Chapter 12: The Bruise

"Say that again," I said.

Marjorie turned from the steel doors and looked at me with polite surprise.

"I said I hope you have a lovely afternoon."

"You said Delaney's mother loses her bed."

"I said no such thing, dear. You're tired."

The elevator opened on the lobby, full of people with balloons and flowers.

She stepped out, nodding to a man in a Santa hat, and walked away with her bag on her arm.

I stood in the open doors with my thumb on the screen.

The recording said it had saved.

I sent it to my own email and to Jonas's, and I sat on a bench in the lobby until my hands stopped shaking.

My daughter came off her oxygen on Saturday morning.

The nurses held up the little tube and laughed, and I cried so hard that one of the nurses handed me an entire box of tissues.

She still weighed under four pounds, and she still had no name, but she was breathing air.

Jonas came that night, after shift, in jeans and a gray sweater.

I had never seen him in anything but the tan uniform.

He looked younger, and I had to look away.

The family kitchenette was down the hall from the unit, a small room with a microwave, a coffee maker and one working mug.

I was pouring the last of the coffee when he came in behind me.

We both reached for the mug.

His hand covered mine.

Neither of us moved.

I could feel each of his fingers against my knuckles.

His thumb pressed once against the inside of my wrist, where my pulse was.