Chapter Text
I’m 23 weeks and 5 days pregnant when I call him. “Anden?” My voice shakes. “Anden?”
There’s a long pause, and then he clicks onto his mic, his voice gentle and worried. “June, what’s wrong?”
“Anden, the baby, something’s—” I press my face against the 2x2 inch marble tiles on my bathroom floor, seeking relief. The pain is unreal. “Something’s wrong, it’s—"
“June?”
“It hurts,” I whisper. “I can’t . . .” Another crescendo of searing pain passes over me, 3.4 minutes since the last contraction. “I can’t, oh. Anden—“
“June, I’m coming to get you.” (I learn later that he stopped a Senate meeting for me. I wonder why he took the call.)
***
My son is born at 17:09:18, March 10th. He weighs a pound and 2 ounces, and is 7.9 inches long. He comes out a bruised shade of red-purple, almost alien-like, with translucent skin and wrinkles. Attached to arms the size of a cork, his hand is no bigger than the tip of my thumb.
My love for this baby is . . . different. It’s all-consuming, suffocating; I can’t spend another minute without him in my arms. If a flame blazed behind Day’s eyes, I tried to contain it, let it raze just one quadrant of my heart. My son is a forest fire. With a simple cry, he’s burned my walls and taken over my being. He is my everything.
***
“A combination of stress and age,” a female voice, one of the preemie doctors, tells the room.
A 17-year-old shouldn’t be helping run a country, is what she doesn't say.
“Her cervix gave out. Her body’s not developed enough.”
A 17-year-old shouldn’t be a mother.
“And if she wasn’t eating sufficiently . . .”
“How’s the baby?” Anden breaks the silence, a voice of strength.
An unknown male voice responds, “We’ll have to see, Elector.” He might be one of the NICU nurses.
“His lungs haven’t had time to develop properly.” I feel Tess’ slight weight as she sits on the corner of my hospital bed, the strength of her hands as she squeezes my own. I try to squeeze back, but any movement makes my abdomen throb with pain. I’m still woozy from the emergency c-section. “The next couple weeks will be critical.”
“How is he?” Anden asks again, his voice turned to gravel.
“We’re trying our best, sir,” answers the woman.
“You are the best doctor in the Republic, Ms. Hays,” Anden says quietly, and I’m sure he’s leaning away from me, trying to stop me from detecting the anger seeping through his words. “But that reputation can be easily tarnished. I certainly hope that you are trying.”
***
It’s a cruel, cosmic joke. I fought a war, faced the Senate, and planned and wrote and revised reforms all for the lives of new generations, but my own son is confined to a 3x1 ft plastic box, his machines doing more living than his body.
The irony of the situation is not lost on me; I am more than aware that my son's father lies in this very hospital, and that he, too, toes the line of life and death. Maybe that is the curse of the people who get attached to me. Maybe my boys are just similar.
I reach into the incubator, gently running my finger along my son's little arm.
I want to hold my second light.
***
The hospital is quiet around me as I keep vigil. In form, it's like a stakeout from Drake, and yet, at the same time, life itself is now so many worlds removed from my college days. There is a before and an after that are undeniable.
The lights from the machines paint my son’s pale chest as an odd blue. His hand jerks around in his sleep. I touch the plastic of his incubator, wanting to hold him, comfort him, but so afraid of waking him, of doing something wrong. If I feel alone, what about him?
The world must seem so scary. He knows only prodding hands and faceless voices.
***
Sometimes, I think people hear my name and forget that I’m 17. A 17-year-old has no business in helping to win a war, or in leading an army, or in rearing a child, but June Iparis? June Iparis does.
It takes me a full week in the NICU to admit that I’ve never held or changed a baby before, and that I can't cook anything other than salads. But when I do, it's like the nurses’ worlds turn on their axis’. For the first time since Metias, I am young again. I am a student who needs to be taught, a teenager whose sleeping habits are monitored.
Soon, I know not only how to hold and change my baby, but also how to strap carseats and warm bottles and a million other little things that fell through the cracks of my short pregnancy. (The nurses haven’t done anything about the cooking, though. Poor baby is going to have to suffer through takeout and leafy green smoothies.)
For the first time in a long time, perhaps the first time ever, I am not looked at like the prodigy, but simply a girl.
***
I’ve been in the hospital for 26 days, 7 hours, and an unknown number of minutes. There’s no clock in this room, and my internal counter has been ruined by lack of sleep and sunlight. There’s no windows here, either. Something about minimizing variables. Tess would know.
His fingerprints have developed. He startles when the door slams shut, or when he hears my voice. He likes it when I swaddle him, but only if it’s with the softest of blankets.
