by Susan Wiggs
She felt bashful about showing up at Sarah’s, though. She was torn between wanting to be her friend and worrying that Sarah might hook up with Aurora’s dad.
She finally spotted a window of opportunity one misty afternoon. It was one of those days when the fog hung around long into the day. It was disorienting and difficult to tell what time it was. Sarah’s house sat in a thick cloud of white, the front fence and flower bed seeming to float on a river of mist. The elderly sisters left and no new visitors had arrived.
Aurora went to the door and knocked. Inside the house, Franny barked once and then sneezed in friendly fashion when she recognized Aurora. She waited, feeling inexplicably tense. She and Sarah were friends, she reminded herself. She wanted to be here, wanted to see the new babies.
When she answered the door, Sarah chased all the tension away with her smile. She looked really good, even though she wore baggy pajama bottoms and a hooded, zip-up sweatshirt. Without the gigantic stomach, she seemed younger and quicker.
“Hey, stranger,” she said, giving Aurora a hug. “I missed you.”
Aurora flashed her an uncertain smile. “How are you?”
“A lot different than I was the last time you saw me. Want to meet the babies?”
“Are you kidding?”
The house looked the same, but the air itself felt different. There was a hush, as if someone was holding her breath, and a peculiar soft smell. The babies lay swaddled in their cribs, their tiny heads covered in soft hair, white as dandelion fluff.
“They’re asleep,” Sarah said. “They sleep a lot.”
Aurora cocked her head to the side. “Their faces are so cute,” she said, feeling an unexpected burst of emotion in her chest. “I can’t believe how tiny and cute they are.”
“Me neither.” Sarah’s face softened with love and pride.
It was amazing to Aurora that every human being started out like this, brand-new and helpless. Seeing two of them, exactly alike, underscored the impression that everyone started out the same. Don’t ever leave them, she wanted to say to Sarah. Instead, she asked, “So, what are their names?”
“Still undecided. When I left the hospital, their records said Baby A and Baby B. Picking the right names is turning out to be harder than I thought it would be.”
“It’s been a week and a half. What are you waiting for?” She hoped Sarah was not doing something crazy, like waiting for her ex to help pick out names.
“I don’t want to rush this decision.”
“They look totally identical.”
“Pretty much. They’re fraternal twins, though, like my grandmother and great-aunt.”
“How can you tell them apart?”
“I figure as their mother, I should simply know one from the other,” Sarah said. “I’m not taking any chances, though.” She untucked a corner of one of the blankets to reveal a doll-size foot with a hospital bracelet around the ankle. Printed on the plastic band was Baby A Moon.
“You really ought to give them their names,” Aurora whispered. “How about—”
Baby A started crying. The tiny, mewling sound startled Aurora and woke up the other twin. Within a few seconds, the sound wasn’t tiny and mewling anymore. They sounded like a couple of bleating goats, and the noise had a funny effect on her, as if it was rattling her back teeth or something.
Sarah glanced at a clock on the wall. “Feeding time. They eat every two hours.”
“All day?” The rhythmic insistence of the crying scraped over her nerves.
“And all night.” Sarah looked weary as she bent over one crib and checked the baby’s diaper, which appeared to be dry. The other baby accepted a pacifier, which decreased the volume a little, but only for a second. The baby spat out the pacifier and started up again.
“Can I do something?” Aurora asked.
“They like being held,” Sarah said, and sure enough, Baby A quieted down as soon as she scooped him up.
Aurora ducked into the adjacent bathroom and washed her hands with soap, which her grandmother had told her you should always do around newborns.
“Support the head,” Sarah coached her as Aurora picked up the crying baby. It was harder than it looked, because he kept squirming and quivering, but once she got him in the crook of her arm, he settled down a little. He kept turning his head toward her and opening his mouth, which embarrassed her a little. She gave him the pacifier and he quieted down a bit, though he still made an angry-sounding buzzing noise.
Sarah had a seat in an armchair. “I need to nurse them. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No. Geez, of course not.” Aurora discovered that the buzzing sound stopped if she swayed back and forth gently with the baby.
Sarah unzipped her sweatshirt and the shirt beneath. She was wearing an ugly bra with enormous cups and snaps at the top. Aurora watched in shock and fascination as Sarah held the baby to her and he latched on. Sarah let out a sigh, then caught Aurora staring. “It’s okay to check it out,” Sarah said. “When I was your age, I would have been really curious.”
Aurora blushed and ducked her head. She felt like an intruder and now she was trapped, holding this baby.
“It’s called the let-down reflex, a reaction to the babies crying. I swear, I will never take a glass of milk for granted again.” She gave a tired smile. “I’m glad you came. This is always easier with help.”
“What do you do when you’re by yourself?”
“They have to take turns, and sometimes I just cry right along with them. I’m all right, though,” she added quickly. “My family’s taking good care of me. Franny, too.” She indicated the dog, who sat quietly and obediently nearby, eyes alert to every movement. “I wasn’t sure how she’d deal with the babies, but she seems totally accepting of them.”
“I’m not surprised,” Aurora said. “She was a good mom, herself.”
“I’m just glad we found homes for all the puppies before the babies came.”
