The August sun slanted through the blinds of my bedroom window, catching in the pecan leaves and scattering gold across the quilt. Dust motes drifted lazily in the light as I shifted my sore body and breathed in the quiet.
My brand-new baby daughter was curled in the crook of my arm, her tiny body warm and damp with that otherworldly newborn smell.
Carri Beth, my sixth child, had been born the night before. Her breath fluttered like a whisper against my skin. Tracing the faint blue veins in her eyelids, I stroked along the downy skin to her temples. From the kitchen drifted the scent of cinnamon and butter—French toast. Abby was making my favorite breakfast for this first dawn of Carri Beth’s life.
Dan stirred beside me.
“Let’s call the kids to come meet her,” I whispered. “And your parents too.”
Introducing new babies to their siblings was one of my favorite moments in life. The hush that fell over them, the reverent hovering of their hands, the first soft touch, all felt like watching love and awe awaken.
I moved into the recliner in the living room, the house still with early-morning quiet.
A sister was a novelty in our home. We’d had one girl, then four boys in a row. I had almost believed another girl was not meant for us.
Appearing one by one in the doorway, my kids peered in as if into a chapel. For once their footsteps were soft on the wood floor! Their eyes flicked to me first, taking in my face, my rumpled hair, before drifting to the baby.
Helen, now eleven, sandy hair loose around her face, stepped closer, her eyes glassy with awe.
Blair broke the stillness. “Ah! She has no hair!”
“It will come,” I laughed.
Andrew, missing his two front teeth, flashed a crooked grin. Zach elbowed his way in closer.
And then there was Christopher. He was two and a half and still not talking. I had hoped this moment might awaken something in him. With all my previous children, it seemed to mark a transition out of babyhood. But when he saw me, he began to wail—a raw, sound that scraped through the room. Now this wasn’t entirely unusual, all my kids had moments like this. I patted the seat beside me, but then he climbed into my lap as if the baby wasn’t there at all.
“Look, Christopher,” I whispered, guiding his hands to her soft head, but his eyes never moved or even took her in. It really felt as though he thought I were holding a folded blanket instead of a child.
His cries escalated, so Dan took Carri Beth from me, and I rocked Christopher, feeling his small body rigid with fear. He thrashed, slid from my lap, and rolled onto the sofa.
Finally, I carried him into the bedroom and held him in the chair beside the bed.
When the others left, I looked at Dan and felt the tears sliding down my cheeks.
“He didn’t even see her,” I said. “He never even saw her. We’ve never had a child act like that. Maybe jealousy; maybe a little resentment, but they’ve always also been curious and excited. It was like she wasn’t even there!”
Over the next weeks, the unease grew like a shadow. Christopher passed through rooms without glancing at her. Once, when she lay on a pallet on the floor, he stepped over her like she was furniture.
Then came a night that terrified me. Three week old Carri Beth slept on the sofa, swaddled tightly, a small roll pillow guarding her. The house smelled of garlic and chili as I stirred up a Thai dinner. Constantly glancing over my shoulder, I checked on the baby and Christopher. Christopher ran in circles, thudding feet, grunting breaths. He jumped and ran, jumped and ran, around and around our dining table. He was completely absorbed in his running.
Carri Beth began to cry on the couch. I hurried to finish the meal, sweat dripping from my hair, stirring faster to outpace her. Suddenly, Carri Beth’s cry changed, and I turned. To my shock, Christopher had lifted her, and thrown her to the floor.
I screamed and ran, the pan clattering as I flung it from the stove. The blanket had softened the fall. She was screaming, red-faced and angry, but unharmed.
Christopher shook his head violently, then began screaming too, the noise overwhelming him.
“Oh, God!” I began to shake and then collapsed onto the couch. “No, no! Don’t ever hurt the baby!” I scolded through tears. But then my reaction alarmed him, and he hurled himself on the floor and began beating his head against the floor boards screaming.
“What do I do?” I cried to the ceiling.
From that day on, I wore Carri Beth pressed against my chest in a baby wrap or kept Christopher within reach.
That night as I told Dan, my voice and my hands were still shaking.
“There is something wrong with him. Maybe I need to work harder on his talking. He’s almost three! He doesn’t say anything.”
During dinner, I watched Christopher dip his face into his bowl like a puppy, unaware of his own hands. I slid out of my seat and stood behind him, guiding his fingers to the fork. He only reached out extending his hands for me to hold to feed him.
I knew we were standing at the base of a mountain. Whatever lay ahead, I would have to become more than I’d ever been before. I could not turn back. I could only climb.