When he gave his father the phone, Elliott sent the pictures to his own device. “Thanks.” He handed it back to Charlotte. “How long will Lawrence be in the NICU?”
“Every day is going to be a challenge. He’ll have good days and terrible days. We can hope for the best, but we’re in for a long struggle. Even if things go well, it would be unusual to take him home for several months. Let’s hope the family will all be together in Scotland for Christmas.”
Elliott pulled Charlotte in for a hug. “Ye don’t paint a pretty picture but, as always, I appreciate yer honesty.”
“We’ve gone through a lot together, Elliott. We’ll get through this, too. And watch your stress level. Your PSA will go up if you get overly stressed.”
He smirked. “Don’t tell Meredith.”
Charlotte patted his back then hugged Kevin. “Come on. I’ll show you where to go.”
Kevin stopped in the doorway. “Call Meredith, but keep it on the Q.T. As soon as I have a complete picture, or as much as we can know right now, I’ll schedule a conference call. And while you’re sitting here by yourself, get down on your knees.”
“Are ye asking me to pray for ye?”
“I’m asking you to pray for all of us, but especially Lawrence. The little guy will fight like hell. He’s his mother’s son. But he’ll need a lot of help to get through the next several weeks.”
Elliott’s expression was stark with despair. “He’s yer son too, lad.”
Charlotte steered Kevin out of the room and down the corridor toward the bank of elevators.
“I want to see JL,” he said, “but she’ll expect me to see Lawrence first so I can tell her about him.”
“How’d she and Elliott get to be so much alike?” Charlotte asked.
“I don’t know, but sometimes she seems to have more of his genes than I do.”
They drew abreast of the elevator, and Charlotte pushed the call button. A ping announced the arrival and the doors staggered open. “Are you kidding? You and Elliott are two peas in a pod. JL just has a few of his personality traits. Mostly his intuition and ability to see what others can’t.”
The doors closed behind them and she punched the number for the NICU floor. “For several years I thought David would take Elliott’s place eventually, but it won’t be him. The role of Keeper of the Stones will fall on JL’s shoulders.”
“Thank goodness we won’t have to worry about it for a long time. By then we might discover James Cullen is the heir apparent.” The door opened and they exited the elevator. The entrance to the NICU was to the right.
Charlotte’s phone dinged with a text, and she checked the message. “I’ve got to go to ICU. The receptionist should let you in with the ID badge you have, since Lawrence was just born. You’ll get a NICU badge in the morning. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She returned to the elevator and disappeared.
He strode down the hallway like a warrior advancing toward enemy territory and entered the NICU’s brightly colored reception area.
“May I help you?” a smiling young woman sitting behind the reception desk asked.
“I’m Kevin Fraser, and my newborn son was brought up here a little bit ago. I want to see him.” He wasn’t going to be nice about this. “Not yet,” or “Come back later,” wouldn’t be acceptable responses.
The woman typed on her keyboard. Then she looked up at Kevin. “May I see your badge?” Kevin removed it and handed it over. She held it up to the computer as if comparing the picture ID on the lanyard with the information on her screen. Apparently satisfied, she said, “Annette is your son’s primary nurse on this shift. I’ll let her know you’re here.” She made a call and announced Kevin. “She’ll be out shortly.”
Kevin replaced the lanyard around his neck. “Thank you.” He moved over to the door to wait. Within five nerve-racking minutes the lock released with a loud, metallic click and a woman wearing pink and blue print scrubs pushed open the door.
“Mr. Fraser, I’m Annette, your son’s primary nurse. Your son is still being assessed. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to Pod D.”
The door closed behind him, followed by the click of the door relocking.
She led him through a brightly colored corridor. They passed Pod A, a large room with six stations, but only three incubators were hooked up. Near the entrance, a nurse was busy at a computer.
“Is the setup the same in each pod?”
“Each pod can accommodate six beds. Your son’s pod has two other preemies, all about the same age.”
