“Jane,” both Rose and I say sternly for her safety, and her bottom thuds to the seat.
“Charlie,” Jane begins again like nothing went wrong, “Mommy was antipating”—she means anticipating. I’d correct her, but she speaks too quickly—“a girl. You were meant to be Charlotte after Charlotte Bront?.”
Rose decided to alter the name to Charlie once she saw that they were twin boys.
Jane stumbles over her words as she tries to recall the reasoning behind Charlie’s middle name. She looks to me for help.
I seize the expression tight. My mother never wanted me to exchange that look with her, not even when I was a child. If you’re a big boy, you’ll figure this out on your own.
I did, of course. I thrived without parents, but this expression, this exchange with my daughter, holds an incredible amount of value to me. I’m necessary in my children’s lives. It’s not a weakness on their part.
Can you help me?
Always.
I will always help them.
“Charlie Keating Cobalt,” I say to my oldest son.
“That’s me,” Charlie says in a much clearer tone than most two-year-olds.
“And do you know why you were named Keating?”
He shakes his head.
“You’re named after the poet John Keats.” Since Rose decided to alter Charlotte to Charlie, I followed suit and altered Keats to Keating. To this day, I remember the rare smile that spread across her face when I called him Charlie Keating.
It was like she took a step to the side, and I willingly stepped with her.
“Right.” Jane nods as though she hadn’t forgotten. “And so it shall be.” She taps her spoon against her purple plastic cup, mimicking her mother.
Rose rises to her feet. “And now the Name Ceremony shall begin. Jane Eleanor Cobalt, will you accept the honor of naming your brother?” We haven’t checked the gender, but Rose is positive we’re having another boy.
Without any scientific indication, I can’t be as sure.
“I will.” Jane reaches for the notebook and nearly topples her cup.
Boy or girl, I’ve had a middle name in mind, but I won’t say what until Rose chooses the first name. She’s written twenty names in the notebook, and Jane is supposed to point to her favorite.
Why is this more like chance? Jane can’t read.
And so, Rose believes she’s letting “fate” guide her to the perfect name. I believe she’s letting our daughter randomly decide.
Jane spends barely a second with the notebook before pointing to a name. “This one!”
Rose steps hurriedly to Jane, wide-eyed. “Are you sure you don’t need a minute longer?”
“This is what happens when you leave important events to fate,” I tell my wife.
Rose shoots me a hot glare, but I sense the words beneath, we’re leaving the greatest event of our lives to fate, Richard. Remember?
Of course I remember. I remember every day that this baby could be our last. I remember every day that I’d love one or two or even three more children. I remember that we made an agreement not to have more after Jane has a sister, and I won’t break what I promised.
I remember it all.
“I’m sure,” Jane tells her mother. “This is it!”
Rose peers over Jane’s head, reading the name, and the corners of her mouth curve upwards. “His name is Tom.”
Named after The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain.
And I say, “Tom Carraway Cobalt.”
Rose tries hard to restrain a pleased smile. Nick Carraway is a character from The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
“You love it,” I say the obvious.
“It’s okay.” She twists her hair on one shoulder, completely downplaying how much she loves the name. I love that compliments don’t come easily.
I’m about to reply, but Rose and I both watch Jane slip beneath the table. I duck with Rose to see where our daughter is going. Sadie is curled in a ball, napping, and Jane strokes her soft fur and whispers, “You’re the prettiest kitty, Sadie. The prettiest I’ve ever seen.”
Sadie stretches her paws and rolls to let Jane pet her belly.
“Told you so,” Rose says to me. I could comment on her kindergarten retort, but I let it pass this time.
“I never said she wouldn’t warm up to Jane.”
“You said Sadie wasn’t capable of loving anyone else but you.”
I truly thought she wasn’t. “Pets change,” I realize.
Just like people.
*
8:08 p.m.
Jane screams bloody murder from upstairs. I’m already off the couch, alarm rushing through me like fissured ice. Eliot, who’d been attempting to walk for the first time, tries to follow. He falls to his bottom and wails like the world is coming to a sudden end.
“Go!” Rose calls after me. She lifts her body off the couch as fast as she’s able. “I’ll meet you.”
I leave Eliot with Rose, and quickly, I run through the archway and into the foyer.
“DADDY! MOMMY!” Jane screams and screams.
“JANE!” I sprint up the marble staircase. I can’t draw irrational conclusions. I can’t anticipate what’s wrong before I see the facts. Even so, my blood is cold and my breath is locked in my throat.
“DADDY! DADDY!”
“JANE!” I reach the second floor in seconds, running down the long hallway. Her screams tunnel out of her bedroom. Jane decorated her door with construction paper and pink glitter to spell out her name Jane Eleanor across the front.
As soon as I slip inside the darkened room, lit only by a tiny nightlight, Jane—tear-streaked and grief-stricken—darts past her toddler bed and tea party table and then clings to my leg.
“Daddy,” she sobs.
I set my hand on her head, canvassing her body and her room hurriedly. “Are you hurt—what’s wrong?” I squat to her height.
She flings her arms around my shoulders, blubbering into my chest. I tenderly clutch the back of her head. In one breath, I crave to comfort my daughter. In the other, I remain vigilant and alert about the origins of her fear.
An illogical thought creeps into my head. Paparazzi broke into her room. It happened to Daisy, but that was before we moved into a gated neighborhood. That was before I fucked over Scott Van Wright.
Nothing like that can happen to my children. Not in this house.
Not with me here.
Jane sobs harder, her voice turning hoarse.
“Shhh,” I whisper in a soothing tone. “Mon c?ur.” My heart.
I examine Jane, just to be certain she’s not physically hurt. Her teal cat-print nightgown isn’t torn. She didn’t limp and she hasn’t favored any of her limbs. I lift her brown hair off her shoulder and gently press her neck and along her spine. She doesn’t flinch.
She’s simply inconsolable.
Emotional. This is emotional pain.
Jane mumbles a few words that I can’t piece apart. My need for information heightens, and I lift her, using a hand to keep her propped against my side. She hugs me even stronger.
I step further into her bedroom.
Jane goes hysterical. “Nonono!” she screams.
“Shhhh.” I stroke the side of her hair and then whisper softly, “What’s wrong, Jane?” I can’t see anything out of place. Her pastel pink sheets and blankets are twisted and kicked to the edge of her bed, but Jane wiggles in her sleep—so this isn’t abnormal.
Jane raises her head and rubs her little fist against her cheeks.
I brush her tears away with my thumb. “Are you frightened?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
She points to the double doors of her closet, partially opened. Enough for a body to squeeze through.
“Connor…? What is it…?” Rose pants and blows out a measured breath, just arriving. She rests her hand on her round abdomen and sets down Eliot who squirms against her side. Beckett and Charlie linger inquisitively by her legs.
I have four children, five including the impending one, and a wife as strong-willed and courageous as any person comes. I’d do anything to sustain this life with them. To keep them feeling safe and protected.
Love is power, and I can’t tell you why. It transcends every word I can conjure. In these catalytic moments, love surges through me like battalions made of fire and water. Made of ivory and rose.
I awaken and I know.
I come second.