She smiled without humor and sat down to bend over her books again.
J Plus One Day
Even in the safety of their townhome, Jonathan did not dare turn on the lights. What had just happened at Winoka Hospital had horribly shaken both him and Elizabeth. They couldn’t discuss it—not today, not soon.
I should never have let her go there.
He watched rain bead down the windows until the rivulets seemed like they would never stop dancing, and then he went back into their bedroom to check on her. Her appearance was enough to make him second-guess his decision to bring her home so soon.
Where else could you take her? She didn’t want to go to the hospital in this town, and you sure as hell can’t go back to Winoka Hospital . . .
“Jonathan?” Her voice was rough with exhaustion.
“I thought you were asleep.” He caressed her ankle through the blanket.
“Where’s Jennifer?”
“She’s fine. She’s in the guest room—I mean, her room.” It’ll take time to get used to that. Jonathan hoped their daughter would survive long enough for that to happen.
“I’d like to see her.”
“I’ll go get her from her crib.” As he reached the door, he paused. “I’m sorry the ride back was so rough. I know what they did—”
“You were great,” she assured him. “You were our hero.”
He didn’t try to argue with her, in the state she was in. But he knew differently. He knew he had let his wife down. I shouldn’t have let her go there, he told himself. No matter how hard she insisted. He had let her down, and they would have to live with the consequences.
Please, he begged whoever could hear as he walked out of the room, help me never fail our daughter like I’ve failed Liz. Like I’ve failed everyone else.
J Plus Four Months
“Here’s the deal.” Jonathan winked conspiratorially at the calm, chubby face.
I’m listening is all it promised in return.
“I have here”—he pulled his hand out from behind his back and revealed—“a four-ounce bottle, filled to the brim with yummy formula, mingled with a couple of teaspoons of rice cereal. I took the liberty of adding a hint of peach puree—I like to call this the ‘fruit torpedo.’ ”
“Jonathan?” The inquisitive tone wafted down from the loft. “What are you doing?”
“I’m feeding Jennifer,” he called out. Then he lowered his tone again. “Mommy is not a big fan of the fruit torpedo, but you and I know better, don’t we, ace?” Jonathan could not resist feeding Jennifer a little bit of solid food before bedtime, though conservative medical consensus suggested nothing except formula or mother’s milk for the first six months of a baby’s life. While Elizabeth interpreted their pediatrician’s dietary advice strictly—as a doctor, why wouldn’t she?—Jonathan needed this one indulgence, this nod to the late Caroline Scales, who had started her infant son on solids early to help him sleep.
“I know you want this,” he whispered to the infant. “And I’ll be happy to give it to you. As soon as you cooperate.” He set the bottle down between them on the living room carpet and lifted his daughter off her diapered bottom. Her focus fixed on the bottle, while her legs wriggled. Setting her down on her feet, two pork chops with toes, he steadied her at the elbows.
“All right. Here we go. Three, two . . . one.” He let go.
Not taking her gaze off the bottle, she leaned forward, leaned back . . . and fell hard on her padded butt. She squawked in surprise and looked up at him with reproach.
He leaned over and pulled her right back up. There was impatience in the movement, and he barely admitted to himself what was behind it. The fact was, he needed something from her. Nothing specific. Accelerated development, a neat trick, a pleasant gurgle—anything. But he needed that anything. Four months in, all he had gotten from this child was crying, yarking, and the occasional nap. She was wonderful and he loved her—but he didn’t like her.
He hated that in himself, and he wouldn’t confide that truth in anyone. Some books and web pages he read suggested that feelings like this were normal, for both parents. But if it was normal, why didn’t he ever hear anyone talk about how much they didn’t like their baby?
Because it’s wrong not to like a baby, he told himself. Only jerks don’t like babies! So, you can make up for being a jerk by spending time with her. Teaching her. Training her.
“Again,” he whispered. “Three, two . . . one!”
This time Jennifer’s tiny knees buckled instantly. Surprised, she pushed back, stumbled, and fell on her back and head with a muffled thump.