In less than a month, my son’s gained 3/4 of a pound and 5 inches. He’s still so small, so unbelievably small and thin, covered in fine brown hair because there’s not enough fat stored to keep him warm. The doctors say that he’s even tinier than most, that they’re worried about growth charts and developmental milestones. He’ll always be on the shorter side of his age group. He might need glasses. (Tess argues that there’s nothing wrong with either of those things.)
Until we move onto a CPAP, my son’s intubated. The respirator’s attached machine (5x7 ft, sheet steel) and tubes make the room look like Drake’s science lab. 23 such tubes run up and down my son. They feed him, monitor his blood pressure and sugar, check his body heat, and run scans on his muscle strength and REM patterns. Throughout our stay, I’ve learned what each and every machine does. I listen to his heartbeat most of all.
***
All the nurses adore my son—a charmer, like his dad. He’s already got a big personality, choosing favorite people each day, whining when he’s not given sufficient attention, his jerky movements making it clear what displeases him. He settles when I speak to him, stroke his soft skin, kiss his little head. My heart has never felt so full as when—in one of the rare instances he’s let out of the incubator—he falls asleep in my arms. He's still connected to tubes, still so weak, but my little family almost feels normal, complete, just for a minute. (Minus one member, one man who would’ve been at my side this entire time, who will give his whole, huge heart to my son once he wakes up. I’m sure of it.)
Most of the time, I sit next to my son’s incubator. I only sleep because the nurses make me. I think Anden’s ordered them to nag me whenever he isn’t here. And he’s here a lot, along with Tess and Pascao and the Senators who I’m friendly with, bringing meals and adding to a growing pile of toys. He’ll never be able to play with so many.
Anden’s been a surprising constant this month. After getting me to the hospital, he didn’t leave my bedside until the C-section. He was the third person—after Tess—to hold my son. The rooms I’m staying in in the Hospital of LA are reserved for the Stavropolous’. He’s waived off the limit on maternity leave—though I’ve still been taking calls and doing research as an agent. He’s waived off the medical bills, too, deaf to my protests. The hospital staff bends over backwards to give any medicine or equipment or kindness to me. Anden’s provided me with the healthcare available to the Republic’s Elector: the best healthcare in the country.
When—if—he wakes up, I wonder what Day will think when he learns that I’m getting preferential treatment. Will he put aside his reservations for the sake of our son’s health? Which will win, equality or family? (Will he consider our son family, or a bad mistake?)
***
His eyes are bright with unfamiliarity.
I don’t tell him.
I will never forgive myself.
***
“Have you decided on a name, Ms. Iparis? It needs to be entered into public files soon.”
I look to Tess, who’s busy on a call for her new internship in the surgery ward. She gives me a thumbs up and a cheery grin. (She hates me for what I did to him, I know, but I’ve punished myself enough for the both of us.)
We’ve talked for hours about this, bouncing ideas off of each other until we regressed into naming him after legumes. (Tess, delusional and cross-eyed from staring at textbooks all day, insists that Bean is a good nickname.) We decided that James, Charlie, and Ethan are too predictable. Edward, Richard, and Alexander are too snooty. Michael, after my father, is too generic. Metias is too emotional. Eden would’ve caused uproar. I’d been tempted by ‘John,’ after Day’s older brother, but that’d be a too obvious homage. So I just found a name that felt . . . right.
“Adryan. Adryan Metias Iparis.”
The nurse nods, smiling. “Lovely. Would you like to disclose the father so his name is on the birth certificate?”
“No.” Her eyes widen in disappointment, and I fight to keep my face expressionless.
Adryan, specifically Adryan’s father, is all the people of the Republic can talk about. Does he have the blonde hair and shining eyes like their last savior? Or the dark looks and strong build of their new Elector? Will he be bright and beautiful, a legend in his own right? Or elegant and poised, a leader working for the people? Either or, everyone has their opinions, and the only concrete factor in the equation is me. Anden rules rumors with an iron fist, but some still slip through the cracks, leaking into this room, so I can hear how my reputation rises and falls by the day.
Some days the people love me because they still have a Wing in the Republic. Then I’m a whore, because I cheated on Anden.
The next day they celebrate that the next Elector has been born. But I’m a whore, because I cheated on Day.
And then they decide to be mad because I got pregnant and chased Day away. But I’m always a whore, because I had a kid underage.
“Writing the father in will recognize him as a person entitled to visiting rights,” the nurse tries again, “even if he does not have cus—”
“Just me. Thank you.”
***
It’s funny, really. He lives unknowing of all he's forgotten; I live with a constant reminder. I wonder which is more painful.
***
Pascao is taking care of Ollie while I stay in the hospital. After a month of cajoling—and no small amount of bribing—the nurses finally agreed to sneak my dog in on the down-low.
