”
“They took her. Se la llevaron.”
“I know.”
“I screamed for her.”
Caine’s hand tightened around hers. His other hand came up and his thumb moved once against her cheek.
Sara’s fingers stayed in Mireya’s hair. “She heard you, mi amor. Ella te oyó.”
The tears came slow, built along the lower lids and sat there, held by the lashes, until the weight of them pulled the first one loose and it tracked down the side of her face into her hair.
Caine reached up with his free hand and wiped her eyes. His thumb caught the wet where it had reached her hairline and pressed it away. The next one came and he wiped that one too, his thumb tracing the same path down the side of her face, the pad of it passing over the skin below her eye where the dark had settled.
“How long?”
“Most of a day. They had you sedated. You lost a lot of blood. They gave you transfusions,” Sara said
Mireya’s eyes went past Sara to the ceiling. Her chest pulled a breath in and let it out. The breath came out long and ran into the hum of the air conditioning and the click of the IV drip and the count of the monitor beside the bed.
Her eyes closed. Her breathing settled into the rhythm it had held before she woke, the shallow pull and release that moved the gown a fraction with each pass. Her fingers loosened in Caine’s grip. The loosening was slow, the muscles letting go in stages, her hand going slack inside his.
Mireya’s eyes opened and she looked back at Caine. “Tráela.”
“Mireya.”
“Por favor. Tráela. Quiero verla.”
Caine’s eyes went to Sara across the bed. Sara held his eyes for a beat. Her jaw was set and the muscle at the hinge held under the skin. Then she nodded. The nod was small, a single dip of her chin.
“I’ll find a nurse. I’ll see what they can do.”
His forehead lowered again to the back of Mireya’s hand. The dreads fell forward and the ends of them brushed against her wrist. He stayed there for one more breath. His chest rose against the edge of the mattress and fell. Then he straightened and stood and her hand came out of his and rested on the sheet where he left it.
Mireya watched him cross the room, his stride long, his arms at his sides. His hand found the handle and he pulled it. The light from the hallway cut across the floor in a band that reached the foot of the bed and pulled back as the door swung closed behind him.
Sara’s eyes came down to Mireya’s face. The tears were still coming. They tracked from the corners of her eyes into her hair and the hair at her temples had gone dark with them. Sara’s hand moved in her hair again, the fingers picking up their rhythm where they had left off.
Sara bent and pressed her lips to Mireya’s temple. The skin under her lips was warm and damp and the salt of the tears had reached it. Her breath moved against Mireya’s skin and the warmth of it spread across her temple and hairline.
Mireya turned her face into Sara’s. Her cheek pressed against Sara’s cheek, the side of one face against the side of the other. Mireya’s free hand came up off the sheet. The IV line pulled with the motion. Her hand found the back of Sara’s neck. Her fingers curved against the skin there.
And Sara held still against her.
~~~
Mireya pushed herself up against the pillows. Her arms shook with the effort and the gown pulled where it had bunched under her back. She shifted her weight until the pillows took it.
Dr. Khalil walked in with two nurses behind her. The first nurse carried a tablet against her forearm, the screen dark, her thumb resting on the edge of the case. The second carried a blood pressure cuff in one hand and a small kit balanced against her hip, the zipper of the kit half open. Dr. Khalil pulled a rolling stool from the corner of the room with one hand, the wheels catching on the linoleum before they spun free and brought it to the side of the bed to sit.
Sara was on the couch under the window. She sat up with her hands folded in her lap, one over the other. Her shoes were on. Her eyes moved between Mireya and the doctor.
Caine stood against the wall by the bathroom door with his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were on Mireya.
“Good morning, Mireya,” Dr. Khalil said. “I’m Dr. Khalil. I’m the OB on service. I was in the room yesterday morning when they brought you back.”
Mireya’s eyes moved off the doctor’s to the door and back.
“When can I see my baby?” Mireya said.
“We’re going to run through some checks first,” Dr. Khalil said. “As soon as we’re done and I’m comfortable with where you are, we’ll talk about getting you down to the NICU.”
“Then let’s go. I’m ready.”
“Let’s start with how you’re feeling. Any pain? Any dizziness? Light-headed?”
“No. I’m fine. ¿Cuándo puedo verla?”
“Mireya, I need you to work with me,” Dr. Khalil said. “I know you want to see your daughter. The faster we get through this, the faster that happens.”
Mireya’s jaw worked and she nodded.
The nurse with the cuff stepped to the side of the bed. She unwound the cuff from its loop and wrapped it around Mireya’s upper arm, threading the end through the metal ring and pulling it snug against the skin.
