Here to Stay

by Suanne Laqueur

  “One more,” she whispered and rose up to finish.

  Erik turned his head then, and watched his son be born. As if in an underwater dream, he saw Kees emerge. Saw the doctor’s hands turn him prone, the cord trailing behind, and for a moment Kees was held aloft like an offering.

  Born.

  And borne.

  His face was turned away and something about the tiny pale back curved over N’Dour’s blue-gloved palm stopped Erik’s breath. The fragile spine visible through translucent skin. Wet whorls of hair stuck down to the eggshell skull. He looked neat and tidy in the doctor’s hands. He was perfect.

  He’s alive.

  It was a mistake. A bad dream. He’s alive.

  Then the baby’s limbs flopped out, dangling over N’Dour’s forearm and the moment shattered. A sound escaped Erik’s chest. He was filled with a stunning sense of finality at the sight of those limp, lifeless arms and legs. As if there had been a flicker of hope, a valiant attempt to try, but then everything gave out. And Erik was awash with a sudden and sorrowful blame.

  I’m sorry, he thought. I let you down. Oh, Kees, I’m so sorry…

  He swayed and wobbled on his legs as the doctor brought the baby up and onto Daisy’s chest. Lee smoothed a blanket over.

  “Un beau garçon,” N’Dour said softly.

  Erik put his hands over Daisy’s, their fingers piled on top of the tiny infant. Daisy didn’t move. Her eyes were closed, her face a pinch of chalk.

  An undeterminable length of time unfurled. Then a soft hand settled on Erik’s shoulder and Lee asked if he would like to cut the cord.

  “Go,” Daisy said, her eyes still closed. “Do everything.”

  The cord was clamped in two places and N’Dour showed Erik where to cut between. The blades felt flimsy and inept, chomping and hacking through the last lifeline. Cutting all hope.

  Vaguely, from some past conversation, he recalled Daisy telling him about a book and soulmates being severed. A blade slicing the bond and releasing enough energy to rip a hole in the sky.

  He gritted his teeth and cut through. The air around him remained intact. He let the scissors fall from his fingers and went back to Daisy’s side. He put his hands on top of hers again.

  He didn’t cry. He was too confused.

  He was waiting for the sky to tear open.

  THEY GAVE HIM A bath together, dressed him in the onesie and cap the hospital provided and carefully wrapped him in the swaddling blanket. Daisy was shaking by then, limbs trembling as the excess adrenaline poured out of her body, skin shivering with another low-grade fever. Fluids and antibiotics hung from her IV pole. Dr. N’Dour ordered a bit more Fentanyl and, once back in bed, Daisy fell asleep.

  “I am so sorry,” N’Dour said, one of his hands swallowing Erik’s and the other clasping Erik’s upper arm.

  Erik could only nod and touch the kind doctor’s arm in return. Mute with gratitude, he then turned and hugged Lee Malone harder than he’d ever hugged a human in his life.

  “You’re so good to her,” she said, swaying side to side with him. “You are an amazing husband.”

  “Thank you,” he managed to whisper.

  She stepped away and put her hand on his face, bright tears rimming her eyes. “Go lie down now. Hold her. Don’t let go.”

  After she and N’Dour left, Erik heeled off his shoes, picked up Kees and settled next to Daisy in the reclined bed. The baby’s tiny capped head was no bigger than a baseball in Erik’s palm. The point of the swaddled bundle barely made it to his elbow. He could tuck Kees against his chest like a football and make a dash for it.

  Daisy nestled closer to him, mumbling something. Erik brushed her head with his mouth then turned eyes back to the child in his hand.

  This is my son.

  He stared at the wizened little face. Two lines for eyes. Tiny hairs for brows. A mouth set in a serious straight line. Gently Erik moved the cap back. He had hair. Not a lot, but enough for Lee to clip some. She’d wrapped the minuscule lock with thread and put it in an envelope for them to keep.

  He remembered Daisy had kept a lock of his own hair all those years they were apart.

  “Because it’s what you do,” she said.

