Chapter 99: First Feeding
Stephanie floated in a hazy, pain-muffled lagoon. The deep ache in her abdomen was a constant, low tide, but the warmth of Colette sleeping on her chest, the tiny heartbeat against her own, was a lifeline. She was drifting again when a new, sharper sensation pulled her back—a tight, hot pressure building in her breasts, sudden and insistent.
She made a small, distressed sound.
Veronica was at her side in an instant, having just settled back into the recliner. “What is it? Pain?”
“Non, it is… my milk, I think. It is coming.” Stephanie shifted slightly, wincing. Colette, disturbed, began to fuss with a thin, reedy cry. “She is hungry again, but it feels… too much.”
Veronica didn’t hesitate. She moved with a quiet efficiency that belied the exhaustion in her eyes. “Okay. Let’s sit you up a little more.” She adjusted the bed with the remote, her hands firm on Stephanie’s shoulders to help her rise. Every movement was careful, deliberate. She took Colette, supporting her head with a practiced palm that seemed impossibly large against the baby’s fragility.
“Here,” Veronica murmured, guiding Stephanie to open her gown. She helped position the baby, her fingers gentle but unequivocal. “Angle her like this. It’s not a race, let her set the pace.”
The latch was imperfect, clumsy. Stephanie gasped as the suction pulled, a sharp, surprising pang followed by a swift, overwhelming let-down. Milk flowed too fast. Colette spluttered, pulled away, and cried in earnest, a smear of white on her cheek.
“Shh, shh, little one,” Veronica soothed, her voice dropping into a deeper, melodic register. She dabbed at Colette’s face with a blanket corner. “Mama’s got a lot for you, eh? Too much excitement in there.” She looked at Stephanie, whose face was a mask of frustration and pain. “You’re okay. We’ll fix it.”
With one hand supporting Colette, Veronica’s other hand came up to cup Stephanie’s breast, her thumb and index finger applying a firm, knowing pressure just behind the areola. “Slow it down,” she instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument. Her touch was clinical and intimate all at once. “There. Now try again.”
Stephanie, flushed and vulnerable, obeyed. This time, the latch was better. Colette’s urgent sounds faded into soft, rhythmic swallows.
Veronica kept her hand there for a moment, ensuring the flow was managed. She leaned close, her lips near Stephanie’s ear, and her voice became a private, dark rumble, a blend of Patois and New York. “Later, when you’re strong again, I’ll take care of this for you. Properly. No rushing. Just me and you, until the pressure’s gone. You understand?”
A shiver, unrelated to pain, went through Stephanie. She nodded, her eyes closing, leaning into the solid presence of her wife.
The door swung open.
It was not a nurse.
Reyna Barlowe filled the doorway first, a tall, formidable silhouette in a severe charcoal coat. Her eyes, the same sharp green as Veronica’s, scanned the room in one sweeping, assessing glance—the machines, the pale mother, her daughter’s protective stance, the baby at the breast. Her expression, usually unreadable granite, softened at the edges.
Behind her, a flurry of lavender silk and subtle perfume entered. Margot Moreau de Fonteneau stopped short, a hand flying to her throat. “Mon dieu,” she breathed, taking in her daughter’s condition. Charles was a step behind, a broad-shouldered shadow in a tailored overcoat, his stern face carefully neutral, though his eyes lingered on Stephanie with a pained intensity. Bringing up the rear was Jace Barlowe, quieter, holding a large bouquet that suddenly looked absurd.
For a stretched second, no one moved. The only sounds were Colette’s feeding and the ventilator’s rhythmic puff.
Veronica didn’t remove her supporting hand. She turned her head, meeting her mother’s gaze with a silent, defiant challenge. This is us. This is now.
It was Reyna who broke the stillness. She stepped forward, her practical heels clicking on the linoleum. She ignored everyone else and went straight to Veronica, placing a hand on her daughter’s bowed back. “You look like hell,” she said, her voice low.
“Feel like it,” Veronica grunted, the tension in her shoulders easing a fraction.
Margot glided to the other side of the bed, her eyes glistening. She bent, careful not to disturb the nursing, and pressed a kiss to Stephanie’s damp forehead. “Ma petite chou,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “They told us it was difficult.”
“It’s over,” Stephanie said, the words muffled by fatigue. “She is here.”
Charles approached more slowly. He stood at the foot of the bed, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He gave Veronica a stiff, respectful nod. “Veronica.” His eyes returned to his daughter. “Stephanie.” The single word was thick. He cleared his throat. “The child?”
“Colette,” Stephanie said, a hint of a smile touching her lips.
“Colette,” Charles repeated, as if testing the weight of it.
Jace finally found a home for the flowers on the windowsill. He came to stand beside Reyna, offering Veronica a small, tired smile. “Congratulations, Ronnie. To both of you.”
Colette chose that moment to unlatch, milk-drunk and satisfied. Veronica deftly covered Stephanie before lifting the baby, supporting her head to face the room. “Everyone,” Veronica said, her voice gaining a new, fragile strength. “This is Colette Barlowe-James.”
Reyna was the first to reach out. Her large, capable hands, so like her daughter’s, took the baby without hesitation. She cradled Colette in the crook of her arm, looking down into the tiny, sleeping face. All the sharp lines of her face disappeared. “Well, hello, beautiful,” she murmured, her accent softening. “Gave your mamas quite the welcome, didn’t you?”
Margot hovered, her fingers lightly tracing the back of Colette’s hand. “She has your nose, Veronica. And Stephanie’s mouth, I think.”
Charles inched closer, his posture unbending, but his gaze was fixed on his granddaughter with an awe that seemed to frighten him. “She is… very small.”
“She’s perfect,” Veronica stated, reclaiming Colette from her mother with a natural possessiveness. She placed her back on Stephanie’s chest, where the baby immediately nuzzled and settled.
The room settled into an uneasy, new equilibrium. The crisis had passed, but its shadow clung to the corners, in the bags under Veronica’s eyes, in the waxy pallor of Stephanie’s skin. They were no longer just a couple; they were a family surrounded by other families, with all the complicated history and expectation that entailed.
Reyna pulled the room’s other visitor chair next to Veronica’s recliner. “Tell me what you need,” she said, not to the room, but to her daughter. “Food? A change of clothes? I’ll run it.”
“A coffee that could wake the dead,” Veronica sighed, finally allowing her body to sag.
“I’ll see to it,” Charles said abruptly, turning on his heel. It was an escape, but a useful one.
Margot smoothed Stephanie’s hair. “Your father has been out of his mind. We all have.”
Stephanie looked past her mother, to Veronica. Their eyes met across the space crowded with parents and love and worry. In that look was an entire conversation—the fear, the relief, the unspoken trauma of what had been lost alongside what had been gained.
Veronica gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. I’m still here.
Colette sighed in her sleep, a tiny, bubbling sound.
The city’s lights began to wink on outside the window, one by one, holding the gathering dusk at bay. Inside, the vigil continued, but it was no longer solitary. It was now shared, for better or worse, in the quiet hum of the hospital room.