1949
Morristown, VT

The thunder and lightning rolling and cracking overhead tonight was with a particularly strong menace, and Georg huffed with annoyance as he ran up the steps and through the doors of Copley Hospital, shaking off his umbrella over the rugs as he went. At least it might mean he'd find his wife in good spirits. She did love a thunderstorm.

But it was not to be. Upon pushing her door in the maternity ward open and slipping inside, he found Maria curled up in a ball, facing away from her great window, blankets neglected, and her dinner as well. Frowning, he draped his coat over a chair and went to greet her.

"Hello, love," he murmured, sitting down and taking her hands in his. They were cold, and this worried him. "You need to eat something, so we can get your strength up and get you home."

"I won't go home without her," she whispered. "They haven't even let me feed her, yet."

Georg's brow furrowed at this news, and he wondered if problems had arisen since he was there that afternoon, as the nurse had been optimistic that Maria would be allowed to nurse their tiny newborn.

Then, Maria began to cough in a deep, alarming manner that shook her whole body and left her breathless, and as Georg reached out to rub her back, and help her sit up, his heart sank. Her antibiotic treatments weren't working as expected. The pneumonia had rebounded.

Clutching a pillow to her chest, Maria bent over slightly and tried to catch her breath, wheezing heavily.

"Maria," Georg said when she had collapsed back onto her pillows again.

She blinked up at him blearily, looking like death itself, like another woman he had loved more than life itself. It terrified him.

"Maria," he repeated forcefully, "don't worry about the baby, not right now. Just focus on recovering. Get better, please," he pleaded. "I'm not prepared to do this again. I'm not that strong!"

Maybe it was the fear that colored his voice which snapped Maria to alertness, for she grabbed his wrist in a vise grip and said angrily, "Do not even think of going there. Do not."

It took such a monumental effort and drained her so badly that Georg was immediately alarmed and ashamed for having scared her, and without so much as a thought, he went around to the empty side of her bed and climbed in next to her, drawing her into his embrace. "I'm sorry, he whispered.

He must have dozed off for a while, for the next thing he knew, Maria was shifting about and saying something to him. "What's that?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes with one hand. Thunder was still crashing overhead.

"I'm going to be fine, you know," Maria was saying. "The doctors are just having a difficult time of finding the appropriate strength of antibiotics for what I've got. I'm afraid you're stuck with me."

Lifting his head, Georg peered around and saw that Maria had turned on her bedside light and had eaten most of her dinner, though she had left the overcooked carrots well enough alone.

"Maybe if I can get over this tonight," she continued in a quiet, but strong whisper, "they'll let me nurse you in the morning."

Wondering at how this most extraordinary change had occurred in just a few hours, Georg sat up to have a better look at his surroundings. Maria was suspiciously cheerful, and it was then that he realized that a hospital bassinet was sitting near Maria, and it contained a swaddled little bundle with a bit of dark hair peeking out from his angle.

"Maria, how was I not kicked out?" Georg asked, smiling in spite of himself at the sight of his daughter. "And how is she allowed in here with you?"

Maria shrugged. "The nurse likes me. She said that as long as you woke up soon and were found out of bed when she comes back, she won't say anything." Reaching out longingly toward the glass that held their child, she sighed. "She's allowed here because I've been medicated long enough that the doctor doesn't think I'm contagious anymore, and he finds it encouraging that neither you nor the others have caught it."

Placing a kiss on the nape of Maria's neck, Georg extracted himself from the hospital bed and went to see his daughter. Carefully picking her up, he cradled her and sat down at Maria's bedside, laughing slightly at her little gurgling protests of movement. "I see we've got one redhead, one blond, and one brunette," he said.

"Don't count your chickens too quickly," Maria reminded. "Johannes had dark hair for a while!"

"Yes, and I suppose it's going a bit red," Georg acknowledged. Cradling the tiny baby up to his chest, he looked over at his wife. "How are you, truly?" Her eyes were on her daughter, and her face was filled with such longing. Georg imagined her body must simply ache with pain and frustration.

She sighed. "How small she is made things easier than they might have been, physically speaking, but there's no pain in all the world that could rival how terrifying it was, knowing that she wasn't full-term and I am so sick. I truly feel like death, and I'm still reeling a bit from it all. I wish there had been time for a caesarean section, but she came so fast…"

"All that matters is that she's here safe and you're both alive. And soon, you will both be healthy!"

Maria smiled at this. Then, she observed, "She's two days old, Georg. We haven't even named her, yet!"

Listening to the storm rage on, and considering what a magnificent change just the presence of this child had wrought in his wife, Georg looked down at the baby in his arms and smiled. "Eleanor. It means 'bright, shining light."

"Have I told you, my impossible sea captain, just how much I love you?"