A sudden gush of fluid soaked the stretcher, and her tiny baby slid into the hands of a startled doctor. “We have a girl,” he said. Mick lifted Caitlin’s head so she could see.
“She’s so small.” Dread snaked its way into her soul as they whisked her daughter to a table with warming lamps glowing above it.
“Is she okay? Why isn’t she crying?” Caitlin tightened her grip on Mick’s hand. So many people crowded around the baby that she couldn’t see her. She tried to sit up, but a nurse held her back.
“Your baby’s being taken care of.”
“Just tell me she’s okay. Please, someone tell me she’s okay.” Frantic now, Caitlin struggled to push the nurse aside, but a sudden, sharp pain in her chest halted her.
She tried to draw a breath but couldn’t get any air. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. She collapsed back onto the bed as the crushing pain overwhelmed her.
Long minutes later, they wheeled the baby’s bed up beside her. Caitlin turned her head and focused on her daughter’s small face. For an instant, all her pain faded away.
Her baby was so beautiful—so tiny—so perfect. But she wasn’t moving. Someone spoke, but Caitlin couldn’t hear them over the roaring in her ears. Then they pushed her baby’s bed out the door. Their faces were all so grim.
“Is she dead, Mick?” Caitlin whispered, terrified to hear the answer.
“No,” he answered quickly. “They’re taking her to the NICU. It’s a special intensive care just for babies. They’ll take good care of her there. She’s going to be fine.”
“Why isn’t—she crying?” The pain in her chest made it hard to talk.
“It’s because she’s so premature,” Mick answered. “She has a tube going into her airway to help her breathe, and she can’t make any sound with that in.”
Caitlin’s own breathing had become short, labored panting. A frowning nurse slipped a plastic mask over Caitlin’s face and spoke to the doctor. He frowned, too.
Caitlin looked from face to face. She didn’t know any of these people. Who would look after her baby?
She gripped Mick’s arm, pulling him closer. “Go with her.”
He glanced at the E.R. staff, then back to her. “I think I should stay with you.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted. She forced a smile to her trembling lips. A strange cold was seeping into her bones. “Stay with—Beth. Watch over her for me.”
He patted her hand. “Okay. I’ll be back soon.”
Nodding, she whispered, “Thank you,” and watched him hurry out the door.
The nurse beside her claimed her attention. “I need you to tell me your name.”
“Caitlin—Williams,” she wheezed.
“Are you allergic to any medication? Are you using any street drugs?” Caitlin shook her head at each question the nurse fired at her. The room grew dark around the edges.
So this was what it was like to die. She wanted to cry because she knew what would happen to her daughter now—the same things that had happened to her. It wasn’t fair.
“Who is your next of kin?” The nurse continued to insist on answers. Caitlin only wanted to close her eyes and rest, but more people crowded around her, taking her blood pressure, listening to her heart, poking needles in her arm, sticking wires on her chest. They were all frowning.
“Is the man who came in with you the baby’s father?” the nurse asked.
“What?” Caitlin tried to focus on the woman’s face.
“I said, is that man the baby’s father?”
Would Mick see that her daughter was taken care of? She could say he was the father, then he’d have the right to look after her. Would he understand? It didn’t matter, she was out of time. She nodded as she whispered, “Yes.”
“What is his name?”
“Mick…O’Callaghan.” Don’t let her be alone, Mick. Please, take care of her.
Darkness swooped in and began to pull Caitlin away. She struggled against it. She needed to stay for her baby.
“We’re losing her,” someone shouted.
Chapter Two
Mick caught up with the baby as they wheeled her into the nearest elevator. Squeezing in beside them, he stared in amazement at Caitlin’s daughter. He’d never seen anything so tiny. Her head was no bigger than the palm of his hand; his little finger was thicker than her gangly legs, yet she was so complete. Downy, brown hair covered her head and miniature wrinkles creased her forehead above arching brows. She even had eyelashes! The tiny spikes lay curved against her cheek. Awed by the wonder of this new life, he gazed at her in fascination. Truly, here was one of God’s greatest creations.
Her delicate hands flew up and curled around the breathing tube taped in her mouth.
“No, honey, don’t pull on that,” a nurse chided as she pried the tiny fingers loose. “Hold Daddy’s hand instead,” she suggested with an encouraging smile.
Hesitantly, almost fearfully, Mick reached for the baby’s hand. Her thin fingers gripped his large, blunt one. Her eyes fluttered open. She stared at him and blinked, then her frown deepened into a scowl. An identical, miniature version of her mother’s, and Michael Aaron O’Callaghan fell hopelessly in love.
“She looks like her mom,” he said, surprised to hear the catch in his voice. He glanced at the woman beside him. “Will she be all right?”
“She has a very good chance, but there is a long road ahead of her, I’m afraid. I’m Dr. Wright. I’m one of the neonatologists on staff here. Her lungs are much too immature to work properly, so she’s going to need help. She’ll be placed on a ventilator once we reach the unit.” As she spoke, she continued rhythmically squeezing a small, gray bag that delivered oxygen to the baby. “Do you have a name for her?”
“Beth,” he answered, “or maybe Elizabeth. Her mother can tell you for sure. When can she come and see her?”
“We’ll be busy getting Beth admitted and stabilized for the next hour or so. I’d suggest you wait until then to bring Mom in.” The elevator doors slid open, and Mick followed them as they wheeled the baby across the hall and into the NICU.
A flurry of activity began as soon as they entered the large room. At first, it seemed like nurses were scurrying in all directions at once, but it quickly became apparent it was a controlled rush as Beth was placed on a larger bed, and hooked to a waiting ventilator. Within minutes, a jungle of wires, IV poles, tubing and oxygen hoses surrounded her.
Glancing around the room, Mick noted with amusement its peculiar mix of Mother Goose and science-fiction technology. Rows of flashing monitors and digital displays shared wall space with giant nursery-rhyme characters above the open beds and incubators. IV poles held bags of fluid, swaying mobiles and colorful toys.
Dr. Wright spoke as she worked. “We need to administer a medication directly into Beth’s lungs to help mature them and start some IVs.”
Mick interrupted, “What are her chances, honestly?”
“She weighs barely two pounds, and she looks to be about twenty-six weeks gestation, which means she was born fourteen weeks early. Her chances of survival are good if she doesn’t develop any