possible.
Arden’s surrounded by love. She’s floating in it.
All night, I watched the machines in my daughter’s room pump and drip and measure and squeeze; I stared at the shadows of the rise and fall of her body, and finally when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I dragged my chair closer, lowered the molded plastic railing, and laid my forehead on the mattress beside her. This is as close as I can get to actually holding her.
Liz had called first thing this morning. I’m so sorry. I know you’re busy, but do you want me to open the restaurant tonight? I’d had to stop and think. What day is it? Saturday, our biggest night. But beyond scraping up this basic fact, my mind wouldn’t work. I couldn’t think. I don’t know, I’d told her . If you think you can handle it, go ahead. Her answering hesitation had thrummed over the line.
“I think you should move her to D.C.,” my mom says. “The hospitals here are excellent.”
“I talked to Christine.” The prevalence of twins in our family led my sister to focus on what happens when twins don’t separate in utero. When I found out I was pregnant with twins, Christine insisted I get an ultrasound. We all held our breath until she’d read it and confirmed the boys were okay. “She says it’s too risky to move Arden right now.” Christine had gotten on the phone with Dr. Morris and reported back that she was fucking awesome, and Arden and Rory were in excellent hands. If Arden’s burns had been more extensive, had covered thirty percent of her body, Christine said she might have suggested otherwise. What’s thirty percent? An arm and a leg? A torso? “She says to keep Arden here.”
“All right. If Christine says so. When is she getting here?”
“She has that operation, remember?” I told Christine that there was no point in her coming now, and she made me promise to keep her in the loop. I told her I’d keep her so much in the loop she’d feel strangled, and she’d let out her breath. “I told her to wait until it was over. It’s not like being here would change anything.”
“She could give you moral support.”
“She is. Plus I have you and Theo.”
Mom sighs. “How’s Rory? Is she any better?”
“She’s about to go into surgery. They’re fixing her leg.”
“What about Vince and Gabrielle? How are they doing?” She stumbles over Gabrielle’s name. Mom’s never mastered the French pronunciation. Such a pretty girl, she’d murmured, meeting Gabrielle at my wedding all those years ago. Mom had gotten tipsy, and her eyes were moist. She’d patted my cheek, whispered, You picked the right brother. As if there had been calculation on my part. Mom hadn’t been certain I was doing the right thing marrying Theo. She’d worried I was only acting on rebound.
It’s not as if Vince and I had broken up. We’d never even dated. But the night before he’d left for France twenty years ago, Vince had murmured in my ear, surprising me. Come with me . We’ll get married, master puff pastry together. I’d leaned away and stared at him. Just think about it, he’d urged.
But he didn’t repeat the offer when he sobered up. So I stayed home, and two weeks later, his older brother, Theo, walked into the restaurant where I was sous chef. After the initial shock of familiarity—Theo and Vince looked so much alike; their voices had the same timbre and resonance; they squared their shoulders the same way and tilted their heads to the right when they were thinking something through—I began to tease out the deeper and more meaningful differences between them.
Vince was restless, always looking for the next adrenaline rush. Theo was calm and purposeful. He looked at me; he listened. He made me laugh. With Vince I felt that I was always auditioning for his admiration, but with Theo I could just be the real, flawed me: impulsive, impatient, sometimes irritable. He carved out this warm, lovely space where I felt safe, where I felt found,
Arden’s surrounded by love. She’s floating in it.
All night, I watched the machines in my daughter’s room pump and drip and measure and squeeze; I stared at the shadows of the rise and fall of her body, and finally when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I dragged my chair closer, lowered the molded plastic railing, and laid my forehead on the mattress beside her. This is as close as I can get to actually holding her.
Liz had called first thing this morning. I’m so sorry. I know you’re busy, but do you want me to open the restaurant tonight? I’d had to stop and think. What day is it? Saturday, our biggest night. But beyond scraping up this basic fact, my mind wouldn’t work. I couldn’t think. I don’t know, I’d told her . If you think you can handle it, go ahead. Her answering hesitation had thrummed over the line.
“I think you should move her to D.C.,” my mom says. “The hospitals here are excellent.”
“I talked to Christine.” The prevalence of twins in our family led my sister to focus on what happens when twins don’t separate in utero. When I found out I was pregnant with twins, Christine insisted I get an ultrasound. We all held our breath until she’d read it and confirmed the boys were okay. “She says it’s too risky to move Arden right now.” Christine had gotten on the phone with Dr. Morris and reported back that she was fucking awesome, and Arden and Rory were in excellent hands. If Arden’s burns had been more extensive, had covered thirty percent of her body, Christine said she might have suggested otherwise. What’s thirty percent? An arm and a leg? A torso? “She says to keep Arden here.”
“All right. If Christine says so. When is she getting here?”
“She has that operation, remember?” I told Christine that there was no point in her coming now, and she made me promise to keep her in the loop. I told her I’d keep her so much in the loop she’d feel strangled, and she’d let out her breath. “I told her to wait until it was over. It’s not like being here would change anything.”
“She could give you moral support.”
“She is. Plus I have you and Theo.”
Mom sighs. “How’s Rory? Is she any better?”
“She’s about to go into surgery. They’re fixing her leg.”
“What about Vince and Gabrielle? How are they doing?” She stumbles over Gabrielle’s name. Mom’s never mastered the French pronunciation. Such a pretty girl, she’d murmured, meeting Gabrielle at my wedding all those years ago. Mom had gotten tipsy, and her eyes were moist. She’d patted my cheek, whispered, You picked the right brother. As if there had been calculation on my part. Mom hadn’t been certain I was doing the right thing marrying Theo. She’d worried I was only acting on rebound.
It’s not as if Vince and I had broken up. We’d never even dated. But the night before he’d left for France twenty years ago, Vince had murmured in my ear, surprising me. Come with me . We’ll get married, master puff pastry together. I’d leaned away and stared at him. Just think about it, he’d urged.
But he didn’t repeat the offer when he sobered up. So I stayed home, and two weeks later, his older brother, Theo, walked into the restaurant where I was sous chef. After the initial shock of familiarity—Theo and Vince looked so much alike; their voices had the same timbre and resonance; they squared their shoulders the same way and tilted their heads to the right when they were thinking something through—I began to tease out the deeper and more meaningful differences between them.
Vince was restless, always looking for the next adrenaline rush. Theo was calm and purposeful. He looked at me; he listened. He made me laugh. With Vince I felt that I was always auditioning for his admiration, but with Theo I could just be the real, flawed me: impulsive, impatient, sometimes irritable. He carved out this warm, lovely space where I felt safe, where I felt found,
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