The room grew so quiet that the baby’s swallows could be heard. Within a few minutes, the eager nursing slowed and the infant emitted a soft burp, and then dozed. Sarah laid him in his crib and covered him up. “Next,” she said, switching sides.
None too soon, because Baby B had caught on that the pacifier wasn’t the real thing and was starting to snuffle and fuss. Aurora placed him in Sarah’s arms. By now she felt less self-conscious. Sure it was strange—the big full breast like a flesh-colored balloon, the hungry, searching mouth, but it was beautiful, too, in a way. She watched how Sarah’s face seemed to relax, and the protective way her whole body seemed to curve around the child. Aurora wondered if her own mother had ever held her like that, with her entire being glimmering with love. Probably not, Aurora decided. Once when she was little, she’d said, “Mama, tell me about when I was a baby.” All Mama would say was, “You cried all the time. You kept getting sick.”
“What do you think of Adam Moon for Baby A?” Sarah asked. “And Bradley for Baby B.”
“I think they’re fine.” Aurora liked names like Cody and Travis. And Zane. Zane was a great name.
“Just fine? I want their names to be better than fine. Adam is my father’s middle name, and Bradley’s my mother’s maiden name. Is it too cute that I kept the A and the B?”
Aurora looked at the tiny round head, the star-shaped hand. Bradley? Did he look like a Bradley? He just looked like a baby to her, but as she watched, she imagined him growing up, walking and laughing, and one day going out into the world. “I like Bradley,” she said. “And Adam. I like them both.”
“Really?” Sarah put the now-sleeping infant in his crib. She smiled down at him. “Two more hours and then we’ll do this all over again.”
“When they get older,” Aurora said, “don’t tell them about the crying.”
Sarah was still smiling
. “I’m not complaining, really. I don’t hate this. In fact, I love it. Strange, huh?”
“Naw.” Aurora went and got the gift she’d brought. “I made this for you,” she said, feeling a little bashful. “For you and your family.”
Sarah’s eyes shone as she ripped off the paper. Then she gasped. “Aurora, it’s beautiful. You’re a fantastic artist.” She studied it as only another artist would, exclaiming over the paper Aurora had used, the precision of the drawing and the quality of the light, even, and the framing job. Then she propped the picture on the mantel over the fireplace. “It’s a treasure,” Sarah declared. “I’ll think of you every time I look at it.”
“So what’s up with you and my dad?” Aurora blurted out. She couldn’t help it. The question had been in the back of her mind the whole time she’d been here.
And now that she’d asked it, she watched its effect on Sarah. Her skin turned blotchy and maybe she was sweating a little. “What do you think is up?” she asked Aurora.
“I don’t know. You guys act like you like each other.”
“We’re friends. I can’t explain it.” Sarah touched her fingertips to her lips in a gesture that was probably unconscious. When she saw Aurora watching her, she folded her hands in her lap.
“Just friends?” Aurora persisted.
“Have you asked your dad this question?”
“He gave me the same answer.”
“He said we’re friends?”
“He’s not much for talking about stuff like this. That’s why I asked you. And you’re not telling me anything, either.”
“That’s because I don’t have any answers. Honey, I don’t even know what time it is or whether I’ve got my shoes on the right feet. Analyzing my relationship with your father is not the best idea, not right now. Okay?”
No, it was not okay, Aurora thought, but she knew she wouldn’t get any answers from Sarah, not today.
Part Six
Thirty-Six
The twins passed their three-month checkup with flying colors. It seemed a peculiar cruelty to reward their amazing growth and development with a hot dart of pain to the thigh, but that was exactly what they got for their troubles.
“Here we go with the shock and awe,” said the pediatrician. He had already given each baby a drop of Tylenol, just as a precaution. “You ready, Mom?”
Sarah cupped her hand over Adam’s head, bit her lip and nodded. All ignorance, the baby chortled and cooed, a perfect poster child for pediatric health. Then came the quick, chilly swipe of the sterile cotton ball and the prick of the needle.
For a moment, all was silence. Adam’s gorgeous blue eyes opened wide and his mouth formed a perfect O of flabbergasted agony. Then came the prolonged intake of breath—the wind-up to a howl of pain so heartfelt that his little tongue quivered. His pain nearly sent Sarah to her knees. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Bradley joined the chorus because this was how they were. When one cried, the other did the same. However, when it was his turn for the inoculation, he broke his brother’s record for bloodcurdling noise. By the time it was over, Sarah was on the verge of asking for a Valium. Then, as quickly as it started, the noise stopped. The boys lay in their carriers, tears drying on their flushed cheeks, pacifiers working busily up and down.
“That’s how it is with infants,” the doctor said. “The minute the pain’s gone, so are the tears. If more people would do that, the world would be a happier place.”
The pediatrician’s assistant reminded Sarah to bring the boys back for a booster shot, and she wrote it down at least three times, so that when she got home, she would post reminders in three places—on the calendar, on a sticky note by the front door and on a note stuck to the refrigerator door. She was still pretty sure she’d forget.