Mireya held her arm out, palm up, the inside of her elbow facing the ceiling. Her eyes went to the door. The cuff inflated. The pressure of it squeezed against her arm and the veins at the inside of her elbow stood out where the cuff pressed. The nurse watched the gauge, her thumb on the valve. The needle climbed and held and started back down. The cuff deflated in a slow release that left a band of red on Mireya’s skin where the fabric had pressed.
The nurse read the numbers to the other nurse. The other nurse tapped them into the tablet, her thumb moving twice across the screen.
Dr. Khalil looked at the numbers on the tablet.
“Still on the low end,” Dr. Khalil said. “We’re going to keep the second line running for now.”
“Fine,” Mireya said. “What’s next?”
Dr. Khalil reached into the pocket of her coat and took out a penlight. She clicked it on..
“Follow the light for me,” Dr. Khalil said.
She moved the light from the corner of Mireya’s left eye across to the right. Mireya’s eyes tracked it. The pupils contracted as the beam passed across them and widened again as it moved away. Dr. Khalil brought it back. Mireya’s eyes followed. Dr. Khalil clicked the light off and put it back in her pocket.
She held up her index finger in front of Mireya’s face.
“Squeeze,” Dr. Khalil said.
Mireya wrapped her hand around the finger. Her knuckles went white where the skin pulled over them. She squeezed. Mireya’s brow pulled together. The line between her eyebrows deepened. She squeezed harder. Her forearm flexed and the tendons stood out at her wrist.
“Okay. Other hand,” Dr. Khalil said.
She switched hands. The grip on this side was the same.
“That’s normal for where you are,” Dr. Khalil said. “We’re going to build you back up.”
Mireya’s hand dropped to the sheet.
“¿Cuándo puedo verla?” Mireya asked. “When can I see her?”
“We have a few more things to do,” Dr. Khalil said. “Bear with me.”
Dr. Khalil pressed two fingers against the side of Mireya’s neck. The pads of her fingers settled into the space below the jaw where the pulse ran close to the surface. Her other hand turned at the wrist and her eyes went to her watch. She counted. Her lips moved with the count. She moved her fingers to Mireya’s wrist, to the arm without the cannula, and pressed them against the skin where the veins ran blue under the surface. She counted again.
“Heart rate’s coming down,” Dr. Khalil said. “That’s good.”
“Then I’m fine,” Mireya said.
“Not yet. I want to listen to your chest.”
She pulled the stethoscope off her neck. The tubing uncoiled from where it had sat against her collar. She fit the earpieces and held the bell in her palm for a beat, the metal warming against her skin. She pressed it to Mireya’s chest through the gown.
Dr. Khalil held it there. She moved it. She moved it again, her fingers repositioning the bell an inch to the left, her head tilted a fraction as she listened. She came around the side of the bed and pressed the bell to Mireya’s back.
“Breathe in and out for me,” Dr. Khalil said.
Mireya pulled a breath in. Her chest expanded against the gown and the cotton stretched across her ribs. She let it out.
“Again,” Dr. Khalil said.
Mireya pulled another breath in and let it out. The breath was shallow and the exhale ran shorter than the inhale.
Dr. Khalil straightened. She pulled the earpieces out and looped the stethoscope back around her neck. “Lungs sound clear. No fluid.”
“Then can I—” Mireya said.
“I want to check your bleeding,” Dr. Khalil said.
She nodded at the nurse with the tablet. The nurse set the tablet on the rolling tray beside the bed and came around to the other side. She positioned herself at the edge of the mattress and looked at Mireya’s face.
“I’m going to lift the sheet, Mireya,” the nurse said.
Mireya nodded.
The nurse lifted the sheet. She folded it back to Mireya’s knees. The pad between Mireya’s legs was heavy, the cotton of it dark where the blood had soaked through and spread to the edges. The nurse worked with steady hands. She eased the soiled pad out and passed it to the other nurse, who held a biohazard bag open at the side of the bed. The bag crinkled as the pad dropped into it. The nurse positioned a fresh pad and smoothed the edges and pulled the sheet back up over Mireya’s legs.
“Bleeding’s slowed,” the nurse said. “Still heavy but slowed.”
“Good.” Dr. Khalil turned back to Mireya. “I want you to sit up and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Slowly. Tell me if you get dizzy.”
Mireya pushed against the mattress. She got her shoulders up. She shifted her hips and swung one leg toward the edge of the bed. The blood drained out of her face. The color went first from her lips then from her cheeks and the pale that replaced it ran down to her jaw. Her eyes went unfocused. She closed them. Her hand found the rail and gripped it.
Dr. Khalil’s hand was on her shoulder. “Stay with me. Breathe. In through your nose.”
Mireya breathed. She breathed again. The second breath came in deeper than the first. She opened her eyes. The room had stopped moving.
“Slowly,” Dr. Khalil said. “Other leg.”
Mireya swung the other leg over. She sat on the edge of the bed. The gown bunched against her thighs where her weight pressed it into the mattress.
