Chapter 1 “Hello? Anybody there?” William yells. He peers through the shaded glass, one hand over his eyes, the other banging on the thick steel door. He wipes the sweat along his hairline with the back of his sleeve, then turns to his wife. “Hang in there, Donna.” “I feel like I’m going to faint,” Donna says. Her knees buckle. Blood gushes out between her legs, forming a crimson pool at her feet, just as the lights in the hospital flicker on and the night watchman appears. William steadies his wife, his arm around her waist. “Hurry up then,” William says to the watchman when he opens the door. “I was about ready to smash the window. Where the hell is the on-call doctor?” “I’ll call,” the watchman says. He presses a button on his walkie-talkie. “Looks like we’ve got an emergency situation here,” he says. He tucks the walkie-talkie back into its holster and walks around to help William support Donna. “There’s a wheelchair just over there,” he says, pointing with his head down the hallway to the left. William and the watchman guide Donna to the chair and lower her onto it, the watchman’s bulkiness in sharp contrast to William’s slight stature. “Is my baby going to be alright?” Donna says, her voice barely a whisper. Her head falls to her chest. “Christ, I think she just fainted,” William says. “Well, don’t just stand around gawking,” says a nurse, who has appeared out of nowhere. “Let’s get her to an examining room.” The nurse grabs the wheelchair and William follows her as she walks down the corridor at a stiff clip. The name tag on her massive bosom says Nurse Peever. “Is she going to be okay, Nurse?” William asks. “It’s hard to say,” she answers. “I’ll be sure to send for you once the doctor has a chance to examine your wife and get her stable.” Nurse Peever steers Donna down the hallway, leaving William to find his way to the waiting room. The sleepy town has a population of less than two thousand, more like a village really, and the only hospital is so trifling it is more like a clinic. At this hour it is silent, completely deserted, with no sign of anyone, not even a janitor. The waiting room is as he remembers. A massive wood-panelled box television set is in the corner. A motley selection of chairs that look like donations from the thrift store line the wall, and the single coffee table is laden with magazines and newspapers. William looks at his watch. It is just after four in the morning, and he is exhausted. He plunks down on a tattered, green suede recliner with a broken knob. The drama has been distracting, and now, alone with his thoughts, the worry sets in. William realizes how little he knows of the secret rituals of childbirth. He pushes his dangling cowlick from his high forehead, takes off his glasses, and closes his eyes. He attempts to convince himself that everything is going to be okay.

Donna has come around to find she is in no longer in a wheelchair but on an examining table with her legs splayed, feet draped over two metal footholds. She looks around the room, then voices her first thought, despite her mental fog. “Is my baby okay?” She cringes. With each contraction her abdomen feels as though all the muscles are tearing away from her skin. “Oh, thank goodness, you’ve come to,” Nurse Peever says. “I’m sure your baby’s just fine.” She pauses from wiping up the dried blood caked to Donna’s thighs. “You seem to have stopped bleeding, that’s a good sign. We need to stop your contractions. If you continue to labour and the baby is born now, by the size of you I’d reckon the baby might not survive.” “What?” Donna gasps. “How do we stop them?” Her hands move protectively to cradle the cantaloupe-sized bump of her belly. “Just try your best to stay calm,” Nurse Peever says. “Take some deep breaths. The doctor will be here any minute.” As if on cue, a young man dressed in powder blue scrubs appears in the doorway, already snapping on a pair of rubber gloves. “Hello, Dr. Crenshaw,” says the nurse. “Nurse Peever,” he replies. “So, what do we have here?” His voice is muffled by his face mask. Donna tries to overhear as the doctor, who looks to be fresh out of medical school, discusses the situation with the nurse, but they’ve lowered their voices and she is unable to make out anything. After a few minutes, the doctor approaches her bedside. “Mrs. Henderson,” Dr. Crenshaw says, looking at the chart that Nurse Peever had only just begun to fill in. “I’m going to check your vitals and the baby’s too, but I think it’s only fair to warn you that judging by the amount of blood you’ve lost, you’re likely