“No, no, no!” He swept her off the carpet frantically and cradled her as she began to cry. The sound echoed through the townhome and reached the loft where Elizabeth was furiously drumming on her keyboard.
“Jonathan!”
“Everything’s fine!” He kicked the bottle under an oak end table. “She’s hungry.”
“What was that bumping sound?”
“I was feeding her, I stumbled over the coffee table leg, the bottle came out of her mouth, we’re both fine, absolutely fine, don’t come down here!”
Barely audible over Jennifer’s wail, an impatient hiss replaced the sound of keyboarding. “Stop trying to make the baby stand up! She’s only four months old!”
“I’m not—”
“Dammit, Jonathan, I’ve got to finish this article! I can’t get through my residency if I’m going to be the only parent who can watch this kid without making her cry!”
The baby would not be quiet. Jonathan felt irritation shift to anger. “Oh, right, like she never cries with you! I’ve seen you test her reflexes.”
“Tapping her on the knee with a baby spoon is nothing like—”
“Yes or no—do you hit your baby?”
They were in the dangerous territory between clever one-upmanship and a full-blown argument. It was still more interesting than listening to the infant squawk like a strangled cat.
“For heaven’s sake, Jonathan, do something! Feed her, change her, buy her a pony! I’ve got to get this paper done!”
Jennifer was squirming so much, Jonathan instinctively laid her down on the floor. Once he let go of her, she stopped crying.
“Thank you!”
“You’re welcome,” he snapped up at the loft. Then he glared down at his daughter, whose tears were trailing down her cheeks.
No, he admitted to himself with a red face, I don’t like her at all.
J Plus Seven Months
“Jenny, look who I’ve got!”
Jonathan squeaked the spotted plush toy puppy at her. Her gray eyes immediately locked upon her favorite toy.
“Ah, yes. You’d like to have Ruffy back, wouldn’t you?”
“Meh,” she replied.
“And you can. You can have him back. All you have to do is—”
“Jonathan!”
“Quick, Jenny! Ruffy’s in danger! The horrible, drooling Mommy-beast cometh! She’s going to eat Ruffy, Jenny! Daddy can’t help you; he’s powerless against the drooling Mommy-beast’s death vision. Walk to him, Jenny! Save Ruffy!”
“Meh.”
The sound of footsteps rushing downstairs sent Jonathan into a half-amused, half-real panic. “Jenny, there’s only a few moments left. Jenny, hurry—arggh!”
“Jonathan Daniel Scales. We’ve discussed this.”
“Please let go of my hair.”
“You’re pushing her too hard.”
“I’m enjoying her company!” This much was true. Jonathan’s motivations had shifted over the past few months. Not only did he love her as always—but he actually liked her now. What was the difference? His daughter’s smile.
She was giving it now, an openmouthed, tongue-out, toothless grin at the sight of her father kneeling at the mercy of his wife.
“Yeowch!” he cried out as the drooling Mommy-beast began to drag him up the stairs. “Jenny, save me! Walk over to me and save me!”
&
nbsp; “Meh!” She spun on her knees and scrambled away from them both, toward the stuffed squeaky dog.
J Plus Fifteen Months
“Lunch?”
“In a moment, Jenny. You see the wall?”
She stared at the tip of his finger. “Lunch?”
“Yeah, yeah. We’ll get to lunch. The wall, ace. See the wall?”
She turned farther and spotted the gold-and-green wallpaper. “Ruffy?”
“No, those aren’t Ruffies printed on the wallpaper. They’re dragons. Can you say dragon, Jennifer?”
“Ruffy.”
“Dragon.”
“Duffy.”
“Good enough. What color is the duffy, Jenny? What color?”
“Ruffy,” she regressed.
“What color duffy?”
“Duffy?”
“Yeah, duffy. Is duffy red, Jenny? Is duffy green? Is duffy . . . gold?”
“Duffy,” she repeated.
“Duffy is gold,” he continued. “What about you, Jenny? Can Jenny turn gold?”
