What if he’d stayed blue? And then gray? And then dead and cremated and nothing else at all except grief heaped on grief and one little baby where there were supposed to be two?
Now that Claire was pregnant again, there would be another baby who might die. Another baby who might be born with something wrong. Another baby who could die of SIDS, a fall off the bed, leukemia, a horrible chromosomal mix-up, a bookcase toppling over in an earthquake because Dad hadn’t gotten around to securing them to the walls, even after living there for eight years.
Terrible things happened at home births. Not just blue babies covered in shit that could get in their lungs and cause pneumonia. Babies’ heart rates could drop and the hospital might be too far away. Babies could get stuck. Arrested labor. Stillbirths, failed resuscitations, lawsuits. Grief.
When I looked up home-birth deaths, I found blog after blog by women who’d lost their babies. And they all had pictures of their dead babies. Posed, as if they weren’t dead at all. Tiny fingers, perfect little feet. Soft, downy heads, eyes closed as if they were just sleeping. But the photos were almost always in black and white, so you couldn’t see that the babies were dusky pale. Dead babies in the crook of their mother’s arms. The father beside her, or arms around her, or touching the baby. No one smiled. That was the difference. Or sometimes—very rarely—they did smile. Which was worse.
There were dolls, too. Not like the soft, sweet ones Claire made, but realistic ones, with eyelashes and downy hair. Grieving parents could send in a picture of their dead baby, and a doll maker would make a life-size, weighted baby doll with the exact features of their dead baby. The parents could dress it, hold it, and lay it down in the crib at night.
“Maeve?” Owen was still at the doorway. “Can I sleep with you?”
“Sure,” I said. “Come in and tell me a story about King Percival. I need a distraction.”
“From what?”
From the fact that you almost died, I thought.
From the fact that not only did Dad and Claire want a home birth again, but they didn’t even want a midwife there this time. When they told me in the spring, we were eating poached eggs on toast, which suddenly seemed too disgusting to even look at. Chicken embryos.
Claire beamed at me. How amazing would that be? Just you and the boys. Just family.
Such a trip, Dad said. I’ll catch the baby in my own hands. The way it’s meant to be.
Hospitals, clean beds, doctors: that was the way it was meant to be.
—
Owen fell asleep while he was telling me about King Percival’s plans to storm the Wrens’ kingdom.
Claire popped her head through the curtains. “Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
“Do you want me to carry him upstairs?” She sat on the edge of the bed.
“No, he can stay.”
“Okay,” she said. “Tomorrow I want to hear about your trip, and the last weeks of school. I want you to tell me everything.”
Not everything.
“Right now we should all get to sleep.” She lifted Owen’s hand and kissed it. “It’s late.”
“Claire?”
“Yes?”
“Are you still having a home birth?”
“Maeve—”
“I’m not going to argue with you,” I said. “I just wondered if you were still doing it by yourselves.”
“Well, your father…” She looked a little sad all of a sudden. “He’s been working really hard lately. And I don’t think he can—well, no. I have midwives.”
“Oh.”
“That should make you rest easier,” she said.
“I’m sorry, I just—”
“You just wanted to know how much to worry.”
I nodded.
“Good night, Maeve.” She turned at the doorway, her big belly in profile. “Sleep tight.”
—
Haitian earthquakes and decapitated people and Greyhound buses and dead babies and what it must be like to step in front of a speeding train. Why the train? Why didn’t she kill herself in a different way? Hanging. Overdose. Carbon-monoxide poisoning. Slitting wrists in a bathtub. Jumping off a cliff, or into a river that was too fast and too cold. Why the train? How did she make that choice? Stop. Stop, Maeve. Focus on the distraction: Owen, one slender arm folded above his head, the other clutching Hibou, his eyes fluttering as he dreamt.
Hibou.
French for owl.
Sometimes things sound so much better in another language.
Worry.
Pain.
Fear.
Inquiéter.
Douleur.
Effrayé.
At home in Port Townsend, I woke up to songbirds, the babbling creek, the smells of coffee and woodsmoke.
At Dad’s it was crows shrieking, a garbage truck, the boys upstairs hollering, the low hum of the washing machine, a dog barking, Dad’s heavy footsteps, the door slamming.
Maybe Mom wouldn’t go. Maybe at the last minute she would realize what a dumb old asshole Raymond was, and she’d get on a plane and come home, and then she’d get in her car and come get me, and we could go home and take care of the garden, which was all alone and wondering where we were.
What time is it there? It’s not too late. I love you. I love you. Don’t go!
Maybe she would get the text and that would be the thing she needed to hear. Maybe she would read those words and come back to me.
My phone rang. “Blackbird,” by the Beatles. And there was her picture filling the screen. I’d taken that the past summer, just before Raymond happened. She stood at the garden gate with a huge basket of tomatoes under one arm.
Only it wasn’t her. I could tell right away by the nasally exhale on the other end of the phone.
“Raymond?”
“Your mom is in the shower.”
“Why are you calling me on her phone?”
“To let you know that she’ll call you back. I know you don’t like to worry.”
I tasted bile in my throat. “You didn’t need to call. I’ve waited a lot longer than thirty-five seconds to get a text back from her. Especially lately.”
“All right, then,” he said, his voice chipper. “Just thought I’d let you know.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
He sighed. “Look, Maeve, your mom—”
“Will call me back,” I said as I hung up.
—
When she called back, she said hello and then dropped the phone.
“Sorry,” she said. “Just loading up the car.”
To go.
To the airport.
“How is it? How is everybody?” A car door opening, then closing.
“Is he with you?”
“He’s locking up the house.”
To go.
To the airport.
“Come home, Mom.”
“Six months, Maeve. This is good for you. This is good for everyone.”
“At least let me go home.” I started to cry. “Let me go home. Don’t go.”
“I am going to Haiti, Maeve. Just a sec.” She covered the phone and said something to Raymond. Then she was back and she was saying, “I love you. I love you. I love you. And you cannot stay at home by yourself. You know that.”
“Maybe this time would be different?”
“Six months of different? I love you, Maeve, and I’m going to Haiti, and I need to get off the phone. Raymond says talk to you soon. I love you.”
“I love you too.”