Chapter 14 - The Baby Who Arrived Before the Storm Ended |
The first contraction came at four thirty-seven on a Sunday morning.
I was standing in the kitchen, trying to convince myself that peanut butter belonged on a toasted bagel with sliced strawberries.
Dante was reading the newspaper at the counter.
He looked up when I suddenly gripped the edge of the sink.
"Nora?"
I held up one hand.
"Don't panic."
He immediately stood.
"Why would I panic?"
"Because you're already panicking."
He looked offended.
"I'm perfectly calm."
I waited.
The tightening sensation slowly passed.
I exhaled.
Dante was still standing beside his chair.
"Was that a contraction?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe?"
I smiled.
"Apparently babies aren't required to send calendar invitations."
He picked up his phone.
"Should I call the doctor?"
I looked at the clock.
"We can follow the instructions they gave us."
He checked the folder from my prenatal appointments.
I had never seen a man study a document with such intensity.
"Timing," he muttered.
"Frequency. Duration. Other warning signs."
I laughed.
"Dante, you're reading it like a merger agreement."
"This is significantly more important than a merger."
I kissed his cheek.
"That may be the smartest thing you've ever said."
By seven, the contractions were becoming regular.
We called the maternity unit.
A nurse asked several questions and advised us to come in for evaluation.
Dante collected the hospital bag.
Then collected another.
And another.
I stared at him.
"How many bags did you pack?"
"Three."
"Why?"
"Contingencies."
I laughed so hard another contraction interrupted me.
Dante immediately went pale.
"Are you okay?"
I gripped his hand.
"Yes."
He breathed out.
"Okay."
Then I looked at the door.
"Where's the car seat?"
He froze.
For the first time since I'd met Dante Corvino, I watched him lose an argument to a piece of baby equipment.
Margaret arrived at the hospital twenty minutes after we did.
She wore a lavender cardigan and carried an enormous handbag.
Inside were crackers, tissues, phone chargers, hand lotion, two books, and a tiny stuffed bear.
"Margaret," I said, "are you moving in?"
She kissed my forehead.
"Someone has to keep your billionaire from fainting."
Dante gave her a wounded look.
"I don't faint."
Margaret patted his cheek.
"We'll see."
Sarah Jenkins happened to be working that morning.
When she entered the room, I started crying.
She stopped.
"Nora?"
I reached for her hand.
"You saved me."
Her eyes softened.
"The trauma team did the medical work."
"You caught me."
She squeezed my fingers.
"I remember."
I looked at the bright, clean room.
Months earlier, I'd entered another hospital department terrified that my baby would die.
Now I was here because my baby was ready to enter the world.
The difference overwhelmed me.
Sarah glanced at the monitor.
"And today we're going to focus on getting you through this safely."
I nodded.
"Okay."
She smiled.
"You have a whole team."
Labor was nothing like the movies.
There was no convenient sequence of dramatic contractions followed by a smiling baby wrapped in a perfect blanket.
There were hours of waiting.
Medical checks.
Breathing.
Exhaustion.
Moments when I wanted everyone to leave.
And moments when I couldn't stand the thought of Dante moving six inches away.
At one point, I gripped his hand so hard he winced.
"Sorry," I gasped.
"Don't apologize."
I squeezed again.
He went pale.
Margaret laughed from the corner.
"I told you he might faint."
Dante looked at her.
"Margaret, respectfully, this is not helping."
I burst out laughing.
Then another contraction arrived.
And I stopped laughing immediately.
The medical team monitored the baby closely.
Because of my earlier injuries and complications, the doctors had prepared several possible plans.
They explained each decision.
They asked for my consent.
They gave me information without frightening me unnecessarily.
I had never appreciated that kind of respect more.
After hours of labor, my obstetrician approached the bed.
"Nora, the baby's heart rate has shown changes that concern us."
My stomach dropped.
"What does that mean?"
"We're assessing the safest way to proceed. I want to discuss the possibility of a cesarean delivery."
I looked at Dante.
His face had gone white.
But he didn't speak for me.
The doctor explained the findings, the risks, and the available options.
I asked questions.
She answered them.
Then I looked at Dante.
"I'm scared."
He kissed my forehead.
"I know."
I swallowed.
"I just want our baby safe."
"So do I."
He brushed tears from my cheek.
"Tell the doctors what you need to know, sweetheart. I'm right here."
When the team recommended moving ahead with a cesarean because of continuing concerns, I agreed.
The staff moved with practiced efficiency.
Dante changed into surgical clothing.
And I tried to breathe through my fear.
In the operating room, I stared at the bright lights.
A blue drape separated me from the surgical field.
Dante sat near my head, wearing a mask.
His eyes were the only part of his face I could see.
They were wet.
"Are you crying?" I whispered.
"No."
I raised an eyebrow.
He sighed.
"Yes."
I laughed weakly.
He took my hand.
"You're incredible."
"I'm terrified."
"You can be both."
I watched him.
"Promise me something."
"Anything."
"If something goes wrong, listen to the doctors."
His eyes tightened.
"Nora."
"Please."
He pressed my hand against his cheek.
"I will."
I closed my eyes.
For a moment, I remembered the night of the attack.
The rain.
The ambulance.
The darkness.
The fear that my baby's heartbeat might disappear.
I had carried that memory for months.
Now I was surrounded by people working to bring my child safely into the world.