It was a stretch, he knew. But after more than a year of watching her pick up normal, human skills at a normal, human pace, he had begun to pin his hopes for extraordinary development elsewhere.
“Jenny lunch?”
“Come on, ace. Crescent moon’s coming tonight. You can have all the lunch you want with Mommy after I’ve left for the weekend.”
“Mommy lunch?”
“Duffy. Duffy gold. Jenny gold?” He lifted her arm up and pulled back the sleeve of her tiny, ruffled nightgown. “Jenny turn her arm gold?” He gently pressed it against the wall, for inspiration.
“Duffy. Jenny. Jenny lunch. Duffy lunch.”
Sensing this was going nowhere, Jonathan decided to change venue. He lifted his daughter up and took her down the hall into the bathroom, patting her bottom the entire way.
“How about this?” he asked once he had set her on the bathroom counter. She liked to sit here when he shaved in the morning. He pointed at the wallpaper behind her head. “Blue is easier than gold. See the blue flowers? Jenny blue?”
“Daddy face,” she intoned seriously, patting her chunky cheek.
“Yes, Daddy shaves his face here. Does Jenny want to change her face?”
“Daddy face.” Her hand reached out to the faucet, to get him started.
“No, Jenny. Daddy’s face is fine. How about Jenny’s face?” He gently spun her head and pushed her face toward the wall, until her nose touched the wallpaper. “Change face? Feel blue? Feel floral?”
The door burst open. “Jonathan!”
“Dammit, woman! Don’t you knock when you enter a bathroom!”
“Mommy lunch!”
J Plus Fifteen Months and One Day
“Aha!”
Jonathan unfurled his camouflaged dragon shape, shifted his scales back to their normal indigo and blue hues, and marched across the living room toward the kitchen.
Elizabeth froze, her blonde locks framing a reddening forehead, her lips in an “O” of surprise. She didn’t move her hands from Jennifer, who was sitting on the kitchen counter giggling. The toddler didn’t notice Jonathan; instead, she enthusiastically waved a black plastic knife in her plump hand.
“Sword!” she cried out.
“Aha!”
“Jonathan, this isn’t what it—”
“Sword!”
“AHA!”
“It’s just a plastic—”
“Sword!”
“AHH-HAAA!”
Jennifer finally turned and squealed with delight at this strange, new shape with her father’s voice. She raised her tiny blade in salute. “Duffy!”
J Plus Twenty-four Months
“Look at her.”
“I know. Isn’t it incredible?”
“She’s incredible. I can’t believe you ever cared about whether she’d show camouflage.”
“I can’t believe you armed her with cutlery.”
Elizabeth twisted in her prone position on the carpet, enough to smack him on the back of the head. “Plastic cutlery. Turns out, all we had to do was give her a crayon.”
He snuggled up to his wife, and they resumed watching their daughter. The autumn wind whistled outside the porch door. That and the sound of wax rubbing against construction paper were the only two sounds in the townhome.
“What is it, do you think?”
“A dragon, of course! Look at the wings.”
Elizabeth made a face. “Other things besides dragons have wings, darling.”
“Like what?”
“Duh, birds?”
“That’s way bigger than a bird.”
“Airplanes.”
“It has a face and feet.”
“Angels.”
This stopped him short. It did resemble an angel.
She leaned into him. “By the way, the day care center did an assessment on her.”
“They tested our kid?” Jonathan’s brow furrowed. “Did we give them permission?”
“It’s routine, Jonathan. We gave them permission when we enrolled her. They periodically check cognitive development, motor skills, all that stuff. Most parents can hardly wait to get their kids tested.”
“Huh.”
“The packet’s on the end table, if you’re interested.”
Jonathan craned his neck. From his position on the living room floor, he could make out the sealed manila envelope. He thought about it for a few seconds, and then relaxed back on the floor and watched his daughter.
Elizabeth ran her long fingers through his dark hair. “You neither, huh?”
“Me neither.”
