A Brother, Not a Babysitter

Christmas with Vanessa was arranged as a daytime visit, with a clear plan for Daniel to collect Noah afterward.

Rick would not be there. Vanessa had agreed to that, and Noah wanted to see her and Tyler.

I disliked the whole idea, but I kissed the top of his head before he left and told him to bring back any laundry he'd forgotten.

He smiled.

“You always ask about laundry.”

“It's a fascinating subject.”

“Not really.”

“Then stop leaving socks in the couch.”

He blushed. Daniel laughed and hurried him toward the car.

Noah returned carrying a plate of cookies. He said the visit had been okay. Vanessa had cried when he left, but she had let him go at the agreed time.

That evening, he sat on the floor beside our small Christmas tree and helped Daniel assemble a bookshelf for the nursery.

The instructions lay between them. Daniel insisted a piece was missing. Noah pointed to the piece under his knee.

“That would do it,” my husband admitted.

For the first time in weeks, the boy laughed without checking our faces afterward.

Sophie was due in late January. She arrived twelve days early, apparently unwilling to miss anything.

My labor began on a Tuesday while Noah was at school. Daniel left a message for the coordinator, drove me to the hospital, and spent the next several hours asking whether I needed water whenever he didn't know what else to do.

“If you ask me that again,” I told him, “I'm naming her Water.”

He wisely became quiet.

By dawn, our daughter lay against my chest, small and furious, with a dark tuft of hair.

Daniel cried. I cried. Sophie objected to the lighting.

When Noah arrived after classes with a ride we'd arranged, he stopped beside the bed as though he had entered a church.

“She's so little.”

“Don't tell her,” I said. “She thinks she's in charge.”

He smiled and set a paper bag on the chair. Inside was a soft yellow rabbit from the school gift sale.

“I washed it,” he told me. “The tag said I could.”

“Thank you. Would you like to hold her?”

His answer came before I finished asking.

“Yes.”

Daniel helped him sit. Noah curved one arm under Sophie's neck with practiced care and settled her against his chest.

She stopped fussing.

He looked down at her, and his whole face softened.

“Hi, Sophie,” he whispered. “I'm your brother.”

I had worried about jealousy, about whether a baby might confirm every fear his mother had planted about being replaced.

Instead, he looked as though we'd given him somebody to love.

At home, that love quickly became useful.

Too useful.

The first night of his weekend visit, Sophie cried while Daniel fumbled with a diaper. Noah stepped forward.

“Lift her feet together. Not that high. Put the clean one underneath first.”

My husband obeyed.

“How do you know all this?”

“Tyler.”

Noah tucked the tabs neatly and picked up the baby.

“She might need to burp.”

He shifted her against his shoulder, patted her back, and got a burp within a minute.

Daniel and I exchanged a look.

The next morning, Noah knew how to warm a bottle, test it, and keep Sophie from swallowing too much air. When she became fussy after a feed, he suggested holding her upright longer.

“Did your mom teach you?” I asked.

“Some things. Mostly I figured it out.”

“How old were you?”

He considered.

“Ten when he was born.”

I looked at the baby in his arms.

Ten.

“Who helped you?”

“Mom was there at first. Later she worked evenings. Rick usually got home tired.”

He said it as though those facts explained everything.

That afternoon, I woke from a nap and found him in the nursery with his schoolbook open on his lap. Sophie slept in her bassinet. A bottle sat on the dresser.

“Where's your dad?”

“Grocery store. He said he'd be twenty minutes.”

I looked at the clock. He had left nearly an hour earlier.

“You could've woken me.”

“You needed sleep.”

“So do you.”

He shrugged.

When Daniel returned, I took the grocery bags from him and waited until Noah went upstairs.

“An hour isn't twenty minutes.”

“The store was busy. He said he was fine.”

“Of course he did.”

Daniel looked toward the nursery.

“I wasn't trying to dump her on him.”

“I know. That's how easy it is.”

My husband put the milk in the refrigerator and stood still.

That evening, he took Sophie from Noah's arms.

“I've got her. Go finish your homework.”

“I can hold her while I read.”

“You can also go close your door and listen to terrible music. I hear that's popular at your age.”

“My music isn't terrible.”

“Then we'll have something to argue about next weekend.”

Noah smiled but didn't leave.

“I like helping.”

I patted the chair beside me.

“I know. But you missed the call from your friend.”

He looked toward the stairs.

“He said he'd call later.”

“Call him now. Your dad can burp his own daughter.”

Daniel nodded with more confidence than his previous attempt justified.

Noah hesitated.

“She's usually fussier at this time.”

“Then she'll fuss at him.”

“You sure?”

“Go.”

He stood, stopped, and looked back at Sophie.

“I can still hold her later?”

“Try stopping your father from handing her over once she's quiet.”

“Can I teach her chess?”

“Perhaps after she learns what hands are.”

He laughed and finally went upstairs.

Over the next few weeks, we learned. Daniel stopped calling Noah whenever he needed an extra pair of hands. I stopped accepting every offer simply because I was exhausted.

Sometimes Noah came home and headed straight to his room. Sometimes he sat beside the bassinet telling Sophie about a chemistry experiment she could not possibly understand.

Both were fine.

One Sunday, he showed us the application he'd been preparing for Westbridge's science program. He had rewritten his essay three times and refused to let Daniel improve the opening sentence.

“It's supposed to sound like me.”

“I was only suggesting—”

“A sentence I would never say.”

I hid my smile behind Sophie's bottle.

He spread the pages on the kitchen table.

“Do you think I have a chance?”

Daniel pulled out a chair.

“Let's read it.”

Noah sat down between us.

His application asked for a parent signature, school records, and a short interview. Daniel circled the deadline on our calendar.

“I'll speak to your mom about the forms,” he said.

Noah reached across the table and covered the application with his hand.

“Can we wait until they tell me whether I've got a chance?”

“Why?”

He looked at me, then back at his father.

“She said schools like that cost more. She said if you've got money for that, you've got money for her.”

Daniel put down his pen.

“When did she say that?”

“Christmas.”

The application lay between them. Noah slowly moved his hand away.

“I still want to try,” he said.