“How do you feel?” Dr. Khalil said.
“Fine,” Mireya said. “I’m ready to go.”
“We’re going to stand you up. On three,” Dr. Khalil said.
Dr. Khalil nodded at the nurse. The nurse came around to Mireya’s other side. The two of them braced under Mireya’s arms, their hands flat against her ribs, their weight settled back on their heels.
“One. Two. Three,” Dr. Khalil said.
Mireya’s feet found the floor. Her weight came down through her legs and her knees folded. The fold was fast. Her hips dropped and her shoulders went forward and the gown swung loose from her frame. Dr. Khalil and the nurse caught her weight before she went down. Their arms locked under hers, Mireya’s feet barely on the floor, her body suspended between them.
They lowered her back to sit on the edge of the bed. Dr. Khalil kept her hand on Mireya’s shoulder.
“Okay. Down. Lie back,” Dr. Khalil said.
They helped her swing her legs back up. Mireya’s chest was moving fast. The gown rose and fell in a rhythm that was faster than the monitor beside her. The sweat had come up at her hairline and the hair there had gone dark where the moisture reached it.
“Your pressure isn’t there yet,” Dr. Khalil said. “We push it too fast, you pass out in the hallway. That doesn’t help you get to your daughter.”
Mireya’s eyes had gone wet. The moisture built along the lower lids.
“Then put me in a chair,” Mireya said. “A wheelchair. I don’t have to walk.”
“I’m going to talk to the team and see what we can arrange,” Dr. Khalil said.
“When?”
“Give me an hour,” Dr. Khalil said. “I want to get another unit into you and check your labs one more time. If everything looks the way I want it to look, we’ll get you down there before lunch.”
“An hour,” Mireya said.
“An hour.”
Dr. Khalil stood up from the stool. The wheels rolled back an inch on the linoleum as her weight left it. She looked at Sara on the couch. She looked at Caine against the wall. She looked back at Mireya.
“I’ll be back,” Dr. Khalil said. “Try to rest. The faster your numbers come up, the faster we move.”
She walked out. The nurses followed. The second nurse pulled the door closed behind her and the latch seated into the frame.
Mireya’s eyes went to the ceiling. A tear broke from the lash line and tracked down the side of her face into her hair..
~~~
Caine pushed the wheelchair down the corridor. The rubber of them was smooth under his palms where hundreds of hands had worn the texture out of them. Mireya’s hand rested on the IV pole that rolled beside the chair, her fingers loose around the metal, the pole’s casters clicking on a different beat than the wheels of the chair. Sara walked on the other side of the chair with her hand on Mireya’s shoulder.
Mireya’s hair had been pulled back into a loose knot at the base of her neck. The strands at her temples that had been matted against her skin for two days were still damp from where Sara had worked a wet cloth through them before the nurse came. The hospital gown had been replaced with a clean one, the cotton pressed flat against her collarbones, and a robe was folded over her lap. Her feet were in the grippy socks the nurse had handed her before they left the room, the rubber dots on the soles catching the light where her feet rested on the footplates.
They turned a corner. The signage on the wall read NICU in blue block letters with an arrow underneath. The double doors at the end of the corridor had a window each, the glass laminated with a wire mesh that broke the light from the other side into small squares.
Caine slowed the chair as they approached. A nurse was waiting at the doors.
“Hi, y’all,” she said. “I’m Tanya. I’ll be with your daughter today.”
Mireya’s hand tightened on the IV pole. Her fingers closed around the metal and the knuckles went white under the skin.
Tanya looked at the three of them. Her eyes moved from Mireya to Caine to Sara and back to Mireya.
“Before we go in, I’m gonna walk y’all through a few things,” Tanya said. “Hands washed at the sink inside the entry. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. Gowns and masks on top of what you’re wearing. No phones at the bedside. Voices low. Touch is allowed through the porthole only, and I’ll guide your hand when we get there.” She paused. “You ready?”
Mireya nodded.
Tanya looked at Caine, then at the chair. “We can bring the chair through,” she said. “But most parents prefer to stand if they can.”
Mireya pushed against the armrests. Her arms shook. Caine stepped around to her side and slid his hand under her arm and lifted. His palm settled against her ribs and he took her weight as she got her feet under her. Her weight came off her own legs and onto Caine’s arm at her ribs, the bulk of it resting against him. Sara took the IV pole, her fingers closing around the metal where Mireya’s had been.
They went through the doors. Tanya held one open and they passed through. The air on the other side was warmer than the corridor and carried a different smell, something between antiseptic and the plastic of new tubing.
The wash station was along the wall to the right. A stainless steel sink ran the length of it with a pedal at the base and dispensers mounted on the wall above.