  Erik carefully pulled the cap into place. His fingertip traced the delicate curve of Kees’ cheek. He looked so solemn. So contemplative. Occupied with deep, important thoughts.

  This is my son.

  “It has no name,” Daisy said, her eyelids fluttering. Her hand lay small and limp against his shirt. The gold of her rings dull in the room’s flourescent light. Her wrist slender within the hospital bracelet. Erik blinked as its typed letters swam into focus.

  FISKARE, MARGUERITE B.

  He tilted his head, reading, as if only now realizing who she was.

  “Marguerite Fiskare,” he mouthed.

  He eased Kees’s tiny wrist from the blanket, the little slip of plastic fastened about it.

  FISKARE, KENNET J.

  On his own wrist, the documentation officially linking him to the other two.

  FISKARE, BYRON E.

  He clenched his fingers in a fist, the tendon in his wrist making the bracelet rise up and down. A heartbeat beneath his name.

  They belong to me. This all belongs to me.

  It belongs to my name.

  His throat melted and his eyes bubbled over as he gathered Daisy closer. He laid the baby on his chest and curved his arms around both bodies. His wife in a drugged, fitful sleep. His son in an eternal sleep.

  It does have a name.

  This is my family.

  And he clutched it all and wept for it.

  “I KNOW IT SEEMS odd to take pictures,” the social worker said. “Sort of irreverent. Even macabre. But it’s not. Please don’t think anyone will think strangely of it. However you want to remember your baby, do it.”

  Erik tried to relax into instinct. Holing up alone with Daisy and grieving privately seemed the thing to do. But it felt wrong. It was making everything worse.

  “Is it all right with you if Will and Lucky come in?” Daisy finally asked. And it was all right. More than all right. Erik wanted them badly. Wanted friends close by until his mother and the Biancos could get there.

  So they gathered in the little room, the four of them. They took turns holding Kees, took turns holding each other. Lucky had brought her camera and discreetly took some pictures. Just a few. Just to remember.

  Lying beside Erik in the bed, Daisy touched his necklace. “Put it on him,” she whispered. “Please.”

  He unclasped it and put it around Kees’s small head. Arranged the charms so they clustered together on Kees’s heart. He and Daisy held him.

  Lucky took a picture.

  Will and Erik sat side by side in chairs. Will held the baby and they stared across the room at Daisy and Lucky in the hospital bed, curled up together like sisters.

  “She did that the night you left Lancaster,” Will said. “Got right in the bed with her. Held onto her all night.”

  “It’s what you do,” Erik said. He could barely move his jaw he was so tired.

  “I envy that about women. No taboo rules or bullshit when it comes to physical comfort. Your best friend is smashed in pieces, you get right in bed with her and hold the pieces together.”

  “Want to sleep over tonight?” Erik said. “Hold my pieces?”

  Will slowly turned his head. “Did you actually just make a joke?”

  Erik closed his eyes and managed a weak smile. “No.”

  The inability to get to Erik immediately after the shootings had always haunted Christine. She all but loaded herself into a slingshot and flung herself toward Canada. She was there now, with Peter, while Fred had gone with Will to the airport to get the Biancos.

  Christine rocked Kees in the cradle of her elbow, her finger tracing the little face.

  “Look how thoughtful he is,” she said, blinking back tears. “You looked like this after you were born, Erik. Just like this. Thinki
ng, thinking, thinking.” She sniffed hard and held the bundle to her breast. Her other arm reached to pull Erik close.

  “You looked just like this,” she whispered.

  Francine and Joe put their hands together and held their grandson, heads bent low. After a while, Joe moved to sit on the edge of the bed where Daisy had dozed off. He stared at the wall, a silent soldier, stroking his daughter’s forehead. Fred sat on the wide windowsill, hands laced around a knee, looking out at nothing.

  Erik sprawled in a chair, his temple on Christine’s shoulder. Her hand caressed his hair. His neck began to ache but he didn’t want her to stop. He slid down to sit on the floor, put his face on his mother’s knee. She rubbed his back. Pete came to sit where Erik had been and put a rough hand on his brother’s head.

