"Take Gus. I'll call when I get to the hospital."
"Are you okay? Have you just been sitting here for ten minutes? I'm worried, Caden; this isn't normal. I'll go with you," she rambles, opening the door.
"Just take him." My tone leaves little room for argument. She only hesitates for a second before picking Gus up through his strangled cry. As soon as he's out of the truck, I'm gone.
A DRIVE THAT normally lasts thirty minutes takes eighteen. I stop at the reception desk, impatient and tapping the counter with my palm, and when I have his room number, I run, taking the stairs to the third floor.
Out of breath, I burst through the door to the Peds unit, six rooms circling a centralized nursing station. Three heads pop up to watch me walk in. A girl in green scrubs asks me who I am but I ignore her, heading toward JT and Piper.
"Sir, you need to sign in. Who are you here for?"
"Justin Taylor Stevens. He's mine." I hear myself say his name as if I'm underwater and listening to a distorted mumble.
Life gets all too real when I walk into the room and push back the curtain to find Piper curled in a ball on a chair, sleeping. She's pulled it next to a metal crib where her arm is draped, fingers laced through the slats to hover next to her napping baby. A clear halo tent is over his head, and the nurse I forgot follows me in to say, "He's getting oxygen support. It looks archaic, but it helps keep his levels up where we want them. He's doing great though."
Fuck. He's so small.
"I'll send the doctor in. She's on her way up." The nurse closes the curtain as I stand stock still, not moving other than the twitch to my right lid. I left them. I left Piper when she needed me.
But you're here now.
I nod and walk forward, laying my hand on JT's warm chest. He's pink and naked but for a diaper. "Little man," I whisper. His lashes flutter against the top of his cheek. I can't drag my eyes away from him, or my hand from feeling his ribcage rise and fall beneath my fingers.
"Mr. Stevens?" The soft voice of a woman startles me from my trance, and I look up to a physician inserting the ends of a stethoscope in her ears.
"Lawless." The word scratches past my throat. "Caden Lawless. Piper and JT are mine."
Her eyes widen, then she smiles, and it's like a caress against her creamy mocha skin. "Dr. Morris," she says, "house pediatrician. I was on call last night. You'll have to forgive my surprise. Ms. Stevens didn't mention anyone when they came through the emergency room."
As I blink beyond discomfort, she walks to the other side of JT's crib, pressing the stethoscope against his chest. "I was . . . indisposed. But I'm here now."
She smiles and listens, moving the broad head around to different places on the baby's torso, and then she reads his oxygenation level from the pulse ox monitor wrapped around his foot. Her nod eases the tension in my shoulders. "He's much better. We'll wait for the lab results to make sure, but I suspect he had an allergic reaction that translated to respiratory infection."
"Environmental?" My mind flashes to Gus. Animals are a common allergen, but JT's not had a reaction before now.
"Could be. I suspect long-term exposure to mold though."
I close my eyes and open them to find her looking at me, not accusatorily, but questioning. "The cottage. It's old, not in great condition, but we've just moved."
She nods again. "The structure should be tested. And in the meantime, we've run a panel of common allergies to rule out anything he may have ingested via breast milk or from day-to-day activity. He'll be fine." Walking around his crib she offers her hand. "We'll monitor him through the night. If all continues to go well, he can go home tomorrow morning."
"Thank you," I say as she steps out, leaving me with Piper.
Dried tear tracks streak her pale face, draining her of all color. Her legs are tucked to her chest, and goose bumps rise on her arms as the blush jumper she wore last night fails to keep her warm. My hands find their way under her knees, behind, and around her back as I pick her up, cradling her next to me. I hold her like this, with her head tucked into my neck, her soft against my hard. She melts into me and I sigh, digging my nose into her hair and breathing in vanilla and honey. I sit in the chair and a second later she tenses, fisting my shirt. "I know," I say, holding her tighter. "Hate me right now, but I'm not letting go. I'm not letting you go."
Her shoulders jerk once, twice. Pressing her open mouth against my neck, she muffles her sobs and I take in her pain and fear, let it wash through me in an understanding that having a family means putting them before you-something I didn't do last night. I let my anxiety drive space between us when they needed me.