“Two minutes under the water,” Tanya said. “Soap from the dispenser on the left. Between the fingers, around the wrists, under the nails.”
Mireya held her hands under the faucet and her hands shook. Caine moved in beside her. He pressed the soap dispenser with the heel of his hand and the foam came into his palm, took Mireya’s hands and washed them. His palms moved over the backs of her fingers, between them, around her wrists. The soap lathered against her skin and he worked it into the spaces between her knuckles and along the lines of her fingers. He rinsed. He pulled a paper towel from the dispenser on the wall and dried her hands, pressing the towel against each finger and the hollows of her palms. He tossed the towel and washed his own. Sara washed hers at the other end of the sink.
Tanya handed them gowns and masks. Sara helped Mireya into hers, holding it open behind her and guiding her arms into the sleeves and tying the strings at the back of her neck. Caine tied his own at the back of his neck, his fingers working the strings into a knot against his skin. Sara tied hers. They pulled the masks over their faces
They walked into the ward. The light was low and warm, different from the flat fluorescent in the corridors. The isolettes were spaced along the walls with monitors above each one running their counts in green and blue. Two other parents stood at an isolette across the room, the mother seated in a chair pulled close to the isolette, the father standing behind her with his hand on her shoulder.
Tanya led them to the third isolette on the left. She stopped beside it and stepped to the side.
The placard on the front of the isolette read ROSAS GUERRA in handwritten marker on a piece of tape. The letters were slanted, written fast, the G larger than the rest.
Caine’s hand tightened at Mireya’s ribs.
Mireya stopped walking. Her weight settled fully against Caine’s side. Her eyes went to the isolette.
Her daughter was inside it.
She was smaller than the sensors taped to her chest. The diaper they had put on her had been folded down at the waist and it still looked too large on her, the edges riding up past her hips. The tube was taped to her cheek and ran to her nose, the tape holding the tube in a curve that followed the line of her face. The IV line ran from the back of her hand to a pump on the pole beside the isolette, the line thin enough to disappear at certain angles. Her fingers were curled against her palm.
Mireya’s hand came up off the IV pole and pressed against her mouth. The sound that came out of her was small and stayed behind her hand and the mask. Her shoulders drew in.
Caine’s other arm came around her front and held her against him. Sara stood behind them. Her hand pressed against Mireya’s back between her shoulder blades.
Tanya gave them a beat. She waited until Mireya’s breathing had found a rhythm.
“Mireya,” Tanya said. “Would you like to touch her?”
Mireya nodded. Her hand stayed at her mouth.
“Bring your hand around to the side here,” Tanya said. She positioned herself at the porthole on the near side of the isolette. “I’ll open the port. You’re going to put your hand flat on her chest, fingers spread, and hold it still. Don’t stroke her. The pressure is what she needs. The stillness is what calms her. Do you understand?”
Mireya nodded.
Tanya opened the porthole. The seal popped with a small sound, the rubber gasket pulling free of the plastic frame. The air from inside the isolette came through the opening, warm and close.
Tanya guided Mireya’s hand toward the opening. Mireya’s wrist passed through. Her fingers spread on the way down. Tanya’s hand stayed under hers, easing it, her palm cupping the back of Mireya’s hand, controlling the descent.
Mireya’s hand landed on the girl’s chest. Her palm covered it. Her fingers reached past her shoulders on either side. Her thumb rested against the line of her collarbone, the bone so small under the pad of her thumb that she could feel both edges of it. The skin under her hand was warm.
Mireya’s chest pulled a breath in. The breath caught. Her shoulders shook against Caine. A sob broke out of her chest and the sound of it pressed against the mask and came through muffled and wet.
Caine held her steady. His arm stayed across her front. He bent his head and his mouth came close to her ear, the mask pressing against her hair where the knot had loosened.
“I been thinking about a name,” Caine said.
Mireya’s hand stayed on her daughter’s chest. The rise and fall of the chest underneath her palm was so small that the motion came through her fingers as a pulse, not a movement.
“Micaela,” Caine said. “Esta vez tú eres lo primero.”
Mireya’s breath caught again.
“Porque es una luchadora, como su mamá,” Caine said.
Mireya nodded against his shoulder. The nod pressed her forehead into the muscle of his arm. Her hand stayed on Micaela, the pressure of them steady on the small chest.
Her voice came out small, pressed through the mask and into the warm air above the isolette.
“Micaela.”
She said it again. The second time was smaller than the first.
“Micaela.”
Sara’s hand pressed against her back.
Mireya’s voice dropped below where the mask could hold it. The words came out barely there, pushed through her teeth on the tail of an exhale.
“I did this.”
Sara’s hand stopped on her back.
“¿Qué dices, mija?” Sara asked.
Mireya shook her head. Her hand stayed on Micaela’s chest. The tears came down her face, caught in the mask and ran under the fabric onto her chin. The cotton of the mask darkened where the moisture soaked through.