She was all about forgetting these days, she reflected as she put the boys in their car seats and headed home. She could never remember what day it was, or the ingredients in a Denver omelet or her social security number. So why then, she wondered, was she unable to forget that day in the hospital when Will had come to see her? She was able to play that like a movie in her head, frame by frame, pausing to examine each moment. The kiss that made her every nerve ending fire to life. And then the words, fresh as a moment ago—I’m falling for you.
It was crazy. He had to know that. Had to know she wasn’t going to let herself love him back. You didn’t just fall out of love with one person and into love with another in the middle of a divorce. She shouldn’t have spoken up, shouldn’t have admitted to the crush. That was just her fear and loneliness coming out, wasn’t it?
The course of true love didn’t follow a predictable pattern. It wasn’t like gestation, when the next step happened exactly according to some predetermined biological plan. And even then, even when the plan was followed to the letter, there were still surprises.
She flexed her fingers on the steering wheel. When she’d first taken off her wedding band and the platinum-and-yellow-diamond engagement ring Jack had given her, its ghost had lingered for months. Her finger was pale and shrunken where Jack’s rings had been. It took the whole pregnancy, complete with edema, to erase the imprint. She wondered how long it would take for the mark on her heart to heal, and if she’d ever be able to give herself so fully again.
She kept encountering Will—at the farmers’ market, the coffee shop, at Children’s Beach, a small strip of sand by the bay, edged by the tall arching trees of the town park. In a place this size, it couldn’t be helped and besides, even though she ached, being around him, his friendship meant everything to her. They talked about Aurora, about work and the babies, about life and laughter and pain and everything in their hearts.
But they had never again spoken of love, or of the future. The time for falling in love was when you were emotionally available and free of cares, when it didn’t matter what time you came home or how late you were getting up the next day. When you had hours and hours to spend gazing into each other’s eyes and even longer hours making love, uninterrupted.
If you wait for the perfect time to fall in love, said a little inner voice that sounded suspiciously like Lulu, it’ll never happen.
Sometimes, when Sarah thought about her life, she wished Jack had never happened. In the end, it was just too painful. But if she hadn’t married him, she would never have had her babies. Jack had given her a miracle, and she would always be grateful to him for that gift. They were so much a part of her that she could scarcely remember life without them. Although people swore it was impossible to tell them apart, Sarah could do so with her eyes closed. Bradley was sweetly emotional; he had a way of melting into her arms and draping himself over her like a warm, fragrant garment. Adam loved to watch the world, his round eyes sparkling and his jaw working as he sucked his thumb; even at a young age, he seemed alert to nuance.
She got home and sat in the car for a moment, loath to risk waking her sleeping sons. She was feeling low, probably because of the trauma of the booster shots and because when she checked her bank balance today, she saw that Jack’s monthly payment for spousal maintenance and child support had arrived as it always did, like clockwork. This should not be depressing, but it was. Her kids had a bank deposit instead of a dad.
She’d snap out of it in a minute, she told herself. Everyone admired her, said how well she was doing, transforming her life. She’d escaped a bad marriage, survived a tough pregnancy and tougher birth and was now raising twins on her own while juggling self-employment. She was like those women you used to read about in books and articles who managed to do it all. The thing the books didn’t explain was that there was a huge personal cost to doing it all. Sleep, sanity, a sense of self. The first few weeks, Gran and Aunt May had taken turns spending the day with her. LaNelle, Viv and Judy showered her with casseroles and produce from the
ir gardens. Her father had ordered a milk delivery service from one of the local dairies. She was surrounded by friends, pampered and mothered to the best of their ability.
Ultimately, though, she had to figure out how to do everything on her own. One thing she knew was that you couldn’t be in a hurry with infant twins. Even going from the car to the house was a prolonged journey. The days of dashing off with her purse, keys and shopping bag in hand were no preparation for this reality. By now, she was used to making several trips in order to get babies, diaper bag full of gear, grocery sacks, handbag and herself into the house. She had it down to a routine. Leave the kids in the car and unlock the door, dragging along whatever bags and gear you could handle. Prop the door open. Yell at Franny to stay inside so she didn’t dash outside and get underfoot. Carefully unbuckle one son at a time and oh-so-gently set down his carrier, where he might sleep for an extra half hour. If she was very, very lucky, they would slumber through the time it took to put everything away and maybe even go through the mail. Lately, she almost felt cocky about her ability to juggle everything. She was like a performer in Cirque du Soleil.
Except that it only took one unexpected occurrence to disrupt the flow. When the occurrences happened in multiples, she was screwed. On this particular day, the phone started ringing in the house as she was unbuckling Adam. She had trained herself long ago never to hurry to the phone. If it was important, the caller would leave a message or call back. Still, the insistent sound drifting through the window screen rattled her enough to make her hasty in the process of unbuckling and pulling the carrier out of the Mini. Somehow, she managed to jostle the baby. He awoke with a scream.
She noticed then that the injection site, covered with a SpongeBob Band-Aid, was livid and swollen. Oh, God, she thought. He’s having a reaction. Every terrible thing she’d read about immunizations came swirling back to haunt her. She had to get in the house, had to call the doctor right away.
Clutching the carrier, she whirled and shut the car door. She was about to make a dash for the house when the realization hit her.