When the door cracks open, and Ollie sees me for the first time in three months, he lets out a joyful bark. A rocket of white fur barrels towards me, and his floppy tail is wagging so hard I’m afraid he might pick up and fly away. When he reaches me, I wrap my arms around my dog’s neck and bury my face in his fur. “Hi, boy,” I whisper. “I’ve missed you.” His tongue against my skin gives me a pang of nostalgia for my childhood, for long days spent curled up with him, studying by the fire.
Ollie eventually detangles himself from me and wanders, sniffing, around the room. The nurses mutter and worry, but I know my boy won’t do anything wrong. He finds Adryan’s crib (he’s taken out of the incubator in the daytime, now) and jumps so his paws are on the top of it, peering down to get a better look at the new addition to our family. A nurse darts over to grab him, but I wave him off.
“He’s just curious.” I take Adryan out of his crib so Ollie can get a better read on him. “This is your new brother. Careful, Ollie. He’s fragile.” When I sit down, my son in my arms, Ollie curls up at our feet.
“Aw, poor dog,” Pascao says, grinning, leaning against the doorframe. “How does it feel to be replaced, boy?”
“He’s not replaced,” I mutter, reaching down to scratch his ear. “He’s just been given a second assignment.” Ollie nudges me in the calf, a gentle agreement.
***
Adryan is crying. He’s slept, doesn’t need to be changed, and he just ate. Why is he crying? The nurses are looking at me, expecting me to have an answer. June Iparis always has answers, yes—about math or history or the trajectory of someone’s stride. Not about humans. Especially not about baby humans. I haven’t developed some 6th sense for crying or whatever other rose-colored thing people love to spout about motherhood. I’m a 17-year-old Duke-trained military prodigy, and I can’t throw a textbook answer at Adryan.
I take a deep breath, forced to rely on the only other thing I know.
Ok, June. What would Metias do?
***
Day always loved my eyes, but I could never see what he saw. They’re the dark brown mirror of 10 billion others—nothing like his twin oceans, one rippled with a white wave. But looking at my son, with Day’s lips, ears, and facial structure, paired with my nose and now—as they finally open and change colors—my eyes, I think I can learn to love them. If only because they’re Adryan’s.
The world better look out for this child. If we don’t watch him, he’ll convince the sun to stop setting.
***
He’s off oxygen, now. 95 days of living, and Adryan can finally breathe. The doctors say we might only have a month left at the hospital. My due date’s almost here.
***
“Well, it’s just you and me now, Bean,” I say, balancing my son on my hip as I open the door. “Welcome home.” I’ve only been back to my apartment a handful of times since the birth, and it doesn’t feel much like home. Even though the war was almost a year ago now, there was barely a chance to get situated to my new living quarters before I moved into the hospital.
Tess looks around—as much as she can look around, with her thin arms straining under so many boxes. “A little too much marble for a baby, yeah?”
“We’ll go shopping.” I study my home as we walk inside. Past visits have just been for toiletries, Ollie’s food, and the few baby clothes I’d bought before giving birth. Someone’s cleaned up since then. There’s no laundry on the floor or paperwork on the countertops. I sure didn’t do the dishes before being rushed to the hospital in an ambulance. There’s flowers (purple geraniums) in a vase on the coffee table, and all of my son’s toys sit in a bin next to it. I swallow, once again reminded of all the people who were along on every step of the ride. I want to hug Tess and call Anden and thank my nurses for the third time over. Instead, I make a face at my son and coo, “I wasn’t ready for you, buddy.” Setting his carrier down on the kitchen island, I scoop him out. Adryan giggles, his tiny hands latching onto my hair. “You’re precocious.”
Tess drops the packages onto an uncomfortable-looking couch with a groan. “Already like his mother.”
“Sure are, right, Adryan?" He grins up at me as I bounce him in my arms, shrieking with laughter as I pretend to let him go. He already acts like his father, too. “He’s beginning to look more like me.” Adryan’s hair started out black then fell out and grew in blonde. Blonde hair paired with the blue eyes he was born with was almost too much for me to handle. But Adryan’s eyes mirror my own now, and his hair is growing in a dirtier color. Not quite inconspicuous, but definitely not so glaringly Day-Wing’s-son anymore.
“I’ll toast to that,” Tess says with a giggle, bringing out a bottle of sparkling cider and two glasses from one of her bags. “Cheers to dominant genes.” We clink glasses, laughing.
“And cheers to my Adryan,” I add softly, kissing his head, because it’s what Metias would do.
“He's had a tough hand, aye?” Tess smiles down at my son, speaking in earnest. “He really wants to survive, June. He’s going to be a champion.”
“He already is.”