“Mireya,” Sara said. “¿Qué dices?”
Mireya shook her head harder. The knot at the back of her neck loosened with the motion and a strand of hair fell forward past her ear and stuck to the wet of her cheek. The crying climbed in her chest. The sobs came faster, each one pulling in over the one before it, and her shoulders folded in toward Caine. Her hand pulled back from Micaela’s chest. The motion was too fast, and her fingers caught on the lip of the porthole on the way out. Tanya caught Mireya’s wrist and guided it through the opening, her fingers firm around the bones of Mireya’s wrist.
Mireya collapsed against Caine. Her full weight came off her feet and into his chest. The wail came out of her then. It started low, down in her chest, behind the mask, and it climbed. It climbed past her teeth past the cotton of the mask and filled the space between the isolettes. The sound of it hit the walls and the monitors and the glass of the isolettes and came back.
Caine’s arms closed around her. He looked at Tanya over Mireya’s head. He shook his head once. Tanya nodded. She closed the porthole. The seal sounded, the rubber gasket pressing back into the frame.
Caine bent and got one arm under Mireya’s knees and lifted her against his chest. Her weight settled against him. Her arms came around his neck and her fingers gripped the fabric of his gown at his shoulders. Her face pressed into his shoulder. The wails kept coming, the sound of it pressing through his gown and into his skin.
Sara grabbed the IV pole and followed them out. The pole’s casters clicked on the tile behind Caine’s footsteps. The two other parents across the room had turned to look. The mother’s hand had come off the isolette in front of her and rested on the father’s hand at her shoulder.
Tanya walked ahead of Caine to the doors. She held one open for him, her body braced against the weight of the door, her hand flat on the glass. He carried Mireya through. Sara came through behind them, the pole clicking.
Caine set Mireya down in the wheelchair and crouched in front of her, his hands on her knees.
Mireya’s hands were pressed against her face. The mask had pulled down to her chin, her palms flat against her eyes and her fingers curved over her forehead. The wail had dropped into long shaking sobs that pulled through her shoulders and moved the chair a fraction with each one.
Sara stood beside the chair. Her hand went into Mireya’s hair. Her fingers worked into the knot that had loosened and held there, her palm against the back of Mireya’s head.
Caine looked up at Sara. His hands stayed on Mireya’s knees.
“Voy a ir a buscar a Camila,” Caine said.
Sara nodded.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” Caine said.
“Ve,” Sara said. “Yo me quedo con ella.”
Caine stood and walked to the end of the corridor. His stride was steady. His arms were at his sides. He turned the corner and was gone.
Sara crouched in front of the wheelchair where Caine had been. Her knees found the tile and her hands replaced his on Mireya’s knees. Her thumbs pressed against the bone.
The sobs kept pulling through Mireya’s shoulders.
~~~
Caine sat in the chair on one side of Mireya’s bed with his elbow on the mattress. Sara sat in the chair on the other side, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes on Mireya and Camila.
Camila was in the bed against Mireya’s body. Mireya’s arms were wrapped around her, one across Camila’s chest and the other tucked under her head. Camila’s stuffed eagle was pressed against her chest in the crook of Mireya’s arm, the wing flattened where Mireya’s elbow pinned it down. Camila’s curls spread across Mireya’s collarbone and the side of her neck. Mireya’s face was pressed into Camila’s hair, her nose buried in the curls.
“Mami, the lady at the front of the building gave me a sticker,” Camila said. “It was a butterfly. I put it on my hand and then it fell off because I washed my hands.”
Mireya’s lips pressed to the top of Camila’s head.
“Abuela says I can’t put stickers on the table because then they get stuck and you have to scrape them,” Camila said. “But the butterfly was already on my hand.”
Mireya hummed against her hair. The sound of it moved through the curls and into Camila’s scalp.
“I saw planes out the window,” Camila said. “A big one and a little one and a helicopter. The helicopter was the kind that’s white with the red cross on the side. Like the ambulance but for the sky.”
Mireya’s arm shifted on Camila’s chest, pulling her closer. The fabric of Camila’s shirt bunched under her forearm.
“Abuela let me shake the cinnamon for the arroz con leche,” Camila said. “I shook it twice. The second bowl had more because I shook it more.”
“Eso suena rico, mi amor,” Mireya said into her hair.
“It was,” Camila said. “I saved you some but Tía abuela Ada said you can’t eat it yet because you’re sick. I told her you like cinnamon and she said you can have it when you come home.”
Mireya’s arm pressed tighter. Her fingers gripped the fabric of Camila’s shirt at the shoulder.
“Daddy, when does mami come home?” Camila asked Caine.
“Soon, mi vida,” Caine said. “The doctors gotta make sure she’s okay first.”
