Her sudden happiness irritates me. Still, I ask, “What?”

“My mother had the baby Sunday.”

Maybe that’s why Mrs. Johnson didn’t call. Maybe she was going into labor.

“And your aunt was right. He’s a boy!”

“He is?” Auntie all of a sudden seems like the smartest person in the world.

“Yep, the hospital must have gotten the test mixed up with someone else’s. Maybe the other family could switch their blue things for our pink.” She laughs. “He’s so cute. Mom says he looks like me when I was a baby, blue eyes and white fuzz on top of his head. Maybe you can come to the hospital tomorrow after school. You could see him through the nursery window.”

“Maybe,” I tell her, but I don’t plan to return to any more hospitals.

Show-and-tell

At school Tuesday, Mary Kelly shows us pictures of her baby brother. Mrs. Johnson let Mary Kelly name him—Matthew Kolby Johnson. “We have the same initials,” she says. “I’ve changed his diaper already. And you know what? His poop doesn’t really stink that bad. That’s because my mom is breast-feeding him.”

Tonya and Delia laugh and shake their heads. Watch out, Mary Kelly. Your little brother won’t always be so sweet and perfect. One day he’ll be singing and playing the ukulele. Then when you stop looking and listening, the songs will leave and he’ll exchange the ukulele for a razor blade.

“He has monkey toes! They’re as long as his fingers. So cute,” Mary Kelly says.

Watch out, girl.

Confession

Monday arrives and now I have two things to dread, school and my appointment with Ed. “I’m not going to the hospital,” I tell Auntie after school.

“I want to go,” Olivia says. “Ed said we could play with the puppets again.”

“Don’t worry, Olivia,” Auntie says. “You’re going.”

We drive to the hospital. A different nurse calls Olivia’s name and takes her to Ed.

When they walk away, I ask, “Why didn’t you tell the nurse that I’m not going today?”

“Tell her yourself.” Auntie picks up a Redbook magazine and flips to the recipe section.

I feel as if she slapped me. Auntie never snaps back. She closes the magazine and looks around the waiting room. The only people here are the receptionist and an older lady sitting in the corner. Auntie Bernadette moves to the seat next to me.

“Isabel, you must know something. I haven’t had the words until this moment.” She takes a big breath. “I didn’t know how to heal her.”

“My mom?”

“Yes. I can heal sore throats, fevers, help the scarred wombs of childless women grow babies, but I couldn’t heal my little sister. I should have told her to go to the doctor. To a psychiatrist. I couldn’t accept my happy beautiful sister ever being sad.”

“Why was she sad?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t know either. Once Erlinda told me, ‘I see darkness when I want to see light. What’s wrong with me?’ I told her, ‘Play your ukulele, dance in your tiara. No one’s looking.’” Auntie’s voice cracks and her eyes grow wet. “A fool’s advice. I should have known better. I have limits.”