Chapter 6 - The Glass Cradle
At three o'clock that afternoon, the pediatric surgical team officially authorized Kate’s first visit to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.
Lucian personally wheeled her down the wide, quiet corridors in a high-backed hospital chair, his large hand resting protective against the top of her head the entire way.
When they passed through the double security doors of the NICU, the ambient sound shifted into a soft chorus of low, rhythmic electronic chimes and the gentle hum of medical oxygen pumps.
The room was bathed in soft, indirect lighting to protect the delicate eyes of the premature infants resting inside dozens of sleek, modern incubators lined up along the quiet perimeter.
Lucian guided her chair to Pod Four, stopping directly beside an advanced, glass-walled isolette.
Kate gasped softly, her hand flying up to cover her mouth as tears instantly filled her hazel eyes.
Inside the glass cradle lay their son.
He looked impossibly fragile, wearing a diaper no larger than a playing card. A tiny blue light therapy blanket was wrapped around his lower body, a soft continuous positive airway pressure mask fitted over his tiny nose, and microscopic monitor leads attached to his chest.
Despite all the wires and technology surrounding him, his tiny face was perfectly formed—possessing Lucian’s strong, defined jawline and Kate’s soft, arched brows.
“Oh, my God...” Kate whispered, her voice trembling with overwhelming emotion as she leaned forward in her wheelchair. “He’s... he’s so small, Lucian.”
“He’s small, but he’s iron,” Lucian said softly, stepping up beside her, leaning over the glass. “Look at his hands.”
Inside the incubator, the baby’s tiny arms were moving slowly, his microscopic fingers flexing open and closed against the sterile mattress.
Nurse Miriam Hale, who had remained at the hospital to oversee the transition, stepped up to the opposite side of the isolette with a warm, encouraging smile.
“Would you like to hold his hand, Mom?” Miriam asked gently.
Kate looked up, wide-eyed. “Can I? I won't... I won't hurt him?”
“He needs your touch more than any medicine we have in this room,” Miriam replied. She opened the rubberized side ports of the incubator and guided Kate’s hands inside.
With agonizing care, Kate extended her index finger, touching the impossibly soft skin of her son’s chest before resting her fingertip flat against his microscopic palm.
Instantly, the baby’s hand clamped around her finger, his tiny grip warm and fierce.
Kate broke into soft, breathless laughter through her tears. “Hi, sweet boy... hi... I’m your mama.”
On the vital monitor above the bed, the baby’s heart rate—which had been slightly elevated—instantly smoothed out into a perfectly stable, restful rhythm.
“Look at that,” Miriam noted with a soft smile. “He knows your voice. He’s been listening to you for seven months.”
Kate looked up at Lucian, who was leaning over her shoulder, staring down at their son with a look of pure, unadulterated adoration that completely transformed his harsh features.
“What are we going to name him?” Kate asked softly.
Lucian didn't hesitate. He reached his own thick hand through the opposite port of the incubator, laying his finger alongside Kate’s so their hands were touching inside the glass cradle, wrapping around their son’s microscopic grip together.
“Julian,” Lucian said, his voice deep and thick with emotion. “Julian Avery. It means youthful... and fearless.”
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Kate looked at the tiny boy in the cradle, then up at her husband, her heart overflowing with a fierce, profound warmth.
“Julian,” she repeated softly, the name floating softly through the quiet air of the NICU. “Julian Avery. It’s perfect.”
