Her waters had broken at eleven. Her mother drove her in. Somewhere between the car park and the delivery room, her mother had started drinking from a bottle in her handbag.
By the time the baby came, at thirty-three weeks, her mother was shouting at the nurses. When they took the baby straight to the NICU, she screamed that they were stealing her granddaughter. Security walked her out.
Ashley was alone. Daniel was in an airport in Denver. And the only phone number she could think of was the one she’d spent four years ignoring.
“I didn’t know who else knew about babies,” she said. “I didn’t know who else would come.”
I picked up my keys. I wiped her face with my sleeve.
“Come on. Let’s go and meet her.”
The charge nurse on the NICU that night was a woman called Patrice. I trained her. Twenty-two years ago.
She looked up from the desk, saw me holding Ashley’s arm, and her face lit up. “Linda! What are you — oh. Oh, is this yours?”
“My granddaughter,” I said. It was the first time I’d ever said it out loud.
She was four pounds, one ounce. Breathing on her own with a little help. A fighter.
Ashley was terrified to touch her. Too many wires. Too many alarms.
So I showed her. How to wash her hands to the elbow. Which alarms mean nothing and which ones mean something. How to open the little porthole and slide two fingers in and let the baby grab one.
