Chapter 28: The Jolt Awake
The room had settled into a warm, drowsy rhythm. Leia’s sudden, deep sleep was a gravitational force, lowering the volume of everything around her. Miriam and David had retired to their suite at the Hay-Adams with promises to return after dinner. Ethan had been wrangled by a junior aide for a tour of the West Wing, a bribe of sorts from Donald, who’d declared, “He’s got a security clearance better than most of them!” Alan was in a quiet phone call in the hall, his melodious voice a soft murmur.
Barron watched the clock. Ellie had been off her supplemental oxygen for over two hours, content and sated on Leia’s chest. The nurse had given him the parameters: two to three hours off, then back on, to keep her stats optimal without over-relying on the support. It was a delicate balance, a dance of progress and precaution.
He waited another fifteen minutes, letting Leia’s breathing stay deep and even. Then, with movements he’d now practiced dozens of times, he began the extraction. He first eased the pillow from under Leia’s arm, replacing it with a cushioned throw from the other end of the sofa. Her arm sank into it without a tremor. Slowly, oh so slowly, he slid his hands under Ellie, his fingers navigating the wires with a gentle precision. He lifted the tiny weight—still so impossibly light—from Leia’s chest. Leia sighed, her brow furrowing for a second, then smoothed out as she nestled deeper into the cushions and Barron’s abandoned space.
He carried Ellie to the incubator, its plexiglass top already hinged open. The warm, humidified air wafted out. He connected her sensor leads, adjusted the miniature nasal cannula, and watched as the numbers on the monitor stabilized in their optimal range. Ellie stretched, a minuscule starfish, and settled into the molded foam nest, her lips pursing in sleep. He left the top open, just a crack, so she wasn’t fully enclosed.
He resumed his post in the armchair nearby, a sentry for his two girls.
An hour melted away. The light outside the windows deepened into the rich gold of late afternoon. The room was silent save for the dual rhythm of Leia’s soft snores and the incubator’s mechanical whisper.
It was the silence that woke her.
Not a sound, but the absence of one. The absence of a warm, breathing weight on her sternum. The absence of a tiny heart beating against her own.
Her body knew before her mind did. A primal alarm fired straight from her cortex to her adrenal glands. She jolted upright, a panicked gasp ripping from her throat. “Ellie—”
The movement was too sudden, too violent. A white-hot sheet of pain tore through her lower abdomen, a brutal reminder of the trauma her body had endured days before. It was a deep, internal wrench, a feeling of things being pulled and ripped that shouldn’t be. She cried out, folding in on herself, her hands flying to her belly.
The physical shock was immediately doubled by a second, more urgent agony. Her breasts, full to begin with, had used the hour of deep sleep to engorge into terrifying, rock-hard boulders. The let-down reflex triggered violently at her panic, a hot, stinging rush that soaked through her nursing pads, her bra, her blouse, in seconds. The pressure was immense, sickening. It felt less like a part of her body and more like two hostile, painful planets attached to her chest.
“Leia!” Barron was there in an instant, kneeling before her, his hands hovering, unsure where to land that wouldn’t cause more pain. “She’s right here, she’s okay, she’s on her oxygen. You were asleep, I put her back, she’s fine.”
But the words were distant, muffled by the roaring in her ears. The pain was a feedback loop: the abdominal cramping clenched her muscles, which made the engorgement feel tighter, more desperate, which made her panic, which intensified the cramping. Tears sprang hot and immediate, fueled by pain, hormones, and a sudden, overwhelming hatred for this body that betrayed her.
“It hurts,” she sobbed, the words jagged. “It hurts.” She wasn’t even specifying where anymore. Everywhere. It hurt everywhere.
Melania appeared from the adjoining room, drawn by the cry. She took in the scene in a glance: Leia curled and weeping, Barron looking helpless, the dark patches spreading on Leia’s blouse. She moved with a calm efficiency.
“Barron, get the pump, the one with the double collection bottles. And bring a fresh towel. Warm, from the dryer.” Her tone brooked no argument. He was gone in a flash.
Melania sat on the edge of the sofa beside Leia, her voice low and steady. “Leia, srček, listen. Breathe. The pain is real, but it will pass. The cramping is your uterus shrinking. It is good. It means you are healing.” She placed a cool, gentle hand on Leia’s forehead, brushing back sweat-damp curls. “The milk is too much. We will fix it. But you must try to breathe or you will make yourself faint.”
