Chapter 17
Madeline is crying again.
Or is it Adele? I’m their mother. I should be able to distinguish the difference.
But, as it is, I can hardly remember to drink water throughout the day, much less tell the difference between the cries of my children.
My husband is always reminding me that the twins are only a month old. That we have plenty of time to get to know them. It still bothers me that I can’t tell their cries apart.
I drag myself out of bed, where I’d snuck only a few minutes ago after rocking Madeline to sleep. It’s a rare occasion for both of them to be asleep at the same time, and I’d practically jumped in exultation at the timing of it.
I had jumped prematurely, it seems.
By the time I get to the other side of the room, where two bassinets stand, each handcrafted by their father, it’s too late to determine which of the girls woke me up.
Because now they’re both screaming.
“There, there. It’s alright,” I say as I scoop Madeline out of her bassinet. She’s the one whose yells turn to full-out, high-pitched screams the fastest, so I usually find myself tending to her needs first.
It doesn’t feel fair to Adele, but my husband often reminds me that Adele probably appreciates it when Madeline is quiet for a moment.
After a few minutes of bouncing Madeline on my shoulder with one arm, hand under her rear end, the other hand patting Adele’s chest so hard I would fear other mothers would think me abusive if they saw me do it (it’s the only thing that she seems to like), Madeline finally settles, her head resting on my shoulder.
The muscle between my shoulder blades twinges as I slowly remove my hand from Adele’s chest and lower Madeline into her bassinet. As soon as her back hits the mattress, she starts wailing, and so does Adele, and the whole process begins again.
This is my own doing. I should have known better than to think I could settle them both down so quickly.
“Rough afternoon?” says a male voice that dances between amusement and pity.
I turn to find my husband standing in the doorway, his blue eyes soft, his hair disheveled from a day working in the fields.
He hadn’t grown up on a farm like me, but when my parents had died and left their farm to us, he’d learned quickly.
As it turned out, the skills he’d learned when he had been a merchant had turned out to be useful when it came to haggling at the market.
He’s carrying a tray of tea, the chamomile and lemon scent wafting pleasantly through the room.
“What makes you say that?” I ask, my voice attempting a joking sound, but it sounds more as if I’m choking. “Madeline is sleeping excellently,” I say, pointing to my eldest daughter.
My husband cocks his head to the side, then opens his mouth slightly ajar before shutting it.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s only…isn’t that Adele?”
I glance down at the bassinet in shock, checking for Madeline’s birthmark on her cheek. Except it isn’t there.
“Oh.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“And allow our daughters to grow up with a mother who can’t tell them apart?”
“Right now, that’s looking like the lesser of two evils, yes.”
I huff a half-smirk at him, then plop down on our bed, but not before throwing a pillow at him. He catches it midair, his lips curling into a grin.
“Why did it have to be twins?” I ask. “Twins don’t even run on either side of the family.”
Again, my husband hesitates, looking as if he’s searching for the right words.
My heart sinks. “I didn’t mean that. Of course I wouldn’t wish away either of them.”
“I know you wouldn’t,” he says, sitting down on the bed next to me. “And neither would I. Although, what I would wish is that we could have both of them, just the way they are… But two years apart.”
I smile, the guilt in my chest lightening. “How are you so good at that?”
“Good at what?”
“Taking my awful thoughts and spinning them so they don’t make me feel quite as bad.”
“Well, I did it for myself for quite some time, for things exceedingly more awful,” he says quietly.
We sit in that for a moment, but I run my hand across the bed and touch his, staring not at him, but at our two girls, their perfect little faces, cupid lips.
And I whisper into the room. “Do you ever fear the Fates will take them away from us?”
When my husband doesn’t answer, I turn to look at him. He’s staring at our daughters, lost in thought—no, not lost in thought—lost in another world. He delays so long in his response, I begin to wonder if he even heard me, when he turns toward me, the bed shifting underneath him.
“Every moment of every day.” He says it without blinking. Without breaking my stare, and though I trust my husband implicitly, it’s in moments like this that I get the sense there’s something he’s not telling me.
Where I expected comfort from knowing I’m not the only one to have these thoughts, instead, the fear strikes deeper.
“Well, no use in dwelling on that.” I take my teacup from the tray and bring it to my lips, reveling in the warmth as it hits my tongue. It’s my favorite, especially with the lemon my husband always adds, but there’s a hint of something else too. Rosehip, perhaps?
When I ask my husband what he added, he smiles softly. “Just a spice I picked up from the market.”
Adele lets out a wail, and I go to push myself off the bed. As I do, I sway, lightheadedness overcoming me. I don’t fall, but I do have to support myself on the bed.
“Here, let me help you,” says my husband, lancing his arm underneath my knees, his other behind my back as he pulls me up the head of the bed.
“That was strange,” I say as he goes to pull a throw blanket off our desk chair and toss it over me. “I would have thought if I were going to get lightheaded, it would have been during birth.”
That’s not true, of course. I’ve been having spells of dizziness ever since the girls were born. The town physician is concerned, but I don’t want to worry my husband unnecessarily.
“Well, you know, they say it can come on any time,” says my husband.
I close my eyes and breathe, still smelling the strange scent of the tea. At least Adele has settled back down on her own.
“What was that spice?” I ask. “I don’t think it’s sitting well with me.”
My husband doesn’t answer, and for a moment, I think he must have left the room without me hearing. But when I open my eyes, my vision now blurred, I see his silhouette at the foot of the bed, staring over me. My vision winding as it is, I can’t make out his facial expression.
Something turns over in my gut.
“You didn’t ask what was wrong,” I whisper.
“What do you mean?”
“When I almost fainted just now. You didn’t ask, ‘What’s wrong?’ or ‘Are you all right?’ or any number of things that would be normal to ask if your wife almost fainted.”
“I helped you into bed, did I not?”
“Yes, but…” I can’t quite put it into words, how to explain how strange it was, or why it was strange. Like trying to describe a color.
Another wave of dizziness passes over me. Black spots dot across the center of my vision.
“Dear, please. What was in the tea?”
When he doesn’t answer, my pulse heightens. I go to stand from bed. I have to get to my babies, but my feet can hardly support me.
I fall, but strong arms catch me before I do.
“I need the physician,” I gasp. “Please, go to town, find…” But no, I can’t finish that sentence. Can’t ask my husband to leave my children here unattended. “Get the neighbors. Ask them to run to town—”
I can no longer see. Just feel my husband’s warm arms around me.
I whimper his name, and through the blackness, I’m convinced he won’t answer me.
Finally, he whispers in my ear. “I’m so sorry, Wanderer. They promised it would be peaceful.”