The first time Arthur Vance walked into our NICU at St. Jude Medical Center in Omaha, I assumed he had wandered into the wrong department. After eleven years as charge nurse, I knew the usual rhythm of our unit, from the soft alarms surrounding incubators to the whispered conversations of exhausted parents, and Arthur looked completely out of place among all of it.
He was in his early fifties and stood at least six foot four, with broad shoulders and old burn scars running along both arms. His hands were enormous and permanently trembling from nerve damage, while the expression in his eyes suggested that whatever war had done to his body had left deeper injuries no one could see.
Then the premature infant in bed seven began crying. Her chart identified her only as Baby Girl Sterling, and she had been born weeks too early, dangerously underweight and exposed to drugs before birth, while her mother disappeared before the admission paperwork was completed.
No father had come looking for her, and no relative had called. While other infants had photographs, blankets, grandparents and parents hovering beside their beds, Baby Girl Sterling had only an identification bracelet and the temporary surname left behind by the woman who abandoned her.
That morning, nothing seemed able to settle her. We adjusted her position, lowered the lights and followed every protocol available to us, but she continued twisting beneath the blankets while her cries became increasingly desperate.
Arthur turned toward bed seven.
“Is she the one who needs someone to sit with her?”
I looked at the volunteer badge attached to his gown. Arthur had passed every background check and psychological assessment required by our infant comfort program, but my attention still drifted toward those scarred, trembling hands.
I hated myself slightly for hesitating, and Arthur noticed anyway.
“They shake. They don’t drop things.”
There was no anger in his voice, so I stepped aside. Arthur washed carefully before approaching the incubator, and although the tremor caused water to splash from his fingertips, every movement remained slow and controlled as he reached through the opening toward the tiny bundle inside.
The moment his fingers touched her blanket, Baby Girl Sterling released a piercing cry. Several monitors reacted at once, and Arthur froze as the alarms filled the room.
For a second, the man standing beside me seemed no longer to be inside a hospital. His breathing changed, sweat formed along his forehead, and I recognized the distant look of someone whose mind had been pulled somewhere dangerous.
“Mr. Vance, step back.”
Arthur swallowed.
“No.”
I moved closer.
“I’ve got her.”
He closed his eyes for one second, steadied himself, and then carefully lifted the two-pound infant against his chest. His hands continued trembling, but his arms remained perfectly controlled around her.
The crying weakened and then stopped. Baby Girl Sterling settled against the center of Arthur’s chest while her heart rate gradually returned toward normal, and the nurses moving through their routines slowly turned to watch.
“She hasn’t settled like that for anyone.”
Arthur looked down at her.
“Sometimes you don’t need fixing. You just need someone who doesn’t leave.”
That was when his identification tags slipped forward from beneath his gown. The first one carried his own name.
VANCE, ARTHUR J.
Behind it hung another tag, older and darkened with age. I could read the engraving clearly.
STERLING, MICHAEL R.
My eyes moved from the dog tag to the label attached to bed seven.
Baby Girl Sterling.
Arthur noticed what I was staring at, and his entire expression changed.
“Where did you see that name?”
“Arthur… who is Michael Sterling?”
His arms tightened protectively around the sleeping infant. For the first time since entering our NICU, the trembling in his hands completely stopped.
Arthur remained silent until I assured him I was not accusing him of anything. When he finally spoke, he told me Michael Sterling had been a combat medic who served beside him in Afghanistan and was responsible for the fact that Arthur had ever returned home.
During an explosion that left Arthur badly burned and permanently damaged the nerves in his hands, Michael had dragged him from a burning vehicle. Michael survived that attack but died after another mission months later, leaving behind a young daughter named Lauren.
Arthur touched the older dog tag.
“He gave me this before his last mission.”
I looked toward the infant sleeping against him.
“Was his daughter Lauren Sterling?”
Arthur’s head lifted.
“Yes.”
The hospital social worker and I exchanged a look. Confidentiality prevented me from explaining everything immediately, but after the appropriate authorization was obtained, we confirmed what had suddenly become impossible to ignore.
Baby Girl Sterling’s mother was Lauren Elise Sterling.