Leia tried to suck in air, but it hitched on another sob. The humiliation boiled over. “I hate it,” she choked out, clawing at the front of her soaked blouse. “I hate this. It’s too much, it’s disgusting, I’m leaking everywhere like a… a broken faucet. I just want it to stop.”
Barron returned, laden with the pump equipment and a warm, fluffy towel. Melania took charge. “Leia, lean forward a little. Just a little. Good.” She draped the warm towel over Leia’s chest. The heat was a small, diffuse relief against the painful tightness. “Barron, plug it in. Now, Leia, we will relieve the pressure. Slowly. It will hurt less in a moment.”
With practiced hands—hands that had done this for her own son—Melania helped Leia get set up. The initial pull of the pump was a sharp, breathtaking agony, and Leia cried out again, her knuckles white where she gripped the sofa cushion. Barron winced, looking pale.
“The first minute is the worst,” Melania said, her voice a anchor. “Look, see? It is flowing. The pressure is already less, yes?”
And it was, infinitesimally. The terrible, bursting pressure began to ebb, replaced by the rhythmic, mechanical pull. The sharp cramping in her belly began to subside, fading to a deep, persistent ache. The sobs quieted into shaky, ragged breaths, then into exhausted hiccups. She leaned her head back, eyes closed, utterly spent, tears still tracking through her lashes.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“For what?” Barron said, his voice rough. He’d taken her free hand, his thumb stroking her palm.
“For… this. The mess. The drama.”
Melania made a soft, dismissive sound. “This is not drama. This is biology. It is savage and it is beautiful and it is very, very real.” She adjusted a setting on the pump. “Your body believes it must feed a village to ensure one baby survives. It is not listening to modern schedules. You have to… negotiate with it.”
A new voice came from the doorway. Miriam, back with a covered dish. She’d clearly heard the tail end. She set the dish down and came over, her eyes missing nothing—the pump, the towel, Leia’s tear-streaked face.
“Meine tochter,” she said softly, sitting on Leia’s other side. She didn’t offer platitudes. She offered data. “With Ethan and you, I could have opened a dairy. I sprayed milk across the room if the phone rang too loudly. Once, I soaked your father during shul. He was not pleased.” She smoothed Leia’s hair. “This is an oversupply. It is a pain. Literally. We will manage it. Cabbage leaves in the bra. Cold compresses after feeding. Pump only to comfort, never to empty. We will teach your body what it needs to know.”
Leia listened, the practical words a lifeline. The pump whirred, filling the bottles with a swift, abundant flow that was both a relief and a taunt. “It feels like a failure,” she murmured. “Like I can’t even get this right.”
“Right?” Barron echoed, squeezing her hand. “Leia, look at the output. That’s not failure. That’s… overwhelming success.”
A weak, watery laugh escaped her. “It’s overwhelming, period.”
Donald’s voice boomed from the hallway, preceding him. “Melania, have you seen the latest polling on the infrastructure bill? It’s through the—” He stopped in the doorway, taking in the scene: his wife and Miriam flanking Leia, the pump humming, his son kneeling, holding a hand. His eyes softened. He walked over to the incubator, peering in at his sleeping granddaughter. Then he looked back at Leia.
“They said she’d need fortified formula to gain weight, remember?” he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “But the doctors, the best doctors, they just came in. They said with the volume you’re producing, your milk alone has enough calories. No formula needed. Not one drop.” He nodded, a decisive, proud tilt of his head. “That’s not a failure, Leia. That’s a victory. A big, beautiful victory.”
The words landed differently coming from him. They weren’t just comfort; they were a strategic assessment. And in that moment, the strategic assessment was exactly what she needed. She was winning. On the brutal, bloody battlefield of her own body, she was winning.
The pump finished its cycle. Melania helped her detach. The relief was profound, the pain receding to a manageable, sore fullness. Miriam produced a fresh, soft nursing bra and blouse from the endless bag she seemed to carry.
“Come,” Miriam said. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Then you will eat the kugel. The protein is good for you.”
As Leia was helped to her feet, moving stiffly, Barron stayed on the floor, cleaning the pump parts. He looked up at her. “Next hill?”
She managed a small, tired, but genuine smile. “Next hill.”
She walked slowly to the private bathroom, supported by her mother and Melania, a queen flanked by her most pragmatic attendants. Behind her, Donald leaned down to murmur to Barron, “Tough kid.”
Barron watched her go, then glanced at the two full bottles of milk on the table, liquid gold in the warm lamplight. “The toughest,” he agreed.
“The toughest,” he agreed.