Kevin had never intended to be a parent of a fragile infant, and was woefully unprepared for the journey. He knew his way around hospitals, but not this part, and the unfamiliarity terrified him. He needed to ease into it, but there wasn’t time. He had to hit the ground running, and he was already several lengths behind.
They passed Pods B and C, and finally reached D. Four women, two in white coats and two in print scrubs similar to Annette’s, were huddled around an incubator.
“Dr. Haggard is one of our neonatologists. On her right is respiratory therapist Susan Green, and beyond her are nurses Rita McGuire and Paula Lague. Everyone has a name tag, but you’ll soon learn their names. If you want to have a seat, Dr. Haggard will give you a status report as soon as she’s finished.”
He sat down and watched them work. Lawrence was in a plexiglass cabinet with a hinged hood mounted on a trolley with a warming light overhead. Kevin couldn’t see his baby or what those attending to him were doing. The other two preemies were in enclosed incubators. When one of the nurses stepped aside, he caught a glimpse of his son, who jerked and quivered, his skin thin and fragile. An ID card was inserted into the front of the incubator:
BABY BOY FRASER
Kevin’s chest hurt all the way through to his spine. He covered his face with his hands, his elbows on his knees.
“Mr. Fraser.”
Kevin glanced up. It was the woman Annette identified as Dr. Haggard. He pushed to his feet. “How’s my son?”
She pulled a chair up and sat down, and he returned to his seat. “I’m Dr. Haggard, your son’s neonatologist. I’m still waiting for some lab reports, but so far everything looks good. I know this is overwhelming, but all the machines and tubes track your son’s heart rate, breathing rate, temperature, blood oxygen levels, and blood pressure. We’re constantly monitoring his vital signs.”
“He’s on a ventilator,” Kevin said.
“He was intubated immediately. An infant’s lungs aren’t fully developed at twenty-eight weeks, and we don’t want him wasting precious calories trying to breathe on his own. Your wife’s obstetrician ordered a course of betamethasone when she was admitted, which gave a boost to his lungs. The IV in his umbilical cord keeps him from being stuck repeatedly and provides us with an efficient way to inject medications. We’re making everything as easy on him as possible.”
She seemed to notice something out of the corner of her eye, but turned her attention back to Kevin. “It’s going to take another hour or so to run all the initial tests to determine what we’re dealing with. We are a Level III neonatal unit equipped with state-of-the-art technology to care for newborns with complex medical problems. Whatever your son needs, he’ll get excellent care.”
“Can I hold him?”
“Not yet. In about seventy-two hours, if he’s doing well, you and Mrs. Fraser will be able to do kangaroo care. Are you familiar with that?”
“I was an EMT for a decade, but my experience with preemies is minimal. I do know what kangaroo care is. Unless there’s some reason he can’t be held, either his mother or I will hold him twenty-four hours a day.”
Dr. Haggard sat back in her chair and looked at Kevin closely. “You’ll be told this dozens of times, so I’ll be first. We’re here to take care of your son. You have to take care of you. You also have to set aside time for your other children, if you have them.”
“We have a four-year-old.”
“Did I understand c
orrectly? Are you related to Dr. Mallory?”
“Distantly, but we’re very close. JL and I live in Lexington, Kentucky. My Cessna crashed on landing today, and the seat belt pressure caused an abruption. Which obviously is why we’re here.”
“So the plan is to take him back to Kentucky?”
“Eventually, I guess, but not for a while. Blane, he’s our other son, loves life at Charlotte’s plantation, and he has cousins, grandparents, aunts and uncles there. It’s the best place for him to be while JL and I are here with Lawrence, so we can stay in the area indefinitely.”
Dr. Haggard’s eyebrows lifted. “It could be several months.”
Kevin’s gut tightened, and stomach acid driven by fear heaved up his throat. He swallowed hard. “I can’t think in terms of months. I have enough experience to know how tenuous Lawrence’s situation is. I can only plan a day at a time.”
