“He’s still with us, Gavin. He’s still here.” She pulled a clipboard from the shelf above the machine and wrote his statistics on it.

“How long will it take, once he’s off?”

“That’s up to Finn. He’ll decide when he’s done.”

Corabelle came back, her eyes all red. “Mom wants him baptized. Can we do that?”

“Absolutely,” Angilee said. “Come here, child.” She wrapped Corabelle into a deep hug. “Is she going to ask her minister or should I get the chaplain here?”

“I guess someone here.”

“I’ll call him. He’ll come talk to you about it.” She pulled away from Corabelle and looked into her face. “So much to bear for someone so young.”

Corabelle started crying again, and Angilee walked her over to me. “I’ll be back. Someone will be with you pretty much from now until it’s time.”

Corabelle looked over to me. “When is it time?”

“Eight o’clock, unless we want to change it.”

She whipped around to look at the clock. “Eight more hours! Eight more hours!” Her legs seemed to give out, and I helped her to the rocking chair. “What can we do in eight hours?”

I didn’t have an answer for her.

“I have to read him a storybook!” Corabelle said, popping back out of the chair. “And sing him a nursery rhyme.” She walked up to the enclosed crib. “I have to teach him ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’” She looked up at me, and I knew I’d be haunted by her expression for a long time as she said, “We’re never going to take him to Disney World, are we?”

I stood next to her, wishing I were anywhere but there, but at the same time, that I would never have to leave.

Chapter 34: Corabelle

Gavin was awfully quiet on the rock as we lay beneath the stars. I nudged him finally. “Do you want a sandwich?” I asked him.

The half moon let out so little light that he was only a shadow in the almost complete blackness. “Maybe in a minute.” His voice sounded off.

“You okay?”

He didn’t answer, which I took to mean he wasn’t. “What is getting you?” I asked.

“Just remembering that last day.”

“The funeral?”

“No. With Finn.”

“Oh.”

“Remember Angilee, the nurse?”

“She was good,” I managed to get out.

“Once things got started, she didn’t leave us for a minute.”

“She must have worked past her shift.”

“I think so.”

“She got us that crazy chaplain.”

His belly moved beneath my hand, a gentle laugh. “He was something.”

“God bless this holy child! Alleluia!” I mimicked the animated speech of the minister, who’d made Finn’s baptism seem like a tent revival.

We both laughed halfheartedly. My mom had wanted the baptism, and I was glad we did it. We got pictures of him and could celebrate his one little life event. Mom brought a white lace bib to put over his chest and the wires, and a little satin hat.

For once I never wanted a prayer to end. The chaplain had arrived at 7:30, and I knew that as soon as the baptism ended, they’d start the process of disconnecting Finn. As the chaplain went on and on about suffering and salvation, I kept my eyes on the baby. He seemed so relaxed, so perfect, like a doll waiting for someone to pick him up to play.

Everyone murmured, “Amen,” and I snapped my head up to check the clock, the mental countdown still running. Ten more minutes with Finn.

The chaplain signed a certificate and gave it to my mom. He shook everyone’s hands, and I took my turn absently, unwilling to look away from Finn’s face.

Another nurse arrived, and Angilee began pulling the curtain around our space, closing off the view from the rest of the NICU. My belly started heaving, but I was too dehydrated to cry anymore. I finally understood what people meant when they said they didn’t have any tears left.

As the rest of the ward disappeared, the noises inside seemed louder, the endless ch-ch-ch sound of the ventilator. I couldn’t see the clock anymore.

“Corabelle, you sit here in the rocker,” Angilee said. “It’s time to hold your baby.”

I sank into the chair that had become so familiar to me that my body practically molded itself to it, a wooden frame softened with blue cushions tied to the base and the back.

The other nurse flipped several switches and the screen over Finn’s bed went dark. “Just the monitors,” she said. Through the curtains, I could hear the faint sounds of matching beeps of babies who were still being watched, babies who would one day go home.

Gavin stood behind me, hands on my shoulders. I wasn’t sure it was fair that I got to hold Finn. What if he died instantly? I looked up at him and tried to speak, but my throat was too dry. He gazed down at me with understanding, seemingly more worried about my welfare than that of Finn. I just accepted it and waited.

The nurses carefully removed the little discs on his chest. Finn didn’t flinch or move at all. He was so sedated. I wasn’t sure he’d even hear anything I had to say, or if he was even vaguely aware of anything I’d done that day — wash his little head with no-rinse shampoo, read him Goodnight Moon. I tried twice to sing “Twinkle, Twinkle,” but I couldn’t get past the first line.

Eventually they got him down to just the ventilator going into his mouth, the tubes snaking from a complicated connector up to a machine above. Angilee rolled a cart closer to me, holding the tubes in her hand. The other nurse picked Finn up from the bed and wrapped him in a blue blanket.