“Mami’s a nurse. She can say,” Camila said.
“She just needs someone else to make sure, too,” Caine said.
“My sister too?” Camila said.
“Your sister too.”
Camila was still for a beat. Her fingers worked at the wing of the eagle where it pressed against her chest.
“What’s her name again?” Camila said.
“Micaela,” Caine said.
Camila said the name. “Micaela.” She said it again, slower, the syllables pulling apart in her mouth as she worked them out. “Mi-ca-e-la.” She paused. “Micaela. Like mami’s name.”
Mireya’s chest hitched once against Camila’s back. The hitch moved through her ribs and Camila’s body rocked forward a fraction with it.
“I like it,” Camila said.
She tilted her head back against Mireya’s collarbone to look up at her face. Her curls pressed flat where her skull rested against the bone.
“Mami, you like it?” Camila said.
Mireya nodded against her hair. Her voice came out small. “Me encanta, cariña.”
Camila settled back against her. The eagle shifted in the crook of Mireya’s arm and Camila adjusted it with one hand, tucking the wing back under.
“Can I bring her my eagle?” Camila said. “She might be scared by herself.”
Mireya’s arms tightened around her, pulling Camila deeper into her chest.
“She can have it until she comes home,” Camila said. “Then we share.”
“Sí, nena,” Mireya said. “You can bring her the eagle.”
Camila nodded. Her chin dipped against Mireya’s forearm and came back up.
“But not tonight because I want to sleep with it.”
“Okay, mi amor,” Mireya said.
The door opened. A nurse leaned her head in. She was not one of the nurses from earlier. Her scrubs were a darker blue and her hair was pulled back under a cap.
“I’m sorry,” the nurse said. “I have to let you know visiting hours ended at nine. We can let one person stay with her overnight.”
Mireya’s arms tightened around Camila. It moved through both arms at once and Camila’s body compressed against Mireya’s chest. Camila felt it. She stopped talking. She turned her head against Mireya’s collarbone to look up at her face.
Sara stood up from the chair. The vinyl of the cushion gave a small sound as her weight left it. She walked to the side of the bed. She put her hand on Mireya’s arm where it crossed Camila’s chest.
“Mija,” Sara said. “La voy a traer mañana.”
Mireya shook her head. Her face stayed in Camila’s hair. Her voice came out muffled against the curls.
“No se la van a llevar.”
Sara’s hand stayed on Mireya’s arm.
“Mija,” Sara said.
“No se van a llevar a mi bebé,” Mireya said.
“Mami, why can’t I stay?” Camila asked.
Caine leaned forward in the chair. His elbows came off his knees.
“Abuela’s gonna bring you back in the morning, mi vida,” Caine said.
“Quiero quedarme,” Camila said.
“Lo sé, mi vida,” Caine said.
The nurse stepped further into the room. She crouched until her face was closer to Camila’s level, her knees bending, her hand finding the rail of the bed for balance.
“We’re going to take really good care of your mommy tonight, sweetheart,” the nurse said. “The doctors and the nurses are here all night. And your daddy gets to stay with her. Okay?”
“I want to stay too,” Camila said.
“I know you do,” the nurse said. “But your mommy needs to rest. You’re going to come back tomorrow.”
Camila’s lip pushed out. Her eyes went to Mireya’s face. Mireya’s face stayed in her hair.
Sara’s hand on Mireya’s arm moved. She slid her fingers under Mireya’s wrist where it crossed Camila’s chest.
“Mija,” Sara said. “Let me pick her up. I have to get her home.”
Mireya’s arms tightened, the muscles in her forearms stood out under the skin.
“Mami,” Camila said.
Sara worked her hand under Mireya’s wrist. She lifted gently. The tendons in Mireya’s arm pulled against the lift. Sara’s fingers pressed into the space between Mireya’s wrist and Camila’s chest.
“Mija, por favor,” Sara said. “Solo hasta mañana.”
Mireya’s muscles loosened in stages, the grip breaking at the fingers first, then the wrist, then the forearm. Sara slid her other hand under Camila’s back. She lifted Camila up off the bed. Camila’s hands came up and grabbed at Mireya’s gown, her fingers closing on the cotton at the collar, the fabric stretching where she pulled. Sara unclasped Camila’s fingers one at a time. She pried the index finger off the cotton. Then the middle. Then the ring finger. Then the pinky. Each one let go with a small pop of fabric.
Sara set Camila on the floor on the far side of the bed. Camila’s bare feet hit the linoleum. The stuffed eagle was still in her hand, one wing hanging from her fist.
Mireya’s arms were empty against her chest. Her hands stayed in the shape they had been in around Camila’s body, the fingers curled, the wrists crossed.
“No,” Mireya said. Her voice came out flat.
