by Beth K. Vogt
“I’ll never forget it, that’s for sure.”
Claire stopped ten feet from the doors that led to the NICU. “Stephen.”
“What?”
“Thank you. Thank you for being there for Haley.”
“Like I told her, there was no place else I’d rather be. I did it for Sam—and for her, too, of course.” He moved forward. “You ready to meet the most adorable little girl in the world?”
It had been less than twelve hours since his niece had been born. But he still couldn’t believe how seeing her look around, react to people’s touch, even calm down when he spoke to her, tugged at something deep in his chest, centered right where his heart was. He thought of his love for Elissa—why else would he have planned on proposing? And he resisted examining too closely the jumble of emotions attached to Haley. But what he felt for this baby girl who looked at him through his brother’s brown eyes . . . it was pure. Uncomplicated.
“Claire, meet Peanut.”
“Peanut?”
“Well, I couldn’t keep calling her ‘the baby,’ could I?” The baby’s eyes were hidden from him as she slept. “And she’s so little, ‘Peanut’ seemed to fit.”
“She sounds like a snack food.”
Just that moment, the baby yawned and then opened her eyes.
With a small gasp, Claire tucked her hands to her chest and leaned close. “Oh, she has brown eyes like you!”
“Like Sam. Brown eyes like Sam.”
“Of course—and you, too.” A soft smile curved Claire’s lips. “So when can she come home?”
“No one is saying yet. It’s all about tests and levels . . . I think the doctor is going to talk to Haley later today. They haven’t let Peanut eat yet because she’s still breathing so fast, but that’s improved in the last couple of hours.”
They both stepped aside as a nurse approached the warmer. She listened to the infant’s heartbeat and respirations. Claire continued their conversation in a low voice. “What does breathing fast have to do with letting her eat?”
The nurse finished checking Peanut and then answered Claire’s question. “There’s a number of reasons, but probably the easiest to understand is it’s hard to swallow when you’re breathing about sixty times a minute.”
Made sense.
“I’m going back to the room to check on Haley.” Claire touched Stephen’s arm. “I’ll let her know you’re with Peanut.”
“You can keep that nickname between us.”
“Sure thing, Uncle Stephen.”
After Claire left, Stephen washed his hands under the warm water, lathering and relathering his skin. He couldn’t be too careful with a newborn. She lay on her back, an unbelievably small diaper covering her bottom.
The moment he put his finger on her hand, she circled it with her fingers and held on. As she breathed, her tummy rose and fell, rose and fell. Wondrous. The sound of the machine keeping track of her heartbeats faded into the background and he closed his eyes and just focused on Peanut’s breathing, allowing himself to exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Each breath a prayer for this little girl who in some inexplicable way contained a part of his brother. Yes, she had Sam’s eyes. But at her very essence, she was Sam . . . and Haley . . . and God’s amazing creation all woven together into ten toes and ten fingers and brown eyes and the barest smidgen of a nose and lips that quivered, and a muted cry that burrowed into his heart and lodged there.
twenty
Giving birth was becoming a bit of a blur. How was that possible? Her daughter was two days old, and the pain, the pushing, the “come on, come on” longing for the baby’s arrival, the shock of having a daughter no longer mattered. Maybe that was why some women had more than one child.
Not her, not since she’d lost Sam. But other women.
Even as the details of labor and delivery faded, Haley could still remember holding on to Stephen’s hand. The way he stood beside her hospital bed, never complaining, no matter how hard she squeezed his fingers. The sweet relief when he pressed a cool, wet washcloth to her forehead and neck as she rested between contractions. The deep timbre of his voice assuring her that she could do all her body demanded of her. And how she almost believed him when he told her she was beautiful. How funny that the first time a man ever told her she was beautiful she was panting, sweating, and struggling to give birth!
Of course, Stephen would have said anything to help her. She knew he didn’t mean it—not when she wore a nondescript hospital gown that was damp with sweat and who knew what else. But still . . . she had taken the next wave of pain with renewed strength.
