Free Arrive by Nina Lane Page B

of hair away from Liv’s forehead and graze my fingers against her smooth cheek. A noise sounds from the adjoining room, and I straighten as a nurse enters. She smiles at me.
    “He’s just in here,” she whispers, gesturing behind her.
    I follow her into the room, where Nicholas is in his little bassinet. There’s a blue knit cap on his head, and he’s starting to squirm out of his blanket.
    “He’ll be hungry by the time Liv wakes up, so we’ll bring him in for breastfeeding,” the nurse tells me. “You’re welcome to have some time with him now. Just press the buzzer if you need anything.”
    She motions to a buzzer beside a rocking chair and leaves the room. I look at my son for a moment before reaching into the bassinet to pick him up. So small, almost weightless, like a bird nestling into the crook of my arm.
    I sit down and rub my hand over the fuzzy tuft of his hair. He blinks up at me. I read somewhere that a baby’s eye-color lightens over time. I hope Nicholas’s eyes turn a warm, dark brown, just like his mother’s.
    I examine his fingers and toes, the shell-shape of his ears. I run my finger over his eyebrows and tickle the soles of his feet.
    Some part of me is surprised by how natural this feels, how easy. I was so focused on the pregnancy that I haven’t allowed myself much time to think about actually holding a baby. But our son fits just right in my arms, he seems to like the movement of the rocking chair, and he’s looking at me like he knows exactly who I am.
    Like he knows we’re going to be the best of friends.
    I lower my head. Breathe in his clean baby smell.
    “One day I’ll teach you how to pitch a baseball,” I tell him. “How to knot a necktie. How to kick a field goal. How to tie a lure, ride a bike, and barbeque a steak.”
    He squirms. I shift him a little and rock in a different rhythm. He yawns.
    “I’ll try and get you interested in medieval architecture, but it’s okay if it bores you,” I continue. “I’ll explain why the Rolling Stones’ Exile on Main Street is the best album of all time. I’ll build Lego spaceships and tree-houses with you. We’ll go on train rides and sailboats. I’ll tell you to always do the right thing, but I’ll understand when you don’t and we’ll figure out together how to do better next time.”
    I brush my lips across his soft hair. “You lucked out with your mother, kid. She’s amazing. She’s going to do everything right. Me, on the other hand… I’ll probably mess up this whole parenting thing sometimes. Sorry in advance for that. But you can also help me figure out how to do better next time. And I promise I will always do the best I can for you. In everything. Okay?”
    He yawns again and flexes his tiny hands, then closes one fist tight around my forefinger.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    ‡
    L IV
    P art of me wants to sit in bed forever with Dean by my side and our baby in my arms, but there’s a lot to do and even more to learn. The nurses bring Nicholas in and out for breastfeeding, instructions, tests, bonding. A lactation consultant comes to offer advice about positioning the baby to avoid discomfort, a photographer takes newborn pictures of Nicholas, and delivery people bring flowers and balloons from our friends.
    Through it all, Dean sits beside my bed, sometimes holding the baby and sometimes just watching. He doesn’t say much, but I can almost see his brain processing everything as Dr. Nolan provides instructions for recovery, and a nurse discusses a very long list of things to be mindful of once we’re home with the baby.
    Two days pass in much the same way. Dean rarely leaves. He sleeps on a fold-out bed in my room and showers in the adjoining bathroom.
    He holds Nicholas whenever he gets a chance, learns how to change a diaper and use a bulb syringe on the baby’s stuffy nose. He takes notes about the symptoms that would require a call to the doctor when we’re home. He watches carefully whenever I try to nurse,