I look down at the little wet face of the baby, her golden eyes fixed on mine. This baby who will be dead to Owen soon, to her mother and the whole world. Only I will know what became of her. Suddenly, it is a burden I’m not sure I can bear.
“So be it,” I say to Galon. “Thank you for your friendship while it lasted. And for this.”
“I don’t want to be thanked,” he rumbles, then storms out the door. “Don’t ever talk to me again.” He slams the door behind him. His footsteps reverberate through the house, and the baby turns her head to look after him.
The other one lets out a mewling grunt, and I lift her basket and set it on the couch. I sit down beside her, still holding her sister. We listen as the truck door slams and the engine roars as loud as a lion, as the tires spin on gravel before the truck barrels out of the driveway. He guns the engine, and the truck roars away down the road.
I lay the baby on the couch on my other side, but she immediately begins to cry again. I lift the one from the basket, lean back on the couch, and cradle her in one arm while I gather up the other one. She falls silent, mouthing her fist as she wriggles against my body, nestling herself into my arm. Looking down at her, the reality of what I’ve lost begins to sink in.
I will never have a baby look up at me this way again. I will never see her eyes moving across my face, studying me with such avid, trusting curiosity. I will never feel her move inside me or lie on my belly while she nurses. I will never see her satisfied, milky smile after feeding her, or the mischievous grin when she’s done something deliberately naughty. I will never see a first smile, a first tooth, a first step. I will never hold her and comfort her through her first skinned knee, her first rejection by classmates or snub by a friend, or her first heartbreak.
My own heart breaks inside me as I look from one of these children to the other. Owen will experience all the things I can’t. Owen and his new wife. These beautiful, perfect babies will smile up at her, not me. They will run to Owen when the other steals her toy or pushes her down. They will cry on the shoulder of that other woman, with her head of burnished gold and her full, vivacious body. What did she do to deserve this love, their unconditional adoration? Besides birthing them, what has she done?
I birthed my own babies. I gave birth to stiff and cold things, not children. They never opened their eyes and gazed at me as I gazed back in mutual wonder. They never took my breast or let out a single weak cry. Don’t I deserve this happiness? Don’t I deserve it as much as she does, if not more? I have been waiting for seven years to give my husband what his heart desires and our people require. Why can’t I be the one to give him his destiny? What have I done that renders me unworthy of the love of not only my husband, but a beautiful, innocent, blameless child?
Besides wanting to kill them?
I startle at the voice inside my head. It has fallen silent in recent years, only popping up occasionally. And though I know it’s only in my head, I still glance around guiltily, as if she can somehow see or know what I’ve done. One of the babies jerks to attention when she feels my body stiffen. She lets out one uncertain mewl, then goes back to mouthing her fist. When I look down at the other, she’s fallen asleep, her lips slightly parted, her eyelashes curling delicately against her soft cheek.
An ache as deep as the sea swells inside me, building like a tsunami. I stifle a cry of anguish, but I can’t stop the tears from bursting forth. They course down my cheeks in giant streams, pouring onto the babies in my arms, dripping off my chin, soaking my shirt. I fight back the loud sobs threatening to rip from my throat, to tear me in half. Instead, I only choke on them, my body heaving as the sobs grip me, wracking my decimated body. All I wanted was to make a life, to give my husband what he needed and wanted, to be a mother to a child such as this. I would have been happy with one.
But I was given two.
2
I wait for Owen that night, wringing my hands as the pale winter sun sinks lower and lower. At first, I think I’ll simply hide them in a closet once they fall asleep, but of course that won’t last. They’ll wake up hungry any moment. Slowly, a plan begins to form in my mind. I will tell Owen that Ira brought them here, that the girl fell from the Lighthouse and died. And then I will leave him to deal with the babies for a few hours while I orchestrate such an accident.