Haley’s memories scattered when a nurse entered her room “Haley?”
“Yes?”
“Would you like to go see your daughter again? It’s quiet up at the NICU.”
“Absolutely.” The nurse’s question expanded the now ever-present warmth in her heart into a tiny flame of longing. “Let me get my robe on.”
“Do you need any help?”
“No, I’m fine.”
She slipped into Sam’s old Turkish robe, which still held a faint hint of his familiar scent, belting it around her waist—well, where her waist used to be. She hadn’t even thought about what her post-pregnancy body would look like. She looked as worn out as she felt.
Once she settled into the rocking chair beside her daughter’s Isolette, which was labeled with BABY GIRL AMES, a nurse placed the baby in her arms. She was wrapped like a four-pound burrito, her tiny hands tucked just against the top edges of the blanket. Haley tried to block out the ever-present sounds of the machines monitoring infants’ heart rates, respirations, and oxygen levels. She touched one tiny hand, smoothing the fingers with the translucent nails over her forefinger after pressing a soft kiss to the wrinkled skin.
She tucked the baby closer to her, ignoring the pressure building in her chest. Would she be able to breast-feed? So far all she could do was pump and store breast milk for future use. The lactation instructor had come by, encouraging her to persevere despite not actually nursing yet, and despite the warning that preemies sometimes had difficulty nursing. She had to ignore the voice that labeled herself a walking “milk factory.” She was a mom, doing what needed to be done. For now, she needed to be content with holding her daughter and hope the doctor let her go home soon. And if not, then she’d fight to stay in the hospital with the baby. She had no reason to go home—and one life-changing reason to stay here.
Haley closed her eyes, rocking back and forth, savoring the warmth of the baby in her arms, the soft lilt of her breathing.
“I need to name you, you know.” She nuzzled the baby’s head, which was covered in a soft pink knit cap. “You don’t look like a Clint Barton.”
“I did some research on that.”
The sound of Stephen’s voice interrupted the sweet reverie of motherhood. “I was talking to myself.”
“No, you were talking to Peanut.”
He looked . . . good. As if he’d slept. Showered—his hair still damp around the long ends that curled around his ears. “Peanut?”
“That’s what I started calling her.” A smile deepened the cleft in his chin. “I couldn’t just keep saying ‘baby’ or ‘her’ or ‘that one over there.’ ”
“You did not call her ‘that one over there.’ ” Haley kept her arms still and strong around her baby. No patting. No stroking. Nothing that might irritate a preemie.
He knelt beside the rocking chair. “Well, no, I didn’t call her that. But don’t you think ‘Peanut’ fits her? She’s so tiny.”
“It doesn’t feel like I’m holding anything—and yet she’s the most precious thing in the world.”
“So, about her name . . .” Stephen’s gaze lingered on the baby she held in her arms.
“You have suggestions?”
“Well, since you’d planned on continuing the whole Marvel-comic-book-hero tradition started by my father, I printed up a whole list of Marvel superheroines. I figured you didn’t want any vil
lainesses.”
“True.” She shifted so she was turned more toward Stephen, who remained crouched beside the rocking chair. The scent of his aftershave slipped past her defenses.
“But I did want to tell you one interesting bit of Marvel trivia.” His finger stroked the baby’s hand where it rested on Haley’s hand. “Did you know there was a female Hawkeye?”
“No, there wasn’t.”
“An Ames never—” His jest faded into silence.
Oh. Yes. An Ames never lies. And the last time he’d said that, she’d been so sleep-deprived, so overwhelmed, she’d twisted him into some living, breathing apparition of Sam.
She kept her eyes lowered. “I know. So . . . you were going to suggest a name?”
His glance skimmed her face. Mouth. Eyes. Back to the baby. “I printed up the papers—left them on the table in your room. The female Hawkeye’s name is Katherine Elizabeth, and she goes by Kate.” He brushed her daughter’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “She looks like a Kate, don’t you think?”