“At least it sounds like you have options. Lots of parents don’t. Financial pressure adds to the trauma. It’s why I suggested you take care of yourself. We have a staff of neonatologists, nurse practitioners and nurses, respiratory therapists, nutritional therapists, and twenty-four-seven surgical coverage. We also work with pediatric specialists, lactation experts, and psychologists to ensure comprehensive, individualized care, and the business office is very accommodating.”
“So you’re telling me you’ve got it covered, right?”
“That’s about it, Mr. Fraser. But never doubt that you are an integral part of your preemie’s care team,” Dr. Haggard said. “Your thoughts, feelings, and observations are critically important. Speak up. Ask questions. Voice your concerns. Share what’s important to you. The NICU is a family-centered facility. Parents have twenty-four-hour visitation, and siblings three and older may visit any time after they’ve had a health screening.”
It was almost two o’clock in the morning, and Kevin was finding it hard to concentrate on what she was saying. His mind was splintered between worrying about JL and worrying about his son.
“If you have any questions for me,” Dr. Haggard said, “I’ll be here until seven, and you can always leave a message. I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Annette will be your contact person for this shift. You’ll get to know all the staff fairly quickly.” She turned around to look at Lawrence’s incubator. “It looks like they’ve finished. You can pull one of the recliners up next to your son and watch over him. Annette or another nurse will always be at the nurse’s station, there in the corner. Whatever you need, just ask.”
Kevin extended his hand. “Thank you. And on behalf of my father and I, whatever you need, just ask.”
Catching the drift of his comment she said, “After an offer like that, I’m sure you’ll be hearing from our Director of Philanthropy. Get some rest.” Dr. Haggard returned to Lawrence’s incubator, spoke to Annette, then left the pod.
The panel above the warming unit displayed Lawrence’s vital signs. Kevin would have to do some research on preemies so he would know the ranges and what to expect if Lawrence went above or fell below them. Kevin caught his washed-out reflection in the sterile blue glow of the screen. Shocked, he jerked back, out of the way of the light.
A doll-sized blood pressure cuff was wrapped around Lawrence’s tiny leg, no bigger than Kevin’s index finger. Small sticky pads were stuck to his chest with leads to a cardiopulmonary monitor. An endotracheal tube was in his mouth. A pulse oximeter wrapped around his right foot. Bandages covered his eyes to protect them from the overhead warming lights, plus other cords and monitors.
If there had been anything in Kevin’s stomach, he would have thrown up again. A few hours ago his son was happily sleeping inside JL’s womb. Now he was stuck with needles, pinched and poked, and he couldn’t even suck his thumb for comfort. How could Kevin tell JL their son had tubes in his nose, down his throat, and a mask covering most of his face? He looked like an alien, especially since he had no baby fat on him yet, so his skin was loose and wrinkly. Even his little ears were closed up like flower buds.
Annette came over and stood beside him. “You can touch him if you want.”
“I do have a question.” He had to dig down deep to find the courage to ask the one question he’d been unable to ask Charlotte, but he had to know. “Was…” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Was Lawrence deprived of oxygen prior to birth?” There, he got the words out.
“Your wife’s abruption was severe, but not complete. We’ll be doing additional tests, but so far it appears he was never without oxygen. He was intubated because his lungs are so immature.”
Kevin almost keeled over with relief and an overwhelming impulse to drop to his knees in gratitude, all the while fresh tears poured down his face.
Annette handed him a tissue. “I know this is hard. But we’re here for you and your wife. Whatever you need, just ask anyone on Lawrence’s team.”
There was so much to process. JL would never be able to handle it. Hell, he barely could himself.
Kenzie could. Kit could. Meredith, possibly, but Elliott was a no-way.
However long Lawrence needed to be here—six months, seven months, a year—Kevin would be at his side, stroking his little cheek, kissing the parts of him not covered by a piece of equipment, enjoying every minute of kangaroo care. Lawrence would never be alone.
But first Kevin needed information. He would hire instructors to teach him what he didn’t know. He would read every book about micro-preemies he could find. He would become an expert on his son’s care. He’d attend classes, talk to staff. He was more than Lawrence’s father. He was his son’s advocate, and he would fight every minute of every day for his fragile little boy who weighed less than a little girl’s slipper.