By the time I return, he’ll be relieved to have help with the babies. He’ll see what a loving, understanding wife I am, that I am willing to take care of his bastard children, love them as I would love my own. He will rip up the divorce papers right then. Of course he’ll go and see for himself that his mistress is dead. He may even grieve for her. But he will take refuge in the arms of his wife, the woman who has always been there when he needed her, always done everything in her power to make him happy. And though I couldn’t give him a child, I can now raise his.
I wait up all night, unable to sleep even when the babies do. I have to call the midwife around midnight, and she comes with cloth diapers and a can of baby formula. She looks at me in a way I don’t want to interpret, but she leaves without asking. She must know every pregnant woman in the valley, every baby. By tomorrow afternoon, she will have ascertained that the babies are not stolen from one of our women. When Owen returns, he can decide what to tell people. Perhaps we will simply say we adopted them.
The next night, I’m finally too exhausted to stay awake. I slide into the bed between the twins, touching them each in turn, still unable to believe I’ve been blessed so thoroughly. I lay a hand on each tiny back as I fall asleep, the lulling rise and fall of their breathing a comfort I didn’t know existed. My life has never been easy. At last, something is going right. For the first time in years, I sleep contentedly that night.
I wake with a start in the morning, my heart pounding. He’s coming to take them away. Something is going to go wrong. It always does. I want to count my blessings, but I can’t. I’ve spent my whole life waiting for life to get better, to give me what I want. Now I’m waiting for it to take it all away. Surely something will spoil this happiness. Nothing in my life comes this easy. For a happiness this deep, the price will be steep. I’ve never been the girl who gets a happy ending.
Winter, 2000
1
Two weeks later, I’m still waiting when I’m woken in the night. I sleep happily but lightly now, always waiting for this moment. I will be ready. When I hear the crunch of tires on gravel outside, I sit bolt upright, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. My hands fly to each side of me, finding the little warm lumps of babies under the blanket on either side. I know who it is. It’s Owen. I’ve been waiting for this. I’d begun to believe—to let myself believe—they would never come. I should have known I would never receive the blessing of children from him. Not without a fight. But for the first time in a long time, maybe in my life, I’m ready to fight.
Once, I despaired when Owen didn’t come home. But this time, I was relieved. Only now, when the realization of where he’s likely been—with her—sets in, do I realize the error in my plan. He’s returned to take my babies away. The dread returns with him, the dread that has become such a constant companion over the past few years that I didn’t know life without it. Now that I’ve had children, for the first time in my life, I know what life really is.
I convinced myself that he’d gone away with his new lover, not bothering with the babies at all, they were so wrapped in each other. The thought made me sick, but I had no other explanation. Now it’s clear. He just wanted a babysitter while they ran off on a honeymoon.
We never had a honeymoon.
A knock comes on the front door, the blows heavy and thick. I slip from the bed, careful not to disturb the babies. Still, one of them lets out a sorrowful little wail, feeling my absence even in sleep. With a glance at the door, I pull the blankets up around the girls, then dart out of the bedroom. If they think I’m going to babysit Owen’s bastard children because I’m so desperately starved for one of my own, well, I suppose they’re righ
t. But if they think I’m going to give them back… Never.
I grab Owen’s rifle and check the ammunition. Satisfied that I can defend myself and my children to the death if I need to, I go to the door.
Though I knew this was coming, I haven’t had time to dwell on it. Taking care of twins is a full-time job. Unfortunately, it doesn’t pay much. I could get government assistance down in town, but Owen took the truck when he left, so I couldn’t get down there.
I’ve doled out one of Galon’s treats to myself per day. Luckily for us, Owen left enough venison in the freezer to last the winter, along with the beans and rice I can get for cheap if I ever get into town. Once I deal with this, we’re going to be okay. It won’t be easy putting in a garden with two babies hanging on me, but I’ll make it work. If nothing else has gone right in my life, this will. This will be my success and glory, to raise these beautiful babies as my own, to give them a life and love that even their birth mother couldn’t give.