I took a breath.
Then another.
And somewhere beyond the drape, I heard a sound.
Small.
Sharp.
Perfect.
A newborn's cry.
I stopped breathing.
Dante stood halfway out of his chair.
The doctor spoke.
"Your baby is here."
Tears flooded my eyes.
"Is she okay?"
The pediatric team assessed her.
I waited through the longest seconds of my life.
Then a voice answered.
"She's doing well."
Dante covered his mouth.
I started sobbing.
A nurse carefully brought our daughter close enough for me to see her face.
She had dark hair.
A tiny nose.
And the most indignant expression I'd ever seen.
"Oh, sweetheart."
My voice broke.
"You're here."
Dante bent beside me.
He was crying openly now.
"She's beautiful."
I looked at him.
"She looks like you."
He laughed.
"Poor girl."
I smiled through tears.
Then the nurse asked if we'd chosen a name.
I looked at Dante.
We had discussed dozens.
Elegant names.
Traditional names.
Names from our families.
But there was one I'd kept returning to.
A name that reminded me of the woman who had helped bring me safely into the hospital.
A name that also meant something simple.
Grace.
"Grace," I whispered.
Dante's eyes filled again.
"Grace Corvino."
He kissed my forehead.
"Welcome to the world, Grace."
Dante held our daughter for the first time later that morning.
I watched from the recovery bed.
He looked impossibly careful.
As though she were made of sunlight.
Grace rested against his chest, wrapped in a pale blanket.
Dante stared at her fingers.
Then her eyelashes.
Then the tiny movement of her mouth.
I smiled.
"She's not going to break."
He glanced at me.
"I'm not entirely convinced."
I laughed.
He looked down again.
"Hello, little miracle."
Grace opened her eyes briefly.
Dante became perfectly still.
"She looked at me."
"She's a newborn, Dante."
"She knows."
I smiled.
"Of course she does."
He leaned closer to her.
"I'm your dad."
His voice trembled.
"I've been waiting a very long time to meet you."
I felt tears slide down my cheeks.
He kissed the top of her head.
"And I promise I'm going to spend the rest of my life learning how to deserve this."
I reached for his hand.
"You already love her."
He nodded.
"More than I knew was possible."
"Then you're doing the most important part."
That evening, after Margaret had gone home and the nurses dimmed the lights, Dante sat beside my bed holding Grace.
The room was quiet.
Our daughter slept peacefully.
I watched him study her face.
"You're thinking about Isabella," I said gently.
He looked up.
"Yes."
I reached for his hand.
"And the baby you lost."
He nodded.
For a moment, he couldn't speak.
Then he whispered, "I wish I'd known."
I squeezed his fingers.
"I know."
He looked down at Grace.
"I used to think that if I ever became a father, I would spend my entire life terrified of losing my child."
I watched him.
"Are you?"
"Yes."
He smiled sadly.
"But I think I'm beginning to understand that fear isn't the same as love."
I nodded.
"Love is what we do despite the fear."
He kissed my hand.
"You're going to be an extraordinary mother."
I smiled.
"I'm going to make mistakes."
"So am I."
"Grace will probably hate us when she's sixteen."
Dante looked horrified.
"Let's not discuss that yet."
I laughed.
Then he became serious.
"Nora."
"Yes?"
"I want to ask you something."
I raised an eyebrow.
"If this involves buying her a yacht, the answer is no."
He laughed.
"No yachts."
He shifted Grace carefully in his arms.
"I want to give you a home."
I looked at him.
"Not a mansion."
"No."
"Not some enormous property where I need a map to find the kitchen."
He smiled.
"Not unless you design it that way."
I stared at him.
He continued.
"I bought a small piece of land near Lake Michigan."
"Dante."
"There's nothing built on it."
He looked almost nervous.
"I thought perhaps you could design something."
My breath caught.
"For us?"
"For us."
I began crying.
He smiled.
"And maybe for the community center you've been drawing."
I looked at him.
"You're serious?"
"Completely."
I wiped my cheeks.
"Then I have one condition."
"Anything."
"The house has to have a front door that's never locked against someone who needs help."
Dante's eyes softened.
"We can do that."
I looked at our sleeping daughter.
For the first time in my life, the word home didn't make me think of a place I wanted to escape.
It made me think of somewhere I wanted to stay.
Two days later, Evelyn called with news about Arthur's case.
After extensive negotiations, he had agreed to plead guilty to several offenses.
He would receive a sentence determined through the court process.
Additional proceedings concerning Voss and other defendants were still ongoing.
Dante listened quietly.
Then thanked her.
When he ended the call, I looked at him.
"What happened?"
He told me.
I stared at Grace sleeping in her bassinet.
For months, I'd imagined that hearing Arthur admit guilt would make me feel triumphant.
But I felt something quieter.
A door closing.
A heavy one.
A door I had spent years trying to open.
"Are you okay?" Dante asked.
I nodded.
"I think so."
He sat beside me.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
I looked at our daughter.
Then at the window.
Snow was beginning to fall over Chicago.
"No."
I smiled faintly.
"Not tonight."
Dante kissed my forehead.
"Okay."
I took his hand.
"Tonight, I just want to be Grace's mother."
He looked at our daughter.
"And I'm happy to be her dad."
May you like
We sat together in the soft hospital light.
And outside, the first snow of the season covered the city that had once nearly taken everything from us.
