Chapter 13: Reconnection
The gas tech knocked at 8:14 a.m. I heard him through the apartment door before I saw him, his boots squeaking on the mat outside. The apartment was still cold enough that my breath showed when I breathed out. I was sitting on the couch with the baby against my chest, both of us in layers, the transparent bassinet empty beside me because it was too cold to put him down on a flat surface.
My husband opened the door. He hadn't slept. He was still in the gray collared shirt from the day before, his navy coat hung over the kitchen chair.
"Gas company?" he said.
"Expedited re-light," the tech said. He was older, maybe fifty, with a navy work jacket and a clipboard. "You got an infant in here? Dispatch flagged it."
I nodded. "Five days old."
The tech looked past my husband at me and the baby. "Yeah, we waived the expedite fee. Infant in residence, no heat complaint, that gets bumped to the top. Plus with the temps outside." He stepped in and I saw his eyes go to the thermostat on the wall. It read 48 degrees.
He set his bag down and went straight to the utility closet. My husband followed him. I stayed where I was, shifting the baby a little higher on my shoulder. The apartment had that winter smell when the heat's been off too long, dust and cold plaster.
"You been without heat how long?" the tech asked while he worked.
"Three days," my husband said quietly. "My mother called and canceled it. Said she was helping."
The tech didn't answer right away. I heard the click of the valve, then the soft whoosh when the pilot caught.
"That's not help," he said finally. He stood and brushed his hands on his pants. "Furnace is firing. Give it twenty minutes. You should feel it at the vents."
My husband stayed by the thermostat like he was afraid to look away. I watched the numbers. For a long time it stayed at 48. Then it flickered to 49.
"It's moving," he said, his voice low. He looked over at me. "It's going up."
I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until I let it out. The baby made a small sound against my chest.
The tech checked the vents in the living room and the bedroom, held his hand up to feel the air. Warm air was starting to come through, faint at first. He wrote something on his clipboard.
"You're good," he said. "Leave it at 72 for the baby. If it drops again call the emergency line directly, don't go through billing."
After he left, my husband didn't move from the wall. He kept his hand near the thermostat, not touching it, just watching. 51. Then 52.
My phone buzzed on the couch cushion. I picked it up with one hand. It was an email from the bank, and then a text alert a second later.
My husband's phone buzzed too. He pulled it out of his pocket. That same black smartphone. He opened the banking app and turned the screen so I could see.
The balances had changed.
Where it had said $3.00 and $2.00 with the green toggles, now there were two provisional credits listed above the transaction history. Each one marked "PROVISIONAL CREDIT - DISPUTE UNDER REVIEW."
Checking: $2,847.50 available. Savings: $1,502.00 available.
"It's back," he said. "Provisionally. They said pending final review, ten business days, but the funds are available now."
I stared at the numbers. For three days I'd been checking that app and seeing almost nothing, trying to figure out how to buy formula if I ran out, how to pay for a cab to the hospital. Now the numbers looked normal again, but with that word provisional next to them in gray.
"So we can pay the landlord," I said. "And the electric."
"Yes," he said. "And we don't have to stay at the rental tonight if you don't want to. We can stay here."
I looked around the apartment. The light coming through the big windows was still cool and pale, the snow still on the ledge outside, but the air didn't hurt to breathe anymore. The vent by the window was rattling softly as heat came through.
I laid the baby down in the transparent bassinet for the first time since we'd gotten back from the hospital. I adjusted the light blue blanket around him, not too tight, the way the nurse had shown me. His hat was still on. I put my hand on his chest and felt his breathing, then held my hand just above his face to feel the air around him. It was warming.
I had the thermometer the discharge nurse had given me, a small white room thermometer with a digital display. I set it on the edge of the bassinet. It read 62 and climbing. The safe sleep handout said 68 to 72 for a newborn room. We were getting there.
My husband sat on the floor next to the bassinet, his back against the wall, knees up. He wasn't looking at his phone anymore. He was watching the baby's face and the thermometer.
"68," I said after a while, when the numbers changed.
May you like
He nodded. "We made it."
The thermostat on the wall said 64 now, and the apartment felt different, like it was softening. I could hear the furnace running steady in the closet. I sat on the carpet next to him, close enough that our shoulders touched, and we both watched the bassinet and the slow rise of the heat, not saying anything because for once we didn't have to fight a system to get what we needed.
