“He’s a fighter. A little Rocky,” Eva, my favorite NICU nurse, says now in her heavy South Philly accent. Eva says this a lot, and I love her for it. She plays “Eye of the Tiger” at least once a day on her phone and always treats Chase like a baby, not like some fragile doll—and she doesn’t gossip about me, at least not within earshot.
“He is, isn’t he?” I say. It’s ridiculous how proud I am of my son already, just for thriving.
“I’m gonna miss this little guy.” It’s hard to believe this will be Chase’s last night here. We can bring him home tomorrow, provided his last breathing test today looks good. Frank gave us the crib he made, which is the most beautiful piece of furniture I’ve ever seen—he carved all of our initials into the wood, so Chase “would be surrounded by everyone who loves him while he sleeps.” It’s all set up at home, with sheets I’ve washed five times.
“You look nice,” Eva tells me. She’s trying to make me feel better. She knows why I’m dressed up today and not in my usual dirty sweats and no makeup. My eyeliner is crooked. I couldn’t hold my hand steady enough to draw a straight line this morning—and this frilly blue dress isn’t exactly right for going to court, but it’s the only maternity dress I own, the one I was going to wear for my shower. None of my pre-pregnancy clothes fit me yet. I didn’t realize my stomach would still look six months pregnant weeks after giving birth. I can barely shove my still-swollen feet into kitten heels. I’ve already kicked them off. Apparently, when your husband goes in front of a judge to find out whether he’ll be locked up for the rest of his life, you’re supposed to look “classy.” That’s how Julia described it when she came over a few nights ago to prep us. She prepared a short statement for Kevin to read after the hearing but said he could also let Brice read it for him. I don’t know what he’ll do. Julia said I should be prepared for photos and that I should hold Kevin’s hand as much as possible. “And don’t get caught laughing or smiling.” As if either of those things are something I am capable of these days.
“Here, let me take him.” Eva leans down, and I have the irrational urge to turn away so she can’t take my baby. Sensing my resistance, she steps back.
I move Chase to my lap, nestle him in the small crevice between my thighs. “I’m sorry I have to go, baby boy. But I’ll be back soon. I won’t be long.”
Chase’s eyes flicker open at the sound of my voice. This is happening more and more; each time, it’s no less magical. He focuses his eyes right on me. It’s you, they say. Then he opens his little mouth, his pillow lips, and I think he’s about to yawn. Instead, he lets out a wail, high and shrill. His pink skin turns purple from the effort and I reflexively start to bounce and rock to soothe him. His breathless sobs make me feel desperate, useless, especially since I can’t stay. How can I leave him like this? Why do I have to leave him like this? I curse the fact that I’m being forced to spend the day away from my baby.
Eva doesn’t ask this time, she just leans down and lifts Chase from my arms, and I want to snatch him right back. I can’t, though. It’s time. I push against the arms of the chair and slowly stand—any sudden movement sends a crackle of pain through my still-raw incision. I move around like a turtle. I try to steady myself on the kitten heels and then kick the dumb things off again. I’ll carry them to the car.
“Good luck today, Jen.” The look in Eva’s eyes, the tone of her voice, her kindness. It’s so genuine I have to turn away.
It’s not luck we need. I don’t know what we need.
I kiss the fuzz on top of Chase’s head one last time, then each of his feet, then his little hand, the size of an acorn. “I’m sorry I have to go, baby boy. But I’ll be back soon. I won’t be long.”
When I step outside, I stand facing skyward, blinking into the too-bright glare. After weeks of leaving the hospital well after dark and returning before sunrise, I barely recognize the sun, and I want to suck down the light as if it can make me strong for the day.
The one great thing about my rusty old car is that it still has a six-disc CD changer in the trunk with a rotation that hasn’t changed much since high school. I have a plan for the ride to the courthouse. As soon as I start the engine, I cue up Guns N’ Roses’ Greatest Hits. The first notes come on—the guitar revving faster and faster into a startling crescendo. The electric intensity matches my mood and I turn the volume way up, as loud as it will go. And then I sing—no, I scream, lungs burning—the whole ride from the hospital to City Center. “Welcome to the Jungle,” “Paradise City,” and finally “Patience.” At a red light, a man in the blue Chevy beside me stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. I look directly at him and belt out the lyrics even louder.
It’s a madhouse when I arrive; what looks like a million people and cameras surround the courthouse, and I toy with an exhilarating thought. What if I keep driving, get as far away as possible?
By the time I do another slow loop around the block, I’m back to reality and searching for the rear parking lot and entrance that Brice told us would be private, protected by security. There’s also no media allowed inside the courtroom today, a blessing; it means I don’t have to face Riley. Yet, anyway. We have to talk; I just have to get through all of this, this part first. And get Chase home, and maybe get six full hours of sleep, and then Riley and I will talk again.
As soon as I pull into the gated lot, I see the Murphys, gathered in a cluster near the back door, looking beat down, like they’re waiting for a funeral to begin. I park as far away as possible and walk slowly toward them, taking in Cookie, her hands clasped tightly around Frank’s arm, hip to hip, in solidarity and also to help him stand, which he has trouble doing for long periods. Next to her, Matt talks to Brice. I feel queasy at the sight of the lawyer with his thinning hair slicked back with so much gel it gleams in the sun, just like his Crest Whitestripped teeth.
I’ve really turned on Brice these last few weeks. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s out of his depth here. He’s a suburban lawyer who specializes in DUIs and slip-and-falls and then happened to stumble on a high-profile, headline-making case because his mom joined a book club. You can practically see him salivating at the publicity. He’s become so puffed up, I don’t know how he buttons his too-shiny suits.
I’m almost there when Kevin turns around as if he senses me. He looks so pathetic when he sees me, I worry I can’t give him all the strength he so desperately needs.
He’s lost so much weight that his one good suit is now at least two sizes too big.
“Well, finally,” Cookie says, thrilled to be exasperated at something. But then she leans over to button my coat. “You’re going to catch a cold.” No matter that we’re a couple yards from the door.
“You guys didn’t have to wait out here.”
“Mom thought we should all go in together,” Kevin says, taking my hand.
It seems silly, as if a few Murphys walking together down a largely empty hallway is going to make one bit of a difference, but as we make our way through the dingy alcove, it does feel safer in our little pack, a united front.