Chapter 9 - The Four-Minute Mark
The waiting room clock clicked with the agonizing precision of a countdown timer.
Eight minutes.
Twelve minutes.
Twenty minutes.
Marcus sat three seats away from me, staring at the floor. The hostility between us had been burned away by the sheer terror of what we had almost allowed to happen.
"I thought I was saving her," Marcus said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the vending machines. "She came to my office, David. She was shaking so hard she dropped her keys. She told me she couldn't breathe in that house. She said you looked at her like she was another contract that was going to default."
"I did," I admitted, staring at my own trembling hands. "I did, Marcus. I was terrified of losing the house. I was terrified of looking like a failure. I grew up poor. My father went bankrupt when I was twelve and he walked out on my mother because he couldn't stand the shame. I swore I would never let my family feel poor."
"Emma never cared about the money," Marcus said softly. "She lived on twenty-eight thousand a year when I met her. She ate peanut butter sandwiches so she could buy coats for kids in the shelter. She didn't need your millions, David. She just needed you to be in the room with her."
"I know," I whispered. "I know."
The double doors of the surgical wing swung open with a heavy metallic clack.
A pediatrician in green scrubs walked out, pushing a clear plastic warming isolette. Inside lay a bundle smaller than a loaf of bread, surrounded by wires, with a tiny CPAP mask covering half of his face.
I stood up so fast my chair skidded against the wall.
"Mr. Harris?" the doctor called out.
"Yes! Is he...?"
"You have a son," the pediatrician said, a faint smile breaking through his exhaustion. "Four pounds, two ounces. Born at nine-fourteen AM. He was in respiratory distress, but we intubated immediately and his oxygen saturation is already climbing to ninety-four percent. His lungs are remarkably mature for thirty-four weeks."
I approached the isolette on trembling legs.
Through the clear acrylic, I saw his tiny, wrinkled hands. His fingers were opening and closing against the sterile blanket, fighting for purchase on the world. He had a dusting of dark hair, exactly like Emma’s.
"Can I... can I touch him?" I asked, my voice cracking.
"Just for a second, through the portal," the nurse said gently.
I slipped my index finger through the rubberized port. The tiny boy’s hand immediately clamped around my knuckle. His grip was astonishingly strong, anchoring me to the earth with a force that shattered every selfish instinct I had ever harbored.
"Hello, little man," I wept, resting my forehead against the warm plastic. "I'm your dad. I'm sorry I'm late."
"We're taking him to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit," the doctor said. "He’s stable, Mr. Harris. He’s going to be okay."
They wheeled the isolette away toward the elevator bay.
I watched them go, my heart soaring with relief, before the cold dread slammed back into my chest.
"And Emma?" I turned back toward the surgical corridor. "Where is Emma?"
The pediatrician didn't answer. He simply looked down at his chart and stepped into the elevator.
Dr. Miller emerged from the surgical doors a moment later. He had removed his mask, and his eyes were dark with gravity.
"David," Miller said.
May you like
My breath caught in my throat. "Doctor. Tell me."
***