hemorrhaging. We might have to perform an emergency Caesarean section.” “A C-section?” Donna strokes her belly. “I was so hoping I could have this baby naturally, like I did with my son. I don’t understand, everything went so easy with him.” “Each pregnancy is different,” Dr. Crenshaw says. “But let’s not jump to any conclusions until I conduct my exam.” The doctor proceeds with his examination. “Well, Mrs. Henderson, it seems both you and the baby are stable.” He tosses his gloves into a waste can. “The hemorrhaging appears to have stopped and the baby’s heartbeat is in a normal range, but your contractions are getting closer and more intense. A Caesarean won’t be necessary, your baby is coming soon.” Labour progresses quickly and at 5:15 a.m. a tiny baby girl arrives into the world, red-skinned and wrinkled. Nurse Peever takes her in her large hands and wipes the fluids from her face with a cloth. The baby lets go a loud, healthy cry. “Is it okay?” Donna asks weakly, her face drawn. “Is it a boy or a girl?” “Your baby girl is going to be just fine,” Nurse Peever proclaims. The baby is so small, her body rests easily in the palm of the nurse’s hand. Her scrawny arms and legs dangle awkwardly over the sides. “She’s premature, but not as small as I imagined she’d be. Still, I’ve got to take her to the infant ICU immediately.” She bundles up the baby in a pink blanket with practiced efficiency. “I’ll let your husband know the good news and be back to check on you soon.”

Nurse Peever finds William pacing the hallway outside the waiting room. She leads him down the hospital corridors to the ICU. There is only one clear, plastic crib. William moves up close to the glass window. His baby girl is squalling, her face as red as a ripe beet. Her tiny arms flail about, naked and exposed, having escaped the swaddling of receiving blankets. Plastic oxygen tubing trails from each nostril. “She looks so frail, more like a doll,” William says choking on tears. “How long does she have to stay in this incubator?” “It’s too early to tell,” says Nurse Peever. “But I’ve been at this work a long time and I think she’ll be out of here sooner than later.” William places his hand on the window and stares at his little girl. Something switches inside his heart as a fierce protectiveness is ignited. “Daddy’s here,” he whispers, fogging up the glass. “Let me take you to see your wife now,” Nurse Peever says, interrupting the tender moment. She leads William by the arm down the hall.

Donna has been moved from the delivery room to a four-bed maternity ward. The other three beds are empty, the sheets pulled tight with the corners tucked in military precision. “I’ll leave you two alone,” Nurse Peever says, closing the door behind her. William strides over to the bed where Donna is recovering. Her dark auburn curls are wet with sweat, she’s as pale as a pitcher of skim milk and can hardly keep her eyes open. “It’s so good to see you,” Donna says to William, wiping a tear from her eye and blowing her nose. “They had to take our baby girl to the ICU.” “I know, I just saw her,” William says. “She’s such a tiny little thing,” Donna says, a tremor in her voice. She looks about to burst into tears. “She’s like a new baby bird, just hatched from the egg. You know she fit in the palm of the nurse’s hand?” “Nurse Peever is the size of brick house,” William says with a chuckle. “A baby elephant would look small in her hands. But I saw on her card, she weighs five pounds, one ounce. That’s not so small.” “Do you think so?” Donna asks, her lip quivering. “I do,” William says. “Try not to worry so much; it won’t do any good, and besides, any daughter of yours has to be feisty, I’m thinking. I’ve got a full day’s work on my desk so I’m going to go check in on our little girl one more time and then head on home.” “You’re leaving? So soon?” Donna’s mouth curls into a frown. “Don’t you think we should at least decide on a name for her first?” “Yeah, I guess so,” William agrees, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets. “We thought we still had lots of time to talk about it, didn't we? How about Elizabeth or Beatrice, after one of our mothers?” “Those names are so old-fashioned,” Donna says. “What do you think of Sandra-Lee?” “Sounds like a southerner or a character in a movie,” William says. “What about Kate, after your friend?” “Oh, I love that! I’ve missed Kate so much since she moved to Australia last year. Maybe we could spell it with a C? I’ve always thought that was a pretty spelling.” Donna gives him a big smile and he kisses her goodbye.