  Francine continued to hold Kees. One loving, fearless fingertip stroked between his eyebrows and over the fragile crown of his head. She sang a little song in French.

  The fever persisted and, worried about infection, the hospital kept Daisy another day. She spent it in bed, dozing and waking, holding Kees while curled in her mother’s arms.

  Erik shied from anyone touching him now. He paced away or slumped through the prickling, shapeless hours, feeling more and more caged. He wanted to go home.

  Texts and voicemails piled up on his phone. Most he let go. Some he returned.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mike Pettitte said, his voice tight and gruff. “I’m here for you. Please know I’m here. If there’s anything I can do, Erik, you call me.”

  “Oh my dear, I feel terrible,” Vivian said. “I’m so sorry. I’m thinking about you all the time.”

  “Sweet boy,” Aunt Trudy said, with Aunt Kirsten on another extension. “Our hearts are broken for you.”

  “Thank you,” Erik said over and over to his people. “Thank you.”

  “I can’t put him in the ground,” Daisy said. “I can’t bear the thought.”

  “No,” Erik said. “I can’t either.”

  “He needs to be near us.” Her voice was syrupy with tears and pain. “He’s so little. I want to keep him.”

  “I do, too.”

  The arrangements were made for them. They didn’t have to lift a finger or make a call. Their sole task was to hold Kees and press him into their memory before they took him away.

  And sign the certificate of stillbirth.

  And remember to take it to the registrar at some point.

  And collect his ashes.

  And…

  PEOPLE WERE UNBELIEVABLY KIND. The house filled with food: casseroles, soups, pies. The counters creaked under the offerings, the fridge exploded with sympathy. Flowers filled every room. The fruit bowl overflowed. A waterfall of envelopes spilled from the mailbox. Cards, notes, letters. Donations were made to charity in Kees’s name. A Jewish family in the neighborhood had a memorial tree planted in Israel. Another had a star named for him. Every deed was accompanied by beautiful loving words. You’re in our thoughts. In our prayers. We’re broken-hearted. I’m sending you my love. I’m lighting a candle.

  A package arrived from deWrenne Atelier and they unwrapped a beautiful silver hummingbird with a jeweled eye. A note from Vivian read: In the spirit world, hummingbirds are messengers of joy. But they are also known for the ability to get in and out of small places, and their ability to heal. I send you all my love in this little bird, and hope it can hover in the small dark places of your hearts and help heal you.

  The MacIntyres sent flowers. Come to Clayton anytime you wish. Come home and stay with us. We’ll take care of you.

  Mike Pettitte texted often. Hey buddy. I’m out on the boat. I’m thinking about you. I’m here if you need me.

  Love came from all directions. On paper, on screens, in dishes and words and deeds.

  We’re thinking of you every minute.

  I’m sorry.

  We’re sorry.

  We’re so sorry…

  Kees came back to them as a few cubic inches of ash. Most of the cremation urns offered by the funeral home were cloyingly kitschy. They picked the simplest one available for the time being.

  They didn’t quite know where to put it. The mantelpiece seemed too obvious and lonely. The kitchen was the center of their household universe, but it seemed an odd location to keep an urn. They took turns keeping it on their bedside tables for a week until Daisy placed it on top of the upright piano. Erik took the black and white picture of four Fiskare generations from his desk and set it beside his son.

  And baby makes five.

  He fussed and arranged the composition of picture frame and urn, trying to get it perfect. Wishing he could reach fingers into the photograph, rip his infant self out of his great-grandfather’s arms and put Kees there.

  “Take care of him,” he said under his breath, meeting Emil’s eyes. He imagined the old man, who had lost a son in the war, nodding as his arms tightened protectively.

  These things happen and they are terrible things to bear.

  Erik sat and played “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” Then he felt dumb and closed the lid over the keys.

  “Play the Prelude in C,” Daisy said. “It’s a lullaby.” She sat on the floor and he noticed she was working a jigsaw puzzle on the coffee table.

  “Why are you doing that?” he asked, feeling dumber, as if he ought to know why.

  She looked at him as if she thought the same. “I just want to put something together.”

