The Name for the Baby

It's three in the morning on a Thursday in August, and Luciana is in a hospital waiting room with Grandpa. Her mom is having a baby boy. Luciana is eight, and she has a plan for tonight: she's going to stay awake, and she isn't going to smile once.

For months, the baby was the only topic at home. Grandma knitted tiny hats. Dad painted the small bedroom green. That was Luciana's art room, but now it's going to be the baby's room. "He's going to be the youngest," she told Grandpa last week, "and the youngest always gets the most attention."

On her lap, she has Simon, her old gray rabbit. He's the oldest and dirtiest toy in the house, and one of his ears is sewn back on with blue thread. Luciana takes him everywhere: to school, to the dentist, and now to the hospital.

At four o'clock, Dad comes out. His hair is a mess, but he's smiling. "Not yet," he says. "But we need your help. Your mom and I have chosen his first name: Andrés. We want you to choose his middle name. It's the most important job tonight, and it's yours."

Luciana sits up straight. This isn't a small job. She thinks of names from TV and names from her class. She wants the best name, the strongest name, a name nobody can laugh at. She looks at Grandpa, but he only shrugs. "It's your decision," he says.

At five o'clock, the door opens again. From the room behind Dad comes a small, angry cry. "He's here," Dad says softly. "So, what's his name?"

Luciana stands up with the rabbit under her arm. She looks at the blue thread on his ear for a moment. Then she says it loudly, so everybody can hear: "Andrés Simon. Like my rabbit. Simon always looks after me, so now he can look after my brother." And for the first time tonight, she smiles.