Chapter Twenty-One #2
“Any day now,” I said.
I watched her brisk retreat down the aisle, then let out a long breath. I still hadn’t grown used to being treated like an
exhibit in a cabinet of curiosities.
Eng touched my arm. “Are you all right?”
I nodded. Pointing to the bolt of calico, I told Mrs. Epps, “The blue will do just fine.”
On the night of our wedding, as I’d stood trembling with nerves in the hallway outside the twins’ bedroom, I could not have
known that intimacy would be the least of our challenges. The true test would come in daily living—negotiating space and time,
navigating four strong personalities, carving out a relationship with my husband in a marriage that would never truly be ours
alone.
I’d bristled at Mina’s patronizing comment, but I couldn’t deny the truth in what she said.
It wasn’t easy living the life I’d chosen.
The four of us coexisted in a precarious balance, each reliant on the others for our arrangement to hold.
Just when things felt easy between Eng and me, he and Chang would begin to argue.
When the brothers reached a détente, Addie and I would quarrel.
It was as if when one part of the unit was operating smoothly, another was permitted to collapse.
Or perhaps when one part faltered, the others pulled double weight, knowing we couldn’t all be at odds at the same time.
The hardest part wasn’t making the big decisions. It was the daily dance of knowing when to step forward and when to step
back. Our busyness, in a way, was a blessing. There were stretches—entire weeks—when we were so consumed by chores, childcare,
and household routines that we had no time to grow restless with one another. We rose early, worked steadily, fell into bed
exhausted. Gone were the long evenings in the parlor, the chess games and meandering conversations by the fire. More often
than not, I’d nod off in a chair with a book in my lap, waking only to the sound of an oil lamp being turned low.
Once a week, the brothers played whist or poker with a revolving group of friends. Alston played often, as did Charles Harris
and a few others. Eng liked to gamble, his eyes brightening with each new hand. Chang preferred to drink. Neither quite approved
of the other’s vice. Though Chang enjoyed the company, he rarely played; instead, he nursed a glass of whiskey—or two, or
three—talking farming and weather while Eng placed bets and racked up winnings.
Chang was unpredictable. On some days he was a whirlwind of activity, chopping wood, mending fences, throwing himself into
the heavy labor of the farm. On others he was withdrawn, sullen, lost in his thoughts. Beneath his quicksilver charm lurked
a thinly veiled impatience, a streak of cruelty that surfaced without warning. He was quick to take offense, slow to let things
go.
He refused to apologize, which meant that everyone else—especially Eng—had to smooth things over, or ignore them, or simply absorb the impact.
He drank more and more. Sometimes, when he’d had too much, Eng would shift his weight, lean against him ever so slightly, not to support him, but to push back.
It didn’t always work. But it was the only resistance he could offer, and the only distance he could claim.
Addie and I learned to read Chang’s moods like sailors read the sky: the way he clutched a glass, the hard set of his jaw.
A glance, a nod, and one of us would gather the children for a walk while the other stayed to weather the brewing storm. I
knew it weighed on her. I saw it in her eyes when she looked at him, the worry just below the surface. But we didn’t talk
about it. When it came to what we bore—our feelings about our husbands, the children, this life we’d chosen—Addie and I mostly
kept our misgivings to ourselves.
One evening at supper, several months after our second children were born, Chang, angry over something small, knocked a bowl
to the floor, splattering broth at Grace’s feet. She’d knelt without a word to clean it up, while Addie stared at her plate
and said nothing.
Later, when the dishes were cleared and the house had quieted, I sat alone in the parlor, grateful for a moment’s peace. Addie
appeared in the doorway, pale in the lamplight, eyes rimmed red, Christopher fussing on her shoulder. “I don’t know what’s
gotten into him,” she said. “He won’t sleep.”
I held out my arms. “Give him to me.”
She passed him to me and sank into a chair. I settled him against my chest, patting his back, humming low.
Tilting her head back, Addie closed her eyes. “Sometimes I’m tempted to disappear into the woods,” she said. “Just keep walking
until no one can find me.”
I adjusted Christopher on my shoulder. “Where would you go?”
“I don’t know.” She pressed her fingers to her temples. “This life, all of us under one roof—it’s like there’s no air.” Then,
after a long pause, she said, “I wonder . . .”
“What?”
She gave me a look so raw it made my heart ache. “I wonder what my life would be like if I had chosen differently.”
I hesitated, unsure whether to let her words settle or draw her out. I didn’t want to make her regret speaking honestly. But
I didn’t want to let it pass.
“I wonder that too. Remember our wedding day? How I wanted to . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence. “We could have just . . .”
She reached across and took my hand.
I looked down at Christopher, sleeping against my chest. “But then we wouldn’t have this, would we?”
She nodded. I could see her gathering herself. “I’m all right now,” she said, reaching for him. She rose with the baby, and
whatever had opened between us gently closed.