The next few days passed in a blur of routine and incremental triumph. Ellie’s weight climbed, ounce by precious ounce, on the chart taped to the incubator. Two pounds five ounces became three, then three ten. The nurses started using words like “feisty” and “strong feeder,” which Leia clung to like scripture. Her own body began to negotiate a truce with the help of cabbage leaves and strict pumping schedules, the savage pain receding into a manageable, familiar ache.
Miriam and David became fixtures, a comforting background hum of Yiddish and logistical support. Ethan extended his leave, spending his days doing push-ups in the residence gym and his evenings silently marveling at his niece’s growing strength. Uncle Alan returned to London for a film commitment, but not before extracting a promise from Ellie to “keep gaining in my absence, darling,” his voice a warm rumble that seemed to soothe her.
A week later, Ellie hit four pounds ten ounces. She was still a tiny, bird-boned thing, but she had graduated from the incubator to a simple bassinet in the sitting room. “She’s likely to follow her mother’s growth curve,” the head neonatologist told them, smiling. “Petite but mighty.” Leia, holding her daughter without a tangle of wires for the first time, felt a surge of pure, unadulterated joy so potent it stole her breath.
The following Thursday, the family sitting room felt like it might burst at the seams. Don Jr., Ivanka, Eric, and Tiffany had arrived in a whirlwind of laughter, expensive cologne, and carefully wrapped packages. The air was thick with the smell of Miriam’s roasting chicken and garlic.
“Let me see this little legend,” Don Jr. boomed, his voice filling the space as he gently took Ellie from Barron. He held her with surprising competence, his large hands making her seem even smaller. “Look at you. Already causing a media frenzy and you don’t even know it.”
“She has your nose, Barron,” Tiffany observed, leaning in with a warm smile. “But Leia’s eyes, for sure. They’re like little sapphires.”
“She’s perfect,” Ivanka said, her tone softer, her finger stroking Ellie’s cheek. “Absolutely perfect. How are you feeling, Leia?”
“Tired,” Leia admitted, accepting a glass of water from Eric. “But better. It’s good to see her out of the box.”
“The box was state-of-the-art,” Donald corrected from his wingback chair, but he was smiling, watching his older children fawn over his youngest grandchild.
Over dinner, served buffet-style on the historic furniture, plans solidified. “We’ve spoken with Rabbi Bernstein at my family’s synagogue in New Rochelle,” Leia said, picking at a piece of challah. “For her naming and conversion. It’s beautiful there, right on the water.”
“And we’ll have a simple welcome ceremony at the church here, afterwards,” Barron added, his hand resting on Leia’s knee under the table. “Just family. A blessing.”
Donald nodded, chewing. “Pastor Michaels will handle it. He’s been with us for years.”
A faint line appeared between Melania’s brows, but she said nothing, simply passed the tzimmes to David.
The following Sunday was crisp and bright. The family service at the historic church was brief. Leia sat with Ellie snug in a chest carrier beneath her coat, feeling the infant’s warm, sleeping weight against her. She listened politely to the sermon, which felt abstract and distant, her mind on the intimate, Hebrew prayers that would soon welcome her daughter into the covenant.
After the final hymn, the family filed out to the waiting SUVs, chatting. Barron was pulled aside by his father for a quick word with a departing senator. Melania was thanking the organist. “Leia, darling, could you wait a moment with the Pastor?” Donald called. “Just a quick hello.”
Leia nodded, hanging back as the others moved towards the cars. She shifted Ellie slightly, turning to face Pastor Michaels in the now-empty vestibule. He was an older man, with sharp eyes and a smile that didn’t quite reach them.
“A beautiful child,” he said, his voice a low, practiced baritone. “A true blessing.”
“Thank you, Pastor.”
“I understand you’ll be having a separate ceremony. At a synagogue.” He didn’t phrase it as a question.
“Yes. For her naming. And her conversion to Judaism.” Leia kept her voice polite, firm.
The pastor’s smile tightened. “Such a shame. To deny her the sure path of Christ. This country was founded on Christian principles. It’s the superior foundation for a soul, especially one so… fragile.”
The word ‘fragile’ hung in the air, a veiled threat. Leia’s spine straightened. “Our path is chosen, Pastor. Barron converted. We’re raising Ellie in our faith.”
“A man can be led astray by a pretty face,” Michaels said, taking a step closer. His voice dropped, losing its pastoral warmth. “This could be a simple blessing here, today. No need for… other rituals. I could do it right now. Ensure her salvation.”
