came close this time, but Jack is the name on his birth certificate, not his nickname. As for girl names, I refused to look at the list. It’s the late eighties, so I could guess “Caitlin” and have about a one in three chance of being right. I never even entertained the idea of a girl, convinced I could somehow will my brother into being.
Mission accomplished. “How’s he doing?” I ask.
Dad rubs the back of Jack’s head. “You’re looking at it.”
A baby sleeping on his father’s chest, one of those framed moments you want to keep in your pocket. I’ve never seen Dad like this, save in photos. Those old, perfectly square early-seventies pictures of me as a newborn, the more rectangular ones of Jeanine. The clothes change, Mom’s hairstyles are all over the place, but one thing is constant—Dad’s eyes. The surrender. The contentment. The eyes of a parent falling in love all over again.
“So the trip back was okay.”
“Yeah, other than when I tried to avoid the stoplights in Kokomo.”
“Dad, you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You got lost on the back roads of Indiana with a postpartum mother and a newborn in the car?”
“Way lost. We’re talking Amish country lost.”
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