And she won’t be able to, because I’m about to get rid of the meddling slag once and for all. Balancing the rifle against my shoulder, I grab the door knob and yank the door open, drop the barrel into my waiting palm and curl my finger around the trigger.
But it’s not Owen.
There, standing on the porch in the rectangle of light spilling out the door, stands my father.
2
I don’t drop the rifle when I see who is standing there. And if he’s surprised to see me staring down the barrel of a rifle at him, he doesn’t show it. I haven’t seen him in six years, and time has not been good to him. His full head of black hair, so much like mine, is now an equal mix of black and silver. Wrinkles that I don’t remember being there now line the corners of his eyes, his forehead, his cheeks. Though his skin is still weathered and tan, his nose is slightly swollen and red with broken blood vessels, the tell-tale sign of an alcoholic. His eyes are slightly rheumy, as if belonging to a man twenty years his senior.
“What are you doing here?” My words come out stronger than I expected, cold and accusing.
“Doralice,” he says, his voice breaking. It’s somewhere between a sob and a groan as he holds out a supplicating hand. He sways slightly and grasps the door frame for balance. “Please. It’s your mother.”
The ice in my veins instantly melts as if it were never there. I’ve been thinking about her since I had the babies, aching for her in a way I didn’t even when I lost the others. I’ve wanted to call her so many times, to pick up the phone and ask her for help, for advice, or to share with her some new marvel. In the years since Owen told me it was her fault, I let him convince me. But strangely, I’ve missed her more in the past two weeks than I’ve missed him.
“What happened?” I ask, moving back from the door. I unchamber the bullet and set the rifle aside. This is not the man who tried to choke the life from me when I refused to live as his wife instead of his daughter. This is a sixty-year-old alcoholic who can barely stand up. For the first time in my life, I’m stronger than someone else. Strong enough that I’m not afraid.
Father stumbles to the couch and sits down heavily, dropping his head into his hands. I perch on the arm of the couch, since we don’t have armchairs.
“Cancer,” he says. “Lungs.”
I swallow hard, my hand going to my throat. I’d forgotten that she smoked. I’ve probably forgotten most things about her. I was too absorbed in my own troubles to really know her as a teenager, and now that I’m a woman, it may be too late.
“Do you think I could visit her?” I ask. “Would she want to see me?”
He raises his head from his hands, his eyes taking a moment to focus on me. “You can’t visit, Doralice. She’s dead.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “When did it happen?” I ask at last.
“A couple weeks, maybe a month.”
“And you’re just now coming by to tell me?” I should be surprised that I didn’t hear it in the valley, but then, I haven’t been part of the community for a long time. Who would have told me? The midwife, maybe. No one else talks to me, not even Galon.
“Did she…” I break off and swallow, my throat choked with tears. “She didn’t ask to see me, not even at the end?”
“I’m sorry.”
I can’t tell what he’s saying sorry for, if it’s for not telling me sooner or if he’s sorry for what he did back then, all those years ago. It seems like a different person, a different lifetime, when all that happened. Maybe Owen was right to convince me to cut them from my life. Now, looking at this man who gave me life and half my genes, I don’t recognize him at all. It’s strange how someone can be physically half of you, and yet, a complete stranger, further than two sleeping infants who aren’t any part of you.
“Did she suffer?” I ask. “When did she find out?”
“A while back,” he says. “A few months, a year…I don’t know, Doralice.” He drops his head into his hands again. “What am I going to do?”
I have so many questions, I could stay up all night asking him everything I want to know. If it broke her heart that I didn’t invite her to the wedding, even though we didn’t have a ceremony. If it broke her heart that I had to cut her out of my life, that I chose Owen and marriage and a future over my troubled past, my mother included. Or if she understood that I had to leave it all behind, to start over as the person I wanted to be, the person I thought I could be with Owen. Someone else.
