“That must have been hell. This is hell, too. Something you both are going to grieve over. There’s no getting around it. If you’re determined to tell her yourself, I won’t stop you. But if you need anything, pick up the phone, call the exchange, and say it’s an emergency. I’m here for both of you. For Rina and you and for the family—the boys, the grandparents. Just give me a call.”

All Decker could do was nod.

“I’ve ordered a cot for you next to Rina.” Hendricks stood. “Try to get some rest, all right?”

“Thank you.” Slowly, Decker got to his feet. “I’ve got to talk to my daughter.”

“It can wait until the morning.”

“I want to do it now.”

“Peter, it can wait.” Hendricks put his arm around Decker’s shoulder. “Go to sleep. Doctor’s orders.”

“I’ve got to tell Rina’s parents—”

“Don’t tell them anything before you’ve told Rina.”

“No, not this.” Decker was finding it hard to talk, hard to speak without choking. “I promised I’d call them as soon as Rina was out of recovery…tell them she’s okay. They must be worried sick.”

Hendricks turned out the lights. “I’ll call them for you. Give me the number.”

It took Decker a few seconds to remember the order of the digits. “You’ll tell them Rina’s doing okay?”

“Yes, I will. Because Rina is recovering well.” Hendricks pulled out keys from his pants and locked the door. “Come on. I’ll walk you back to the ICU.”

Decker didn’t argue. He felt like a child being put to bed. He didn’t want to go, but he was just too exhausted to protest.

8

Cindy woke up with a start, her body pinched from sleeping in a chair. Beside her was Hannah’s layette, the baby lying on her stomach, eyes closed, the little pink face molded into the mattress. It had been almost three hours, and Hannah hadn’t uttered a peep. A big kid, her birth weight almost nine pounds, she probably had a bigger stomach than most of the other infants. Good for her and lucky for Rina. Hannah would probably sleep through the night at an early age.

The wall clock said 1:05, and Cindy assumed it was A.M. For how brightly lit the nursery was, it could have been P.M. Kind of like the Vegas casino she had visited a year ago—a fixed internal environment that scorned the passage of time. She stood and stretched and crossed over the yellow line to the nurses’ station. Through the glass, Cindy could see Darlene talking animatedly to a big-boned black woman, waving her arms as if conducting. Cindy knocked on the door. Darlene looked up and beckoned her in.

“Hi,” Cindy said.