  He nodded and opened the piano’s lid again. He played a flat, soulless version of the Bach prelude. Started a Mozart sonata but stopped for no reason and went to sit on the floor by Daisy. He poked a finger through the box of pieces, looking for the borders, which he slid across the table to her. Her thank yous were clipped and businesslike, as though he were passing her instruments during a surgery.

  He helped her for half an hour, not speaking. Then he got tired and lay down on the couch. His hands were ice cold and he held them tight between his knees.

  He thought of the time he was eleven and had watched the movie Poltergeist, which had scared him past healthy terror into a unshakable, manic upset. The only thing that could assuage the freaked-out distress was bodily contact with his mother. He slept in her bed for nearly three months.

  Christine was patient with the obsessive rituals he insisted on. He had to sleep on the left side of the bed, far from the closet door. The closet itself had to be scrupulously inspected and then remain wide open. In bed, Christine’s back needed to be tight against his back, no gaps. Above all, his hands had to be between his knees. Only then was he safe against the fiery, preternatural thing that lived on the other side of a too-tenuous border between real and unimaginable. A nameless predator that made maggots erupt from steak and made you want to claw your own face off.

  He closed his eyes, his hands safely tucked in. A light doze and a foggy wakefulness passed him back and forth. He opened his eyes and Daisy was still at work.

  “Are you getting tired?” he asked.

  She shook her head. He fell back asleep, woke again later and she was sitting still, her hands motionless among the colored pieces. Bastet perched on the table, her silvery neck stretched out long and she was licking the tears off Daisy’s face.

  Daisy’s mouth trembled between a touched, grateful smile and a grimace of despair. “You funny little thing,” she whispered. “You’re so sweet to Mommy.” Her voice broke apart on the word and her chin dropped between her shaking shoulders.

  Erik touched the back of her neck. “Do you want to go to bed?”

  “No.” A world of hurt packed into the single syllable and a surprising amount of force behind it. It slapped his face. Bastet jumped off the table and pattered away on silent paws.

  Erik stared at his wife, back at work now, her jaw tight and her brows pulled down. Into the soil of his broken heart a seed fell: This is going to change us.

  It’s already changed us. It will never be the way it was before.

  He looked around the l
iving room. Looked at the picture of them over the fireplace, wrapped up in Daisy’s wedding veil. Looked at their son’s remains on the piano top. Looked at their house, their life, their doing and their making. It all gazed benignly back at him, eyebrows raised.

  Well?

  He slid his fingertips along the tender bumps of Daisy’s spine, then flattened his hand across her nape. “If I lose you, I will die,” he said.

  Her hands went still. She turned her head toward him. Her eyes were closed, her thick lashes damp and spiked. “I need to put this together,” she said through the wall of her teeth. “Or I will start breaking things.”

  He had an intense vision of maggots and he squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m scared we’re going to break.”

  “I’m scared for us, too,” she said. “Let me do this.”

  He let her. It was how she was keeping the closet door open. Keeping the face-clawing demons on their side of the boundary. He would be patient and keep his presence against hers. No gaps.

  He dozed off again. When he woke, it was done. The puzzle was complete and Daisy had her head pillowed on her crossed arms on the table, fast asleep. Bastet was curled in a neat, precise ball inside the puzzle box’s lid.

  Erik woke Daisy just enough to get her on her feet. Then he picked her up like a child and carried her upstairs.

  “Good job,” he whispered, strangely proud. “You did it.”

  EVERY DAY HE BECAME more and more aware how the past was made up of stepping stones to now. No coincidences. No accidents. You gravitated toward and attracted the people you were meant to have in your life. They belonged to you, they were precious to you. They deserved to be told so.

  John Quillis called. “Oh God, Fish,” he said, his voice soft but strong. “My heart’s broken for you guys.”

  “I never thanked you,” Erik said, “for what you did for Daisy.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I do have to. Because too often these things go unsaid and it ends up being too late. Not a day goes by I don’t look at her scars and think she wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. I mean it. I owe you an apology for the past. And I owe you my gratitude for… Forever. If you’ll have it.”