But in the end, I’m the same person I tried to bury with the rest of my past. The freak, the weirdo, the unlovable girl with the raven heart. The only difference is, in the past few weeks, I’ve ceased to care. I’m no longer lonely. I’m content being the crazy woman in the valley, the eccentric hermit. I have what I want, what I’ve wanted for so long. My life is complete.
But there are other questions I could ask. What their lives have been like for the past seven years. If she bore her illness with strength and grace, the way she did her injury, or if it defeated her spirit at last. I could ask about the house, or if my father ever got around to fixing up the old cars in the yard. I could ask if they ever married, though she always said it didn’t matter to her.
But before I can ask anything, one of the girls begins to cry.
Father looks up at me, his face broken and miserable, and attempts a tremulous smile. “You got kids,” he says. “I’ll be damned.”
“Two,” I say proudly. “Twins.”
“I’ll be damned,” he says again, fainter this time, his eyes staring off at something long past. Maybe he’s remembering when I was a baby.
“I better get her, before she wakes the other one,” I say, standing.
“Oh,” he says. “Right, okay. Of course. I should be getting back…” He trails off and looks up at me like a wounded animal. He has nothing to get back to. An empty house where everything reminds him of her, from the sinks he adapted so she could wash up in the kitchen to the shower chair in the bathroom. Without having to say a word, his face tells me all this. He’s as transparent as I am, unable to hide anything.
“Sleep on the couch,” I say with a sigh. With the fear, my hatred of him is gone, too. He’s just a sad, pathetic old man now. But I still pick up the rifle and take it with me when I go to bed.
3
A few nights later, I wake in a cold sweat. Wind howls like wolves outside my window, rattling the glass. Tiny pellets of sleet bounce off the pane, the sound like the ticking of a clock. Time is running out. I need to take the babies and leave, before something terrible happens. My heart races in my chest, my fingers clenched so tightly in the sheets that my knuckles ache when I pry them loose. I stare at the ceiling for a second, listening. Waiting.
Something woke me. Something terrible is just around the corner. I can feel it. It’s coming for me.
Another gust of wind whistles through the bare trees outside, and the house shudders. Is it just the wind? A moment later, the house shudders for a different reason. The heavy, plodding footsteps o
utside my bedroom door. I lay frozen, an ice sculpture in the bed I shared with Owen all these years. Now it’s cold, empty of his warmth as it has been so many nights. The girls sleep in the bedroom next door, the one I’ve been converting to a nursery over the past week with my father’s help. How could I have let them out of my sight?
I’m alone in this room, suddenly not so brave and sure as I’ve been since he came. Even the small presence of the babies was a comfort to me, would feel safer than facing this darkness alone. All at once, I’m seventeen again, helpless and alone and afraid, waiting for him to stumble through the door. I’m once again without Owen, without anyone to save me. A gust of wind rattles the windows and I start. Listening again. Waiting again.
I can hear him breathing, the raspy cigarette breath and the unsteady whiskey gait as he moves past my door. He’s only going to the bathroom. I relax a little when I hear the hiss of his stream in the toilet bowl. I’m being silly. He’s not interested in me, a dried up old thing, only capable of thinking of her babies.
The babies. I sit bolt upright in the bed, my heart hammering, blood rushing in my head. For a second, it blinds me, the white rage obliterating everything like the fury of a blizzard. Hatred isn’t red or hot. It burns with cold, the sting of frostbite like a slap across the face. In seconds, I’m out of bed, the rifle in my hands.
Break it open, chamber the bullet, push it closed. My hand is damp and clammy when I grip the doorknob. I slowly turn, ignoring the slide of my slick palm on the cold metal. I draw the door inwards quietly, then stop.
Waiting. Listening.
My heartbeat hammers inside my skull. I lean forward, peering out into the hallway. The house shivers under another gust of punishing, icy wind, and a soft creaking sound comes from somewhere in the house. A draft finds its way in, creeping along the hall and up my bare legs, sending a chill racing up my spine and crawling across my scalp. Where is he?
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