By the time I was taken to see her in the NICU, tubes were taped to her cheeks, wires crossed her chest, and the ventilator was pushing air into lungs that had not finished getting ready for the world.
The clear incubator separated us by less than an inch and by everything that mattered.
I could see her.
I could not pick her up.
I could place my hand through the opening when the nurse allowed it, but I could not hold her against my chest and promise that I would fix this.
Every time the ventilator changed its rhythm, my muscles tightened.
Every time the monitor shifted, I stopped breathing until the numbers settled again.
Brooklyn watched me watching Rosalie.
“Is she sleeping, Mommy?” she asked.
I looked at the rise and fall beneath the tape and plastic.
“Yes, baby,” I said. “She’s resting.”
That was the safest answer I had.