“Kate. It might work. Or Kit. Kate Ames. Kit Ames.” She watched her sleeping daughter, her eyes closed, her eyelashes and eyebrows barely visible. “Is that your name, hmm? Kit?”
“So, any news on when you and Peanut can head home?”
“Not yet. I’m waiting for the doctor to come talk to me. I have a feeling we’re here for another night.” Kit’s silent yawn was the sweetest moment. What were she and Stephen talking about? “And if she has to stay for another day or two, I’m told there’s a boarding option available so I can stay in the hospital with her.”
“You can trust the doctor to do the right thing—and it’s good to know they don’t plan to throw you out.” He rose to his feet, twisting from side to side, accentuating his trim build. “I hope it’s okay that I let both my parents know about the baby arriving a few weeks early.”
Miriam! In the midst of the craziness, she hadn’t even thought to call Sam’s mother. “Oh, Stephen, thank you—I can’t believe I didn’t even think—”
“Nobody expects you to handle all the phone calls, Haley.” His yawn was a grown-up version of her daughter’s. “Claire tells me that your mom is on her way to help.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Well then, I’ll just say good-bye here and let you have some time with this little girl.”
“Good-bye?” She forced her voice lower. Calmer. “Where are you going?”
“Back to Fort Collins.” He tucked his hands in his pant pockets. “This has all been fun, but I’ve put off job-hunting long enough. And Jared e-mailed me a few ideas.”
“Oh.” Haley concentrated on Kit, who squirmed and fussed in her arms. “Well, then. Thanks for everything.”
“Glad to be here.”
Her throat was dry, the words scratchy. “I’ll talk to you—”
“Of course. Sometime.”
“You’ve got my number.”
“Yep.”
He bent low, and for a moment, Haley expected him to press a kiss to her cheek. But instead his lips grazed Kit’s forehead.
“Good-bye, Peanut. Behave for your mom, you hear? Don’t keep her up all night.” His brown eyes searched hers. “Take care of yourself.”
“You, too. Thank you . . . for being there.”
“Anytime. That’s what uncles—and brothers-in-law—are for.”
She thought about reaching out and giving him a hug. Just a gesture of thanks. But she didn’t.
Instead, she watched him walk out of the NICU. His gait steady, his posture straight. Just like Sam’s—only slower. As if he were more confident in who he was. His dark hair glinting under the hospital lights. Just like Sam’s—except for how the ends brushed his ears and the nape of his neck.
She’d miss him.
Not like she missed Sam.
But she’d miss him all the same.
Stephen surveyed his work from the middle of the bedroom. Fresh air blew in through the open window, diluting the odor of paint. Would Haley like this color for Peanut’s room? He’d steered clear of anything close to pink, hoping she would approve of a warm, muted yellow. It was a little late to worry about the choice now that he’d spent the day taping, spackling, and layering two coats of Sweet Chamomile onto the walls.
He picked up the paint tray and brush, dodging the crib, which was covered with a clear plastic drop cloth. Time for clean-up, and then he’d head back up I-25 to Fort Collins.
Twenty minutes later, he abandoned the paint supplies in the tub when he heard the front door open.
“Stephen, are you still painting?” Claire’s voice grew louder as she neared the bedroom.
“Just finished up.” He turned off the water, half-rising to his feet. “Were you able to get the cradle?”
“Yes—it’s perfect.” Haley’s friend appeared in the doorway, wearing a deep red cape coat. “You want to help me carry it in?”
“Don’t even try to bring it in. Let me wash my hands and I’ll be right there.”
Claire stood beside her Cabriolet convertible when he walked outside. “I didn’t put it in my car. The woman who sold it to me asked her husband to load it in the back for me.”
Stephen was already second-guessing himself. “What do you think Haley will say when she sees this?”
“It’s beautiful—and it’s exactly what Haley needs. She just doesn’t know it yet. Her plan was to have a son who slept through the night in a crib in his room when he was three days old.” Claire pulled open the hatch. “You can already see how her plans are working out.”
