I lay there, sweating bullets, my mind numb. No heartbeat, I was thinking. He can’t hear a heartbeat, and he’s afraid the baby is dead. He wants the other doctor to confirm it.
The two men entered the room, and Dr. Enright poked all over my belly with his stethoscope, too. They looked at each other and nodded, then conferred with each other, their backs to me. I started to cry; I couldn’t help it. How will I ever tell Lars that the baby has died? I wondered. He’s going to be devastated.
The doctors turned around simultaneously. Seeing my face, Dr. Silver took my hand in both of his. “Mrs. Andersson, please don’t cry. It’s good news. Let me be the first to congratulate you. Both Dr. Enright and I are quite sure you are expecting twins!”
I floated home from the doctor’s office. My mind was reeling with excitement. Twins! How lucky could we be? To have met each other so late in life—when both of us had, for all intents and purposes, given up on ever finding a mate. To almost not have met, had we not stayed on the telephone long enough for me to hear his emergency and rescue him. To find ourselves so compatible, to fall in love so rapidly. To marry so quickly, to start a family so soon. And now this! It could not be more perfect.
I was convinced it was a boy and a girl.
I was still working at Sisters’ in those days, of course, but I telephoned Frieda and told her the appointment had worn me out and I had gone home to rest. Of course, I did not tell her the news that there were two babies. I was dying to, but that was Lars’s to hear first, not Frieda’s.
Back home, in the kitchen of our small apartment, I made a batch of white cake batter, which I separated into two bowls. I dyed one with a few drops of red food coloring, turning it pink; the other, I dyed baby blue. I poured them into two pans. When the cake layers had cooled, I stacked them and frosted the entire thing generously with white icing.
I prepared dinner: salad with garden-fresh vegetables, pork chops stuffed with bread crumbs and spinach, and mashed potatoes. After dinner, I brought out the cake. “Slice into it,” I said to Lars. “It will tell you if we’re having a boy or a girl.”
Lars gave me a quizzical look. “I thought you went to the doctor today, not a fortune-teller.” Nonetheless, he smiled and took up the knife. I watched his face carefully as he pulled a slice from the cake, then looked at me in confusion.
“Congratulations, Papa,” I said. “We’re having twins!”
He laughed and shook his head. “Amazing.” He pulled me onto his lap, my big belly protruding between us. “And how, my beautiful wife, do you know for sure that it’s not two boys? Or two girls?”
I smiled. “I just know. It’s here.” I tapped my heart. And then I put my hand on his chest and whispered, “Here, too.”
I wish I could remember Frieda’s reaction to the news that I was having twins. I am sure that would speak volumes about where we are now. But I cannot remember what she said. I do remember that before the big news, back when we thought it was only one baby, I had planned to bring my infant to Sisters’ with me while it was small. Frieda, as I recall, thought that would be fine. I had it all pictured in my mind: a cradle in the corner, where the baby would sleep peacefully while Frieda and I tended our shop. “Once he or she is more active, I’ll hire a babysitter,” I’d assured Frieda. “It will be fine. Everything here will stay the same as always.”
She’d nodded. “I’m glad.” She squeezed my hand. “Don’t leave me, sister. Don’t abandon me.”
“Never,” I told her firmly. “We’ll work it out.”
“I’ll help you find someone, when the time comes,” she offered. “With all my parents’ connections . . . You want someone really qualified, Kitty. Someone competent, someone you can trust. I’ll help. I want you to be sure of what you’re doing.”
I’d nodded gratefully. “That would be wonderful, Frieda. Thank you.”
Yes. That conversation, I remember well.
After pronouncing me expectant with twins, Dr. Silver warned me against working too hard. He convinced me to cut back my hours at the shop to mornings only. I promised Frieda that I would be back full-time as soon as possible. With two babies, it seemed impractical to bring them to the shop, but we would simply accelerate the hiring of a babysitter.
Because of this promise, Frieda was not overly upset when the doctor put me on bed rest at twenty-eight weeks’ gestation. It was not a strict bed rest; although I could not leave our apartment, I was permitted to get up from the bed in the morning and go to the couch. I could take occasional small walks from room to room, just to stretch my legs, and I was allowed to fix myself lunch, if I were alone.
But I was rarely alone. My mother was there almost every day. Taking care of me, preparing my meals, keeping me company. I remember thanking her almost daily for this, and I specifically remember her reaction: “No thanks are needed, sweetheart. What mother wouldn’t do this? What do you think I’ve been waiting for all these years? At last I’m going to be a grandmother!”
Lars’s return from work every evening brought kisses, smiles, and often flowers. He frequently brought me novels or paperback books of crossword puzzles, something to keep me occupied. He called a dozen times a day, just to check up on me. “Just to hear your voice,” he’d tell me over the line.
Aslan, dear Aslan, was my companion at all times, purring contently beside me. “If Aslan had his way,” I’d joked to Lars and my mother. “I’d stay on this couch gestating babies forever.”
Did Frieda visit my couch-prison? I cannot recall ever seeing her there—although of course she must have made an appearance every now and then. How often? I have no idea.
I pored over baby-name books, and every night Lars and I would consult on the subject. I refused to select more than one girl name and one boy name, so sure was I that the babies would be what I thought they were. After much discussion, we agreed on Mitchell Jon and Melissa Claire. Mitchell’s middle name was after Lars’s father, and Melissa’s middle name was after my mother. We’d call them Mitch and Missy.
Despite my best efforts to carry those babies to term, I made it to only thirty-four weeks—just over seven and a half months. On the evening of November 12, as I lay on the couch watching television with Lars, I felt warm water rushing from my body. And then I felt the first painful contraction.
“Lars, the babies . . . I think they’re coming,” I gasped.
“They can’t come!” he said. I could hear panic in his normally calm voice. “It’s too soon.”
I shrugged. I even laughed. “Tell them that.”
At the hospital, we were told that the babies would need to be born via cesarean section. “They would not survive a natural birth,” Dr. Silver told Lars and me sternly.
I tried to tell myself rationally that the doctor didn’t mean to sound as if he were scolding me—but that is exactly how he sounded.