Chapter 8: Supervised

Dean came to the NICU at eight that night, alone.

I knew it was him before I looked up, because the charge nurse said "Good evening" in her careful voice.

He had washed his hands at the sink for the full two minutes.

His coat was gone, and he wore a plain gray sweater, and he hadn't shaved.

"Claire," he said. "May I?"

He pointed at the chair on the other side of the incubator.

"Sit."

He sat, and he put both hands flat on his knees and looked at our daughter.

Maddy was asleep with her fist against her cheek, and the little sensor on her heel glowed red.

He looked at her for a long time.

"She's so small," he said.

"She's five pounds now."

"Is she?"

"She gained four ounces since yesterday."

I watched his throat move.

"I didn't know that," he said.

"You would have, if you'd come."

"I know." He said it so quietly that I almost didn't hear. "I know, Claire. I've been awful."

I waited.

I had practiced for this, lying awake in the twin bed. I had practiced being cold and steady and not answering.

I had not practiced sitting across from him when his eyes filled.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," Dean said.

"She called, and I went, and then it kept getting worse, and I didn't know how to stop."

"Who called?"

"Brandy. Everyone leans on me. My mother, the company, her family."

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"I thought if I kept everyone calm, it would all be fine."

"Everyone but me."

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