“Do you want to hold his hand?” Annette asked.
“Yes.” He set his phone on the chair.
After washing his hands, Annette showed him how to insert his hands through the portholes. “Would you mind taking our picture?”
He slipped his hand in and clasped Lawrence’s tiny fingers while Annette took several photos. This was his son, and his heart swelled with love for him. He’d spent the past couple of months reading to Lawrence while JL slept, and he would continue to read to the little guy here in the NICU.
Kevin had thought he was prepared for the reality of a micro-preemie who might never walk or talk, but he wasn’t. He was as helpless in this world of uncertainty and constant danger as his son, a babe so small that Kevin’s wedding band would easily fit around his arm.
Annette showed Kevin the pictures. All the equipment attached to Lawrence looked even worse in the images.
And he looked sixty years old. Just like that, he’d aged. He looked as old as God.
11
Paris (1789)—Sophia
Before retiring in the early morning hours, Sophia asked Mr. Petit to have someone wake her in time to enjoy breakfast with the rest of the household. A gentle shake of her shoulder woke her way too early. She opened one eye to see the sweet, heart-shaped face of a young woman with big brown eyes and brown hair covered by a white mobcap.
“Milady, it is time to wake up,” she said in French. “I brought hot water.”
“Oui, merci.” Sophia closed her eye and did a quick assessment of her knee, lifting her leg slightly. The pain was probably a six now, which was an improvement over yesterday.
When she asked Mr. Petit to have someone wake her, she must have been under the influence. A chiding voice whispered in her mind, Of wine, or Thomas Jefferson?
Wine, of course.
Their stroll in the moonlit garden, the late-night dinner, and the ambiance had combined to create one of the loveliest evenings she’d had in a long time. And their banter had encompassed a wide and not-so-subtle range of topics.
It was rumored Jefferson had a very strong libido, and, while neither of them did anything inappropriate, they had flirted shamelessly. Her return ticket was stamped July 28, 1789, and she couldn’t extend her trip a day or shorten it by
an hour. If she wanted more evenings like last night, she’d better reconsider. It was the recipe for a heartbreaking disaster. She had fallen for Leonardo, and her heart spent weeks recovering from the loss. She couldn’t go through it again.
“What’s your name?” Sophia asked the young woman.
“Marguerite,” she said shyly. “I was hired to be your chambermaid and help you up and down the stairs.”
Sophia laughed in surprise. “Really?” What an interesting way to eliminate the possibility of appearing downstairs again in her Tai Chi clothes. If Jefferson or Mr. Petit hired a chambermaid for her, Sophia would insist on paying the girl’s salary.
Marguerite watched Sophia curiously while she performed several floor exercises that wouldn’t irritate her knee, then stretched to relieve most of the tension that had started when she arrived, increased during the day, and blasted off the charts during her late-night dinner.
With the exercises done and feeling refreshed, Sophia gave herself up to Marguerite’s tender ministrations. After bathing and dressing her, Marguerite coiffed and beribboned Sophia’s wavy hair, and she had to admit being waited on was a huge relief. It would have been hard to manage a sponge bath on her own.
Sophia stood at the top of the stairs and visualized going down each step. “Would you please hold up my skirts so I don’t trip on them?” she asked Marguerite. Sophia held onto the banister and used only one crutch while Marguerite carried the other. If Sophia lost her balance or tripped, she’d hurt herself, but at least she wouldn’t fall all the way down.
The mouthwatering aromas of fresh-baked bread, coffee, and bacon wafted up the stairwell. She licked her lips, anticipating the taste of warm bread with jam. When they reached the bottom, Marguerite straightened Sophia’s dress and fluffed her hair before pointing her toward the dining room.
Getting a little more agile, Sophia crutched past the French doors leading to the garden and hopped through the salon with Marguerite hovering anxiously nearby. Sophia stopped at the entrance to the dining room, and within five seconds had people, fixtures, and furnishings set in her mind, imagining the room as a painting.
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