I looked her in the eye then, even though I could feel my emotions rising. "How did you know that Penny had Down syndrome?"
"I didn't. The neonatologist called me out of the room, and even then I didn't believe her. She had to convince me."
"Well then, how did she know?"
"Babies with Down syndrome have low muscle tone, hypotonia. And an extra fold of skin over their eyes. And Penny has a line across her palm that you won't find without that extra chromosome."
"So now you're sure?" I asked, realizing that there was still a part of me that hoped someone would come in and tell us it all had been a horrible mistake.
"You can't be sure until you get a karyotype. For most people with Down syndrome, there's an extra chromosome in every cell of the body. But sometimes that extra chromosome is only in certain cells. That's called Mosaic Down syndrome. Penny's so healthy, it could be that."
Peter said, "I'm confused. If we can't know for sure, what are we supposed to tell people?"
"I'd say something along the lines of, 'It is very likely that Penny will have special needs as the result of a chromosomal abnormality.'"
Peter reached for a pen. "Can you say that again?" He mouthed the words as he wrote them, rehearsing.
Dr. Mayer's pager beeped, and she silenced it without taking her eyes off my face. "You all are going to be fine," she said. "You have a strong marriage and a strong faith and a beautiful baby."
As soon as she left the room, Peter began a series of calls-to his best friend, Daniel, and then his father, his aunts, his college roommates. He held the notepad with the doctor's words. It is very likely . . .
With each call, he seemed to gain confidence. His face softened. His shoulders dropped. When he hung up the phone I was nursing Penny again, tapping her cheek with my fingernail to keep her awake.
"I have prayed for so many years that my heart would become more open," Peter said. He leaned close to Penny and whispered, "Maybe you are an answer to prayer, little one."
Penny stayed with us for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. Mostly, she slept. But every so often she pushed her warm face into my chest and nestled in to nurse. And she opened her eyes, her fascinating eyes, like pools in shadows with points of light gleaming through. We laughed that afternoon, when she crinkled her forehead in alarm or looked around the room with a mischievous expression. When she was in our arms, it felt like it had when I was pregnant. Simple love. Abundant love. The complications dropped away.
The only call I made was to our pastor. I was in my second year of seminary, and as a part of my degree, I had been working as an intern in our church. I wanted people to start praying for us. I needed people to start praying for us.
Pastor Mike answered on the third ring. I told him the news, and at first I found myself forcing cheer: "She's really healthy and she's nursing well, so those are good things." But then I realized he was crying.
Just a few weeks earlier, I had preached a short sermon on the Christmas carol "Joy to the World." I focused on "Let every heart prepare him room," and I talked about preparing room for Jesus in our hearts and lives this Christmas season. I described the preparations we had made for Penny-baby showers and maternity clothes and installing the car seat. That sermon had made me think about Mary preparing to welcome Jesus, and it had prompted me to pray that God would prepare me to receive Penelope. But we hadn't been prepared at all.
I said to Pastor Mike, "It's been really hard." I looked over at Peter holding Penny. "But this afternoon has been better."
"It's like a crucifixion and resurrection all at once," Pastor Mike said.
When I hung up the phone, I reached for Penny. I pulled her hand out from the swaddling blankets and traced the line on her palm, the strong horizontal line that stretched from one side to the other. I compared her hand to mine, noting the distinction. And I wondered, as I rubbed her soft skin, What does this line tell us about the road ahead?
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