The air left the room. Leia took a step back, her arms instinctively curling around Ellie. “That won’t be necessary. We have our plans.”
“Plans can change.” He moved again, subtly blocking her path to the large oak doors. “A mother’s duty is to her child’s eternal soul. Not to tradition. You should reconsider. For her sake.”
Fear, cold and slick, coiled in Leia’s stomach. It was the fear of the storm, of losing control, but now it had a face and a clerical collar. Ellie, sensing her tension, began to fuss softly. “I’ve given you my answer,” Leia said, her voice trembling only slightly. “Now please, excuse me. My family is waiting.”
She tried to sidestep him. He shifted, his body now fully blocking the doorway. The empty church felt suddenly cavernous, hostile. “You’re being disobedient. Not just to me, but to God’s clear will. This stubbornness is a sin, young lady.”
His hand came up, not to strike, but to gesture, and it was too close, too fast. Leia flinched violently, stumbling back. Panic, pure and electric, shot through her. She fumbled in her pocket for her phone, her eyes locked on his angry, flushed face.
“I’m calling Donald,” she breathed, her thumb finding the speed dial.
“You think his power matters here?” Michaels hissed, but a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face.
The line rang once. “Leia?”
“Dad,” she said, the childhood title slipping out in her terror. “Inside. Now.”
She barely got the words out before the pastor’s composure shattered. “You disrespectful girl!” he spat, and his open hand cracked across her face.
The sound was a gunshot in the silent vestibule. Pain exploded in her cheek, white and blinding. Her head snapped to the side. A cry was torn from her—not of pain, but of sheer, primal terror for the baby strapped to her chest. Before she could even raise her arms, his hands were on the carrier’s straps, yanking.
“Give her to me! This ends now!”
“NO!” Leia screamed, twisting her body, clutching Ellie, but he was stronger, fueled by a furious righteousness. He wrestled the carrier from her, the fabric tearing, and pulled Ellie free. He held the suddenly wailing infant awkwardly, high against his chest, out of Leia’s reach.
“God’s will be done!”
The massive oak door slammed open, crashing against the stone wall. Donald Trump filled the doorway, backlit by the harsh sunlight. He took in the scene in a nanosecond: Leia, slumped against the wall, hand to her reddening cheek, sobbing. Pastor Michaels, holding a screaming Ellie aloft like some twisted trophy.
Donald’s face, usually a canvas of bluster or calculation, went utterly, terrifyingly blank. It was the calm before the tornado. He crossed the space in three strides.
“Give me my granddaughter.” The voice was low, flat, and carried a finality that froze the air.
“Donald, this child needs salvation, not your family’s pagan—“
Donald didn’t argue. He didn’t shout. He simply reached out, and with a swift, decisive motion, plucked Ellie from the pastor’s grasp. He cradled her instantly to his shoulder, his large hand supporting her head with an innate gentleness that contrasted violently with the scene. Ellie’s cries hiccupped into shocked whimpers.
He turned to Leia, who was shaking, blood trickling from her split lip. “Come on, Leia.” His free arm went around her shoulders, pulling her into his side, turning her away from the sputtering pastor. He guided them both, a solid, immovable barrier, toward the door.
“She defied God’s will!” Michaels shouted after them, his voice echoing in the chamber. “I was saving that child! You’re condemning her! You’ll all be condemned!”
Donald didn’t look back. He marched them out into the blinding sun, down the steps, where Barron was sprinting from the car, his face a mask of confusion and dawning horror. He bundled Leia into the back seat of the SUV, carefully placed Ellie into her arms, and slammed the door.
Through the tinted window, Leia saw him turn back toward the church. He stood on the sidewalk, a solid, towering figure in his dark overcoat, and stared at the doorway where Pastor Michaels now stood, framed in shadow. Donald didn’t move. He just stared. It wasn’t a look of rage. It was a promise, silent and absolute.
After a full minute, he turned, walked back to the car, and got into the front seat. “Drive,” he said to the agent, his voice still that eerie, calm flatline.
The SUV pulled away. In the back, Leia rocked a crying Ellie, her own tears falling silently onto the soft fabric of the carrier. Barron held them both, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped. No one spoke.
From the front passenger seat, Donald finally broke the silence, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “We’re calling Rabbi Bernstein,” he said, the words leaving no room for anything else. “You’ll have the naming at the synagogue. A big one. The biggest.” He paused, and when he spoke again, the flatness was gone, replaced by something cold and razor-sharp. “That man will never set foot near my family again.”