It was years after that, long after werachnids burned Eveningstar down and the Scales family had moved to Winoka, when Jonathan ran into his high school crush again. More precisely, Elizabeth found her first.
“Didn’t you used to go out with a girl named Heather Snow?” she asked at the dinner table one night.
“Yeahff,” Jonathan replied with his mouth full of carry-out lemon chicken. He hadn’t had time to cook that evening.
“There’s a Heather Elmsmith-Snow in the oncology ward at the hospital.” His wife poked at her jewel fried rice. “You don’t suppose she’s related to Jenny’s friend Susan . . . ?”
It surprised Jonathan how far his heart fell at the news. “Oncology? What’s her prognosis?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “I saw her name on the board and it stuck in my head. It was busy today. I could check her chart tomorrow.” She chewed a mouthful of rice thoughtfully. “I’ll bet it is Susan’s mother. We never talk to that girl’s parents, do we? That must make me an awful mother, that I don’t even know who’s in charge when Jennifer goes over there.”
Jonathan took a deep breath. “Don’t beat yourself up. I’ve never met them either. Susan seems like a nice girl. She and Jenny are inseparable. They both play soccer. Have you seen Heather at the games? I’m usually too far away to see faces in the crowd.”
“I don’t pay much attention to the other parents. Now that I think of it, I think it’s a man who’s always gone to games with Susan, not a woman.” Somehow, this passed for an excuse.
“Well. Let me know what you find out tomorrow.”
What Elizabeth found out was that Heather Elmsmith-Snow, who did indeed live at the same address as Susan Elmsmith, had less than two months to live.
The following day, Jonathan hovered outside hospital room 321 with a bouquet of lilies.
Hello, old friend, he rehearsed. Say, your room smells like my mom’s bedroom right before I scared her to death. Or maybe I depressed her to death—hard to say. The point is, she had cancer, and so do you. So there’s something in common. Breath mint?
“Gah!” Jonathan chastised himself, ignoring the startled look of a passing nurse. He pushed open the door and walked inside.
A frail smile greeted him. “Well, as I live and breathe, for a little longer anyway. Jonathan Scales. Your wife told me yesterday you might stop by.”
He was impressed she could place him so quickly. Heather was unrecognizable. The healthy, growing girl who had resembled a plump koala was gone. In her place was a chain of bones with skin so translucent, a slipping vein might have torn it. She wore a flowered silk head scarf, and a pea-green emesis basin lingered on the blanket next to her jutting hip.
“Hey.” He suddenly looked at the lilies he was carrying as if for the first time. The gesture seemed so empty, but it was too late now. “Um. These are for you.”
“Thanks. Plop them on the table over there, will you? I’ll have one of the nurses dig up a vase. Think I’ll live to see them all bloom?” she teased.
“Heather . . .” He sat down heavily in the chair beside her bed. “I’m glad my wife found you here. I mean, not here.” He sighed. Doin’ great, captain. Stay the course. “I mean, I’m glad I could see you again.”
“No need to lean on the door this time to keep me in my place,” she teased.
He could feel himself flush. “Ugh. Heather, I can’t tell you how much I—”
“Forget it.” She let her jaw slide to the side. “We were both dumb teenagers, right?” Her hand extended and he took it as if picking up a baby bird. “I’m glad to see you, Jon.”
“It should have been sooner. I had no idea you were Susan’s mom. Jenny and Susan—you must know what good friends they are.” Good friends, he repeated to himself. The irony almost made him laugh.
“I do. Though I haven’t seen much of Susan. I can’t bear for her to see me like this.”
Jonathan tried to come up with a reply. No, you look great for a woman who’ll die within thirty days. Or, I’m sure Susan’s glad not to see her mother. Or, You’re right: time for the kid to let go, out with the old, in with the new. None of these seemed appropriate.
“Who would have thought,” she continued, “that I’d die of something like this. After all our family’s been through.”
“Been through?”
“Yes.” It was her turn to blush. “I know this is going to sound silly to you. I’ve always thought our family was being . . . hunted.”
Seraph of Sorrow Page 5