William leaves the hospital and locates his 1957 Chevrolet in the empty hospital parking lot and climbs in. The car is nine years old now, but still in pretty good shape. He notes a layer of dusty grime has accumulated on the windows, a perpetual occurrence in the Canadian prairies in spring. It irks him to no end, but there’s nothing to be done about it. He starts the car and turns on the windshield wipers while pressing the handle for a squirt of windshield fluid, then eases the car into drive. He turns out of the parking lot and onto the narrow street. In no time at all he’s pulling into the alleyway behind their home. The house is small, one side of a duplex, conservatively constructed with plain eggshell white stucco and coal grey wood trim around the windows and doors. The gun-metal grey shingles on the slanting roof gleam in the early morning sunrise. William walks through the back door into the coat room, takes off his shoes, and hangs his windbreaker on a hook. In the kitchen his mother, who loves to fuss over her beloved first-born son, is bustling about. “Oh William, thank goodness. I’ve been beside myself waiting. It’s been hours since you tore out of here like a fox stealing a hen from the barn! How are Donna and the baby?” Elizabeth absent-mindedly pats down her silver-blue hair, tucking a wayward home-permed curl behind her ear. “We have a baby girl, Mother,” William says. “She’s a tiny little thing, being so early. She has to be in an incubator and—” “What?” Elizabeth interrupts. “A baby girl? I never would have thought Donna would deliver so early. An incubator? That sounds serious. For the life of me—” “Please, Mother,” William interrupts. “It’s because she’s so small and frail. She’s on oxygen, because her lungs are underdeveloped. It all happened so fast, I’m still in a bit of a daze, to be honest.” “Well, alright then, I’ll put some bread in the toaster oven, baked it fresh just yesterday mind you,” Elizabeth says with a quick peck on his cheek. “Go ahead and sit. A hearty breakfast should help clear your head.” “Thank you,” William says as he washes up at the sink. “Is Michael up yet?” “Oh, that dear boy, what an angel, but yes, he does like to get up early, which is a good thing as I see it. He ate of all of his breakfast for me and was so nice and tidy. He was a big boy and even used the toilet after. Mark my words, I’ll have that boy trained before his mother gets home from the hospital. I’m sure it will make Donna’s life much easier, and really, I can’t fathom why she has waited so long to try, he’s just such a cooperative little man. Anyway, he’s busy playing in his pen, I just checked in on him a few minutes ago and he’s happy as a bug, so don’t you worry, just sit and relax.” William lets out a weary sigh and drops onto a kitchen chair. Elizabeth passes him a steaming cup of hot, black coffee, then rushes to fetch the newspaper from the front porch. She peeks in on her grandson on the way back to the kitchen, queen of killing two birds with one stone. She efficiently slathers the toast with butter and honey and serves it up with a bowl of shredded wheat smothered with thick cream and brown sugar. She wipes her hands on her apron and lowers her petite frame down in a chair across the table. “Now, what’s this you said about an incubator?” Elizabeth asks without preamble. “And did you choose a name for her? Do you think she looks like a Henderson or a Dietrich?” William nearly chokes on a mouthful of cereal as he swallows the urge to laugh. He finishes chewing and swallowing before he answers. “I don’t know the first thing about the incubator business,” William says. “But we did choose to name her Cate, after Donna’s friend. You remember her from our wedding, I’m sure. As to who she looks like, I think it’s too soon to tell.” “Well, I suppose you have a point,” Elizabeth says. “Although Michael is such a Henderson through and through, with your startling, dark blue eyes and hair as platinum as yours was at his age.”