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Sylvia stood over the crib as her baby sobbed, eyes blurred with tears.
“Don't wake daddy,” she whispered. “He needs to sleep.” She reached into the crib, slipped her hands under his armpits and lifted. He wrapped his arms around her neck, tense, shivering. She held him against her and listened to his heart beat--one two, one two, one two. He didn't feel wet; perhaps a nightmare had woken him.
It had been a terrible few days for everyone involved.
Sylvia turned toward the window, stepping into moonlight. A breeze crept in, stirring the curtains. The clock said 3:30 AM but it didn't matter. Even though she needed to rest, she was needed now.
“Bobby, please sleep,” she said, rubbing his back.
He felt warm, but not hot. Sylvia wished she could do more.
At five months, Bobby was heavy, and took a great amount of energy to hold. She found the wicker rocking chair and sat down. In the blue light, she saw he was still awake, but calm now, eyelids heavy. She rocked in the chair, humming a lullaby until he fell asleep, a contented smile on his lips.
Now if only her husband, Jack, could do the same.
She'd left their bed after watching him toss and turn, knot the sheets, mutter and wake up. He looked out the window and didn't breathe; stood in the bathroom staring at the mirror. Back to bed, murmured. He smelled the sheets and kicked them off, dug his fingernails into the pillow. He'd pass out for a moment, then wake up again.
Four o'clock, he smacked the wall in their bedroom. Sylvia looked at Bobby--lips puckering, eyelashes dusting his cheeks.
“Jack, stop,” she whispered. “Stop it!”
He stopped.
Five o'clock, a cry from the bedroom startled her.
Five-thirty, the moonlight paled. Sylvia stood from the chair and carried Bobby back to his crib. She lowered him down and placed a hand on his chest: one-two, one-two, one-two.
She watched him as sunlight crawled across the change table, the floor, and up the crib. He'd be hungry soon, but Jack knew that.
She heard him trudge from the bedroom to the kitchen, heard the beep and whir of a microwave, heard him approach.
The door knob twisted. Hall light flooded the baby's room, joined the sunlight, and dissolved Sylvia. Jack moved over to the crib, bottle in hand.
Bobby stirred and opened his eyes.
“Come on, champ,” Jack said, choking on the words. “We got another day.”
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