Sara crouched to put Camila’s shoes on her feet. She worked the first shoe over Camila’s heel, her thumb pressing the back of the shoe down so Camila’s foot could slide in.
“No,” Mireya said.
Sara worked the second shoe on. Mireya pushed up onto her elbows. The IV line pulled at her wrist. The tape stretched. The monitor’s count picked up, the numbers climbing in the green display.
“No,” Mireya said. “No me la quites. No te la lleves, mami.” Her voice climbed. The flat broke out of it and the pitch rose. “Don’t take my baby. Don’t take my baby.”
Caine was up from the chair. His hands went to Mireya’s shoulders. His palms settled against the bones and pressed her back toward the pillow.
“Mi amor,” Caine said. “Mi amor, quédate conmigo.”
“Don’t let them take her,” Mireya said. “Caine. No dejes que se la lleven. Te lo ruego. Por favor.”
“Mami,” Camila said.
Camila’s eyes had filled. The tears sat along the lower lids and her chin pulled in toward her chest. The stuffed eagle dropped out of her hand to the floor. It landed on its side, the wing bent under it.
“Mami, I want to stay!” Camila shouted. “I want to stay with you and my sister.”
She tried to climb back onto the bed. Her hands found the rail and her foot pushed against the base of the mattress. Sara caught her around the waist. Camila planted her feet against the side of the bed and pushed back against Sara’s grip. Sara’s arms locked around her.
Mireya screamed Camila’s name. The sound of it cut through the room and hit the walls and the monitor and the dark glass of the window.
Camila reached her arms toward Mireya. Her fingers stretched open. Sara lifted Camila up off her feet. Camila’s legs kicked. Her shoes caught the side of the bed frame and one of them came loose and dropped to the floor beside the eagle.
The nurse who had come in stepped back to the door and leaned into the hallway. She said something that carried into the corridor and came back muffled. Two more nurses came into the room. One of them was older, gray at her temples, her movements steady. She went to Sara, put her hand on Sara’s back and walked Sara and Camila toward the door. Camila’s screams for mami layered over Mireya’s screams for Camila, the two voices filling the room from opposite sides, the higher pitch of Camila’s climbing over Mireya’s and the lower pitch of Mireya’s driving under it.
Mireya turned her face to Caine. Her hands grabbed at the front of his shirt. Her fingers closed on the cotton and pulled.
“Caine,” Mireya said. “Caine, por favor. No los dejes. Por favor. Mi bebé. Mi bebé.”
Caine put both of his hands on her face. His palms framed her cheeks. His thumbs rested at her temples. He brought his face close to hers.
“Mi amor,” Caine said. “Mi amor. Look at me.”
Mireya turned to Sara at the door. Sara had Camila in her arms. Camila’s face was pressed against Sara’s shoulder, her body shaking with the sobs. One arm reached back toward the bed, the fingers opening and closing.
“Mami,” Mireya screamed. “Mami, por favor. No te la lleves. Mami.”
Sara’s eyes met Mireya’s across the room. The distance between the bed and the door was eight feet. Sara’s jaw worked once. The muscle at the hinge pulled under the skin.
“Mija,” Sara said. “I love you. Te amo, mija. Volveremos mañana.”
Sara walked out. The door swung closed behind her. Camila’s voice carried through the door and down the hall, the sound of it thinning as the distance grew then it cut off.
Mireya screamed, it tore at the back of her throat and the sound of it broke halfway through then came back stronger on the next breath. She turned to Caine. Her fists came up. She hit him in the chest. The blow landed against his sternum and her fist bounced off. Her arms had no strength behind them. She hit him again. Her knuckles caught the cotton of his shirt and the impact barely moved the fabric.
“Bring her back,” Mireya said. “Bring her back. ¡Devuélvenme a mi bebé! ¡Ahora!”
Caine took the hits. His hands stayed at his sides. His chest took each one.
“Mi amor,” Caine said.
Mireya hit him again. This time catching him in the face. The fingers opened and gripped the shirt and the grip was weak.
Caine’s hands closed around her wrists.
“Mi amor,” Caine said. “Te tengo.”
Mireya pulled against his grip. Her shoulders strained, the pull ran through her arms and into his hands. His hands gave with it, letting her move without letting her go.
“Bring her back,” Mireya said. “Caine. Por favor. Tráela. Tráelas.”
The two nurses were at the side of the bed. The older one looked at Caine.
“We need to get her settled,” the older nurse said. “She’s gonna pull her line.”
Caine nodded. His hands stayed around Mireya’s wrists.
The older nurse moved to Mireya’s other side. She put her hand on Mireya’s shoulder. Her palm was flat and her voice was low.
“Mireya,” the nurse said. “Honey. I’m going to give you something to help you rest.”