“I half expected her to ask someone in the NICU about whether they do trades.” Stephen hauled the cradle out of the car. “But then I see her holding Peanut and I know that’s not going to happen.”
“Hardly. That baby is all she has left of Sam.” Claire, who was ahead of him, stopped, looking over her shoulder. “I mean, there’s you of course, but—”
“I get it, Claire. It’s not the same thing.” He carried the white cradle into Haley’s room, setting it beside the bed. “Is this a good place to put it?”
“Perfect. Oh! Let me go get the bedding—it’s all pink. The woman included it. No extra charge.”
Fifteen minutes later, Claire found him in the bathroom, bent over the side of the tub, rinsing and rerinsing the paintbrush. “So, what are your plans now, Stephen?”
“Plans? Well, I’m going to get cleaned up and then I’m heading back to Fort Collins.”
“It sounds like the baby is staying in the hospital for up to a week—and that means Haley, too. At least, that’s what she said when I talked to her on the phone earlier. And then her mom comes next week, so it’s okay. I was all ready to help, but I’ll just keep hanging out at the hospital.”
“Everything’s falling into place, then.” He set the brush in the paint tray. Stood, and walked over to the sink to begin scrubbing yellow paint off his hands. He’d deal with whatever he’d gotten in his hair when he got home. “Everything’s getting covered.”
“What you’ve done—it’s amazing, Stephen.”
“I’m only doing what Sam would have done if he were here.”
“No—no, this is way more than Sam would have ever done—” Claire clapped her hand over her mouth, her green eyes wide.
“What are you saying, Claire? That my brother wouldn’t have helped Haley with the baby?”
“Oh, sure, Sam would have been there for the delivery—if he wasn’t deployed or training or something. But all of that—” She motioned back toward the baby’s room. “—the painting and finding a cradle—he would have left that to Haley.”
Stephen nudged the hot water hotter. “Wouldn’t they have had fun doing that together?”
“That’s just it: Sam and Haley didn’t do a lot together. We always joked they were ‘married singles,’ you know? It wasn’t that they didn’t love each other—I mean, why would they have gotten married if they didn’t? But Sam’s biggest compliment to Haley was alway
s how much he loved not having to worry about her.”
Stephen turned off the water, shaking his hands over the sink to dry them off. “Can you go find me an old towel in the garage, please? I saw some in there when Haley and I were organizing it the other day.” He motioned to the blue towels hanging on the rack. “I don’t want to get these dirty.”
“Sure thing. Be right back.”
After Claire left, Stephen turned and leaned against the vanity, his arms at his sides. What kind of marriage did his brother and Haley have exactly? Not that he had any right to ask the question—or any way of knowing, except based on what Claire said. And she was an outsider looking in. Except for when Haley broke down during labor—and she didn’t know he’d heard her say she wanted Sam—she’d hardly mentioned his brother.
Married singles.
What kind of marriage was that?
twenty-one
Stephen couldn’t put his life on hold forever. He lived in—needed to be in—Fort Collins.
He’d been back home for four days, and his rolling suitcase still sat just inside the door to his apartment, next to his laptop bag, which he’d let slide off his shoulder and land on the floor beside it.
He’d managed to sleep—some—the last three nights, but the exhaustion that had trailed him north from the Springs lingered. And somehow the gravitational pull that tugged his mind, heart, and body back toward a tiny bundle of a baby with his brother’s brown eyes—he refused to admit how easily he could recall the blue depths of Haley’s eyes—only got stronger with the passing of every hour.
He needed to shake it off—whatever this was. He needed to focus.
It was nine thirty in the morning, and the day demanded more from him than inactivity. What should he do first? He could unpack his suitcase and start laundry. Or he could get his laptop out of his messenger bag, power it up, and restart his job search. Or he could go online, find out if Haley had a Facebook page, and if she did, send her a friend request in the hopes that she’d forget all the reasons to ignore him—including the fact that he’d barged into the delivery room—and friend him. And then he could hope she’d posted photos of his niece so that he could spend the next hour looking at them.
