It's funny, how silent the office can be when there's no one around. No one, that is, besides you and a droopy-leaved plant in the corner, and the slight sound of the air conditioning whirring quietly through the wall vents. Oh, and her.
She's sleeping now, but it wasn't long ago that you were rocking her, consoling her, trying to be the person who's supposed to love her the most. And it's not even her fault that she might have been someone else's mistake; she's not the type of girl to really care about things beyond her control. She has basic needs; it's just her luck that you're able to give her exactly what she needs.
"You know, I found out not long ago that this probably wouldn't be an option for me. Babies, I mean. It's sort of surreal that all the work I've done for other people's children, well. It's weird that I know this much about you and I don't really ever get to put the knowledge that I know, into my own child."
She doesn't respond, but she flutters dark eyelashes and sighs gustily. You nod. "Yeah. I guess you can't always get what you want. Violet talks about self-fulfilling prophecies. I think there are just some things beyond your control."
She squirms a little and makes a questioning sort of noise. You watch as she purses her lips and sucks at the air a little, and you find yourself patting her bottom through the pink blanket and making cooing sounds back. Then you blink.
"Sorry. We were having a conversation, here."
You sigh, too, and she suddenly chooses that moment to study your eyes. "I shouldn't be the first person that you are able to focus on. But, I have to say, I'm sort of glad I have the privilege."
You hold her securely and walk in a swaying manner into the kitchen, because she's starting to suck on her fist again and crinkle her eyes in a frustrated manner. She blinks at the sudden light and begins to wail.
"Okay, okay, shh." You turn on the water to hot and fill up a plastic container. You rock her as you walk to the fridge, taking one of the bottles you prepared earlier while she was napping. You have a sudden moment of panic: where do you put her while you're filling up the container? After a moment, you choose the couch and place her in the crack between the cushions, propping pillows beside her. She wails more loudly and looks for you frantically while you beg the bottle to heat quickly.
When it's warm enough, you test it on your arm, like you've been shown and like you've shown other interns in the NICU. It doesn't feel hot to you, but you can't be sure, so you taste it and then wish you hadn't. Ugh. No wonder they say breast is best.
She's crying; the tears pool in the corners of her eyes because her tear ducts are still so new. She can't possibly see you – newborns don't have great vision – but she somehow fixes her eyes on you and flails her arms and legs, kicking the blanket off and exposing her tiny legs.
You walk over to the couch and swaddle her snugly. "Okay. I didn't go away forever. I promise." She fits so easily into your arms and you rock her for a minute. "Shhh. I'm not going away."
She sucks eagerly at the formula and when you burp her, she spits up on your sweatshirt and then promptly fills her diaper. Yeah. What were you saying about wanting this?
You adjust her in your arms and lay her back down on the couch. Dell would kill you for this (not to mention Naomi), but being as there's no other choice available, you spread a blanket under her and change her diaper, then wrap her up quickly before she has a chance to get cold. You'll clean up your own shirt later.
She falls asleep as you sing her a version of "Beautiful Dreamer" and then you finally are able to put her down in her nest of blankets on your office couch and stretch out your arms.
"The thing is, baby," you begin, and then stop. She's starting to whimper again and you feel the tiredness settle behind your eyes as you pick her up and settle her back into your arms. She clings suddenly to the string of your hoodie and opens her eyes to stare into yours. Convinced of whatever she's thinking about, she closes them again and turns her face into your chest.
You stand for a moment, feeling the crick in your arms and your neck; feeling your back starting to hurt and your feet ache. Standing there and holding a baby that totally isn't yours and feeling everything that you'd feel if she actually was.
"The thing is, they tell us not to get attached to patients."
You look down at her again; there's a tiny bubble on her lips that rises and falls with her breathing; she's got one fist against her cheek and the other hand fisted around your hoodie string.
"I'm sorry."
Charlotte stands at the door with her purse hooked over her arm and gives you a covert look under her eyelashes. You're not sure what she wants; you're not sure you even care. You're holding the baby in your arms (she's still got your hoodie string in her hand) and the mother is standing in front of you.
You've given a lot of babies to a lot of mothers who deserved them; some to mothers that didn't, and some to mothers who couldn't have their own but were overjoyed to take the one you had off your hands. And each time, it was hard, or it was easy, or it wasn't anything at all.
But this mother gave up the right to be with her child her very first night on earth. And you know that the right, professional thing to do is to pass the baby to her teenaged mother who's whispering her name into the little cockled ear.
Your arms ache more after the baby leaves them than they ever did last night when you held her because she wouldn't let you put her down.
Charlotte holds the door open for Darcy, the mother, and Darcy's clueless mother, and then lets it fall shut behind her. You turn away, rubbing your forearms, to clear up the baby mess in your office and she stands in the hall and watches you go.
Four hours later, you hear your BlackBerry ring. It's Charlotte.
"Montgomery. I need to see you at the hospital pretty much immediately for a consult."
You're tired; you're more tired than you ever were at medical school or the days that you were up for thirty-six hours straight doing surgery. "Fine."
When you reach her office, she takes one look at you and beckons sharply, her heels clicking down the hall and beating a rhythm into your already aching brain. You follow her mutely and turn in at the nursery. She walks over and with uncharacteristic tenderness, picks up a baby in a pink blanket.
"Here. See what you can do with this one." She puts the baby in your arms and walks out, with no other information.
You look down at the newborn and feel a jolt. Placing the baby back in her isolette, you clack down the hall after Charlotte and grab her arm at the door of her office.
"Why?"
"She came back about an hour ago. They changed their mind." Charlotte's face is impassive. "Something about not wanting to ruin the birth mom's life."
You feel the tears well up and she pulls you into her office and offers you a chair and a box of Kleenex. Going to her computer, she clicks away on the keyboard for a moment and then writes down a number on a slip of paper.
"This is CPS's number."
You clutch it but don't do anything until she comes over and rubs your shoulders. "I figured you should be the first to know."
You don't say anything and she goes to sit back down at her computer. When you feel ready to look up without tears, she's staring right at you, but this time, her eyes are soft.
"Promise me one thing."
"What?"
"Don't name her Batgirl."
You laugh and look down at the piece of paper.
"That's a promise."
Three months later, she stares up at you again as you feed her a bottle, but this time, it's in the pink-and-white nursery across the hall from your bedroom and she's not closing her eyes.
Naomi stands up against the wall and smiles. "Guess I was wrong when I told you that you couldn't have her."
"Guess so."
"Thought of any names for her yet?"
Her legal name is Melanie, right now, but you don't want to keep it. You look down at her and remember her hand on your hoodie string and the time you spent with her in the hospital; the days you spent painting the nursery and the papers you drew up with your lawyer and CPS three weeks ago.
"Charlotte. Charlotte Anne Montgomery."
Naomi just smiles, but you see Charlotte King's green eyes peering at you over her computer screen again as she passed you CPS's number. Nae stretches. "Why Charlotte?"
"She saved her for me."
Charlotte, or Lottie, as you privately think of her, curls against your chest and falls asleep.
Self-fulfilling prophecies. Okay, sometimes you don't need to have everything in control. Sometimes, someone else has the control for you.
Sometimes, the night has to be dark for the moon to glow.