The other nurse had a syringe in her hand. She uncapped it. The cap came off with a plastic click. She found the port on the IV line and positioned the tip of the syringe at the opening.
Mireya saw the syringe. Her eyes went wide.
“No,” Mireya said. “No. No lo quiero. Quiero a mi bebé. Quiero a mi bebé.”
The nurse pushed the syringe into the port. The plunger went down. The fluid moved through the line.
Mireya kept screaming. Her voice filled the room. It filled the space between the walls and the ceiling and the floor and it pushed against all of them.
The syringe came out. The nurse capped it.
Caine’s hands stayed around Mireya’s wrists. His grip stayed light.
Mireya’s voice kept going. “Mi bebé. Mi bebé. Tráela. Tráela.”
Her voice started to thin. The top of the scream flattened and the sound that came through was lower, closer to her chest. Her wrists went softer in Caine’s hands. The pulling stopped.
“Caine,” Mireya said. “Caine.”
“Estoy aquí mismo, mi amor,” Caine said.
“Mi bebé,” Mireya said.
Her eyes went heavy. The lids dropped, pulled back up and dropped again. Her head turned on the pillow toward Caine. Her cheek found the cotton.
“Mi bebé,” Mireya said. The words came out close to a whisper that barely cleared her lips.
Her eyes closed. Her hands went slack inside Caine’s. The tension ran out of her forearms, her wrists and her fingers all at once. Her hands lay in his palms with nothing behind them.
Caine eased her wrists down to the mattress and eased her shoulder back against the pillow. He pulled the sheet up to her chest. The cotton settled against her collarbone. He tucked the edge under her arm where the IV line ran.
“We’ll come back to check on her in a few minutes,” the older nurse said.
Caine nodded. The nurses left the room.
Caine sat down in the chair. The vinyl creaked under his weight. He looked at the floor beside the bed.
The stuffed eagle lay on its side where Camila had dropped it, the wing bent under its body, the fabric warm from the room. Beside it, Camila’s shoe rested on its side, the sole facing the bed frame.
He bent and picked up the eagle. He turned it over in his hand. The stitching along the belly had loosened where Camila’s grip had worked it, the thread pulling in small loops from the seam.
He looked at Mireya’s face. Her eyes were closed. Her breathing had gone slow. The monitor’s count had come back down.
He worked her hand open against the sheet, spreading her fingers gently with his thumb, opening the curl of her palm. He set the eagle there and folded her fingers around the wing.
He took her other hand off the sheet. He brought it to his face. He pressed his forehead against the back of her hand, his elbows on the mattress, his head bowed over her fingers.
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djp73
- Posts: 13163
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7797
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
American Sun
Stephanie about to have her work cut out for her if she's still around 
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redsox907
- Posts: 6088
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
American Sun
Stephanie heard her screaming and decided her job was overCaptain Canada wrote: ↑19 May 2026, 09:56Stephanie about to have her work cut out for her if she's still around
tough scene. Curious if the guilt of her blaming herself for the premie (which is 100% her fault for not heeding the doctors orders and taking it easy) will get her to stop running a daycare for lost sperm
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7797
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
American Sun
. Daycare for lost sperm is incredible work, sir.redsox907 wrote: ↑19 May 2026, 15:53Stephanie heard her screaming and decided her job was overCaptain Canada wrote: ↑19 May 2026, 09:56Stephanie about to have her work cut out for her if she's still around
tough scene. Curious if the guilt of her blaming herself for the premie (which is 100% her fault for not heeding the doctors orders and taking it easy) will get her to stop running a daycare for lost sperm
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16766
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
American Sun
I think not, sir.
She's a professional. She'll be aite.Captain Canada wrote: ↑19 May 2026, 09:56Stephanie about to have her work cut out for her if she's still around
Diabolical.redsox907 wrote: ↑19 May 2026, 15:53Stephanie heard her screaming and decided her job was overCaptain Canada wrote: ↑19 May 2026, 09:56Stephanie about to have her work cut out for her if she's still around
tough scene. Curious if the guilt of her blaming herself for the premie (which is 100% her fault for not heeding the doctors orders and taking it easy) will get her to stop running a daycare for lost sperm
More like 60-75% her fault. She had a placental aburption. That's spontaneous. That's a crazy thing to say though
Seek God.Captain Canada wrote: ↑19 May 2026, 16:17. Daycare for lost sperm is incredible work, sir.redsox907 wrote: ↑19 May 2026, 15:53Stephanie heard her screaming and decided her job was overCaptain Canada wrote: ↑19 May 2026, 09:56Stephanie about to have her work cut out for her if she's still around
tough scene. Curious if the guilt of her blaming herself for the premie (which is 100% her fault for not heeding the doctors orders and taking it easy) will get her to stop running a daycare for lost sperm
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16766
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16766
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47