Rose.”
“For Sò Rose?” he asked.
She nodded.
Sò Rose, a direct ancestor of Gaëlle’s, was the free colored woman, the wealthy affranchie, who’d founded the town after Pauline Bonaparte had left. Sò Rose herself had been named by her slave mother and French father after Sainte Rose de Lima, the patroness of the southern region.
Gaëlle wanted to tell her husband that, whether their child was dead or alive, maimed or perfect, she would always love her. She loved that this child would connect them through time and that she would be born during their very first year of marriage. She wanted him to know that she couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from this Rose sooner thanshe had to. Instead she said, “It’s a good name. Rose is a good name.”
“Common, though,” he said. “She’ll share it with so many. And then there’s history.”
“A saint, a heroine, and a town. There’s no shame in a name like that,” she said. “She will carry it fine. It’s a good name.”
Under normal circumstances, choosing a name—especially the name of their first child—would have been a glorious task, an occasion for those pleasant types of arguments that families discussed for years. He wanted this name, you often hear mothers say, and I wanted another. I won, or we compromised. But her husband wanted no name in this case. Whatever she’d proposed would have been okay with him, because he was convinced, just as the doctor was, that the child would not live even an hour, much less a day.
“Don’t stay out too long tonight,” she said, covering his hands with hers on her lap.
“You’re not coming to the shop?” he asked.
“Non,” she said.
She had been feeling some cramping in her lower back and down her legs, which had intensified since she’d sat down in the car. The baby was using her head to pound against Gaëlle’s lungs and spine, and it didn’t seem as though she’d stop anytime soon. At least she was still moving, Gaëlle thought.
“Should we call the doctor?” he asked.
“Not yet,” she said.
“Certain?”
“It’s not so bad,” she said, and he seemed to believe her.
“Are you going to the radio station after closing?” she asked.
“Tomorrow is payroll,” he said. “They’re expecting me.”
“Why don’t you have someone bring them the money?” she asked.
“I won’t stay long,” he said, then kissed the side of her neck. It had thickened and grown darker as her due date approached, and part of her was eager to see it return to normal again: long and thin with a slight dusting of talcum powder.
She pressed her head against his so that his face could remain buried in her neck awhile longer.
“I have to go now if I’m coming home early,” he said, and turned away.
She opened the door and stepped out of the car. He got out and rushed to the other side, helping her to land on her feet, as the baby weight pulled her forward. She was grateful to remain upright as, after she repeatedly turned down his offer to walk her back into the house, she watched her husband get in the car and drive away. Standing there, watching him disappear behind the almond trees, she felt the muscles in her back tighten. She took slow, careful steps toward the house, then crawled into bed. She fell into a deep, exhausted sleep that was not even disrupted by Inès’s occasional rumbling forays into the room to make sure she was all right.
• • •
When Gaëlle woke up, it was midafternoon and the pain in her body was gone, so she decided to go for a walk. A mound of stones had been brought down by a recent mudslide, turning the brook a deep brown. Some of the almond trees had prematurely shed their fruits and in many places her path was blocked by large branches.
Gaëlle stood on the edge of the brook and tried to imagine it filled, as it had been in better days, with crystalline water, rippling over the rocks. She imagined her husband and herself as teenagers,
“For Sò Rose?” he asked.
She nodded.
Sò Rose, a direct ancestor of Gaëlle’s, was the free colored woman, the wealthy affranchie, who’d founded the town after Pauline Bonaparte had left. Sò Rose herself had been named by her slave mother and French father after Sainte Rose de Lima, the patroness of the southern region.
Gaëlle wanted to tell her husband that, whether their child was dead or alive, maimed or perfect, she would always love her. She loved that this child would connect them through time and that she would be born during their very first year of marriage. She wanted him to know that she couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from this Rose sooner thanshe had to. Instead she said, “It’s a good name. Rose is a good name.”
“Common, though,” he said. “She’ll share it with so many. And then there’s history.”
“A saint, a heroine, and a town. There’s no shame in a name like that,” she said. “She will carry it fine. It’s a good name.”
Under normal circumstances, choosing a name—especially the name of their first child—would have been a glorious task, an occasion for those pleasant types of arguments that families discussed for years. He wanted this name, you often hear mothers say, and I wanted another. I won, or we compromised. But her husband wanted no name in this case. Whatever she’d proposed would have been okay with him, because he was convinced, just as the doctor was, that the child would not live even an hour, much less a day.
“Don’t stay out too long tonight,” she said, covering his hands with hers on her lap.
“You’re not coming to the shop?” he asked.
“Non,” she said.
She had been feeling some cramping in her lower back and down her legs, which had intensified since she’d sat down in the car. The baby was using her head to pound against Gaëlle’s lungs and spine, and it didn’t seem as though she’d stop anytime soon. At least she was still moving, Gaëlle thought.
“Should we call the doctor?” he asked.
“Not yet,” she said.
“Certain?”
“It’s not so bad,” she said, and he seemed to believe her.
“Are you going to the radio station after closing?” she asked.
“Tomorrow is payroll,” he said. “They’re expecting me.”
“Why don’t you have someone bring them the money?” she asked.
“I won’t stay long,” he said, then kissed the side of her neck. It had thickened and grown darker as her due date approached, and part of her was eager to see it return to normal again: long and thin with a slight dusting of talcum powder.
She pressed her head against his so that his face could remain buried in her neck awhile longer.
“I have to go now if I’m coming home early,” he said, and turned away.
She opened the door and stepped out of the car. He got out and rushed to the other side, helping her to land on her feet, as the baby weight pulled her forward. She was grateful to remain upright as, after she repeatedly turned down his offer to walk her back into the house, she watched her husband get in the car and drive away. Standing there, watching him disappear behind the almond trees, she felt the muscles in her back tighten. She took slow, careful steps toward the house, then crawled into bed. She fell into a deep, exhausted sleep that was not even disrupted by Inès’s occasional rumbling forays into the room to make sure she was all right.
• • •
When Gaëlle woke up, it was midafternoon and the pain in her body was gone, so she decided to go for a walk. A mound of stones had been brought down by a recent mudslide, turning the brook a deep brown. Some of the almond trees had prematurely shed their fruits and in many places her path was blocked by large branches.
Gaëlle stood on the edge of the brook and tried to imagine it filled, as it had been in better days, with crystalline water, rippling over the rocks. She imagined her husband and herself as teenagers,
Similar Books
