As promised, another tiny offering. Once again, for the lovelier than lovely SongbirdSings but this one needed a little tweaking from my awesome buddy, FaerieTales4ever. Thank you, thank you, thank you. :)
"Emma? Emma? Where are you?"
I've never been so happy to hear that voice, no matter how laced with panic it is.
"In here!" I call, my breath hitching. I swipe away tears, straining to hear her steps tapping the tile as she scurries in our direction. It's hard over the screeching of our tiny daughter. I stand over her crib, holding her as gently as I can against my chest, but that's becoming quite a challenge as her little fists beat out an unsteady rhythm over my heart. Each pound is a punch straight to my gut. I jiggle from side to side, dancing a strange cha-cha to try and calm her once more, though I don't expect it to work. I've sung every lullaby, tried every position, soothed her in every way I can, but she just won't stop crying. Something is clearly bothering her, but for the life of me, I don't have a damn clue what it could be.
No matter what I try, I can't do it. I can't be a mother. I'm failing.
When the footsteps come to a halt, I swivel toward the door, relief flooding every cell of my body. Just seeing Regina's face is enough to push me over the edge. She frowns upon seeing the desperation in my eyes, and immediately strides over to gather us in her arms.
"Okay, I'm here. I'm here." Her voice is so soothing, washing over us like a smooth ocean wave. It comforts us both for a split second. She runs her hand down my hair and kisses my forehead before carefully unwinding my arms from our baby girl's waist. "What's going on, my little princess?" she asks in that hushed, pure tone reserved only for Isabelle.
I watch them, taking a few slow steps back until my body presses against the freshly painted frame of the door to her nursery. They look so natural. She looks natural. Whispering sweet nothings into our angel's dark hair as she sways back and forth, cradling her against her chest. She looks like a mother.
In answer, the baby opens her mouth wide and screams. It cuts right through me, ringing in my ears over and over again.
"I can't get her to stop," I sob, my body sagging against the door frame in defeat. "I've tried everything. I've taken her clothes off, given her a sponge bath... I just don't know what to do!"
I can hardly breathe now. I try to explain more, but can't gain control over my body.
"Good." To anyone who doesn't know Regina, that would have sounded underwhelmed. To me, it means safety. I know her mind is in overdrive right now, thinking of everything and anything she can do. "Have you taken her temperature since you called me?" Her voice is quiet and commanding, directed at me despite the howling infant she's rocking. I know the effort she's having to go to, to try and keep me calm.
I nod, bottom lip clamped between my teeth, before stammering, "H- Hundred p- point four."
"Alright baby," she says in her tinkly, reassuring voice. She holds the infant out at arm's length, checking her over, before bringing her back in. Regina's hips begin to sway, slowly and gently, from side to side. Isabelle looks so small in her expert hands. She just… knows what to do. I'm learning. She's already there. "Can you grab that mat, honey?"
She jerks her head towards the plastic changing mat on the table. I grab it and follow her downstairs where she flicks on the kettle.
"Should we take her to the Emergency Room?" I ask.
"No, not yet. They'll just sent us home." She's dancing that cha-cha again. "Her temperature has to be a hundred and two before a doctor will do anything." She must sense my fear because she finishes with, "Babies get fevers all the time, I promise."
Sometimes I forget she's done this all before. Of course she knows what to do. I can imagine her feeling the way I do now when Henry got sick for the first time. Except she was alone.
I sidle up to them, placing a hand on the baby's back to rub tiny circles there. "It's scary," I sigh.
"I know." She turns and plants a kiss on my temple. "But you've done everything right." She smiles. "See, she's much calmer now."
Sure enough, faint whimpers are the only sound emanating from her. Isabelle looks at me with deep, chocolate eyes, just like Regina's. She scans my face so knowingly. I've never felt such pressure, such… responsibility. Being the savior was nothing compared to how I feel when my wife leaves me in charge of our baby.
Regina places Isabelle tenderly on the changing mat atop the counter and pours a little of the boiled water into a sterilized bottle. The baby twitches every few seconds. I can't tell if it's hiccups or whether she's trying to bring her breathing back into control like me.
She wriggles a lot. I remember being surprised at that. She's doing it now. This tiny, pink, squirming, beautiful thing we made together.
"Ok, Isabelle," Regina coos, bringing over the bottle, "When this has cooled down, we'll see if it makes you feel better." She traces our daughter's cheek down to her chin with the side of her forefinger.
Watching them together is one of the greatest joys in my life. Sometimes Henry and I will sit in silence and stare as Regina sings to her or burps her. They have this… connection. Regina says I have it with Henry. I'd never tell her - she'd think I was mourning my lack of it with Isabelle - but I think it's a connection that only exists when you've grown someone inside you. A trust Isabelle has in Regina that she just doesn't with me. In those moments, it's like watching them perform a special kind of magic.
"If we can get her to sleep, she should be alright," Regina whispers, without tearing her gaze away. Slowly and silently, she squeezes one end of a plastic dropper and pulls up some of the water. Her hand is shaking slightly so I slide my arm around her waist to steady her. She releases one drop, ever so carefully, onto Isabelle's lips. As if she knew they would, the tiny rose-bud parts, revealing a glistening pink tongue. Another drop. "She'll need rehydrating," Regina explains.
A few drips later, and Isabelle's eyelids are losing their battle to remain open. They close lazily, then reopen at the slightest sound. Eventually, her breathing evens out. There's snuffling, and it takes me a moment to realize that it's not the baby.
Regina is standing by the sink, her back to me, shoulders shuddering.
"Hey," I breathe, pulling her elbow until she faces me. "She's asleep. She'll be ok. Babies get fevers all the time," I add, recycling her comforting advice with a wry smile.
She smiles back through the tears. "I know." She sniffs. "But it doesn't make it any easier to watch. She's just so little."
"I know," I soothe, pulling her into a tight embrace. Her body shakes with every sob and I feel a heady mix of pride that she's held it in for so long, and relief that she feels the same way I do. "But she's a fighter, just like her mom."
"Just like her moms," she corrects, pulling away with a wink as I thank every lucky star that exists, for bringing this women into my heart.