All Good Children Read online

  “Teenage rebellion is taboo,” I say.

  Her smile widens but she doesn’t show her teeth all the way and she doesn’t laugh. I bet her laugh—her real, spontaneous laugh—is exactly like her voice, melodic and hymn-like, overly-rounded vowels and languid consonants.

  “Where are you from?” I ask.

  She stops smiling. “Is that important?”

  “You have an accent,” I say. Stupid. Duh, she knows that. “It’s not British exactly, and it can’t be Australian….”

  Her fingers brush at a strand of hair that’s fallen across her forehead. She doesn’t tuck it behind her ear and it falls back across it again. “No, no,” she says. “It’s South African.”

  “Oh.”

  Outside, the bull bleats out a mating call or a call of warning, who knows which, and the chickens cluck in response. They must be at the side of the house if I can hear them from here; Mom will be furious with Dad for not penning the chickens and gating the cattle.

  “What do you want to be?” she asks, breaking the silence with her subject change.

  I would bite my tongue but I’m not causing myself pain over this ridiculous hoop show, so I shove the remaining cookie into my mouth instead.

  She bends her arm over the clipboard. Her pen seems a little more eager now. “Hopes, dreams, aspirations? What do you want to do with your life? I’ll wait until you’ve swallowed.”

  I chew as slowly as I can but as soon as the crumbs turn to mush turn to near liquid I have no choice but to swallow, or spit it out I guess but I’ve already gotten dirt from my shoes on the bed, no need to add to the stains.

  Miss Omalis taps the pen against the clasp of her clipboard. She’s on the verge of uncrossing and re-crossing her legs, and she’s not taking her eyes off of me. I can’t believe she is really asking me this, especially after what she’s revealed, considering what she’s…. Oh, fuck it, just say it.

  “Is this what you always wanted to be?” I ask.

  Her eyes don’t leave mine and she doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes. What do you want to be?”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You don’t have to believe me. What do you want to be?”

  “Which answer keeps me out of the Summer Program?”

  She exhales, part gasp, part exaggerated sigh, and presses her thumb into the center of her forehead, closing her eyes. The tendon in her wrist tenses, stretching the skin, making the vein pulse. If she were wearing my bracelet, the beads would rattle against each other.

  After a moment with her eyes closed, she opens them and slides her pen into the clasp of the clipboard. Twisting over the arm of the chair, she gathers up her briefcase and returns the clipboard to it, snapping it closed with an ominous finality.

  She stands up. “Jordan.”

  If I were a poet, I could maybe say what emotions play across her face, what an eyebrow twitch means or how many moons are set free by the undulation of her pupils, the crinkles in her chin.

  “Nothing can keep you out of the Program,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

  I lie there and stare at the ceiling, listening to her footsteps recede down the stairs. I think about her with my brothers, going through the motions, jumping through the hoops, recording expected answers in appropriately marked boxes. They’ll lie to her, and she’ll lie to them, but she didn’t lie to me. She didn’t lie to me.

  For some reason, that matters.

  TWO

  JUNE

  IF YOU ASKED ME TODAY, I would tell you I hate my job. Career, Jay would correct me, but some days it is very difficult to look at it that way. A career is something you are stuck in—have the opportunity to advance in, oh, be quiet Jay. A career is a choice of a path that you will follow for the majority of your years, however tenuous a grasp you have on that time frame, and suppose you discover halfway down the path that you want to do something else, or simply do not want to continue doing what you’re doing. It’s just plain too late; you have to double-back, you might as well just continue on. See? Stuck.

  A job, you can change. Jobs are fluid, they pass through people and people pass through them. Quitting carries much less stigma when applied to a job than to a career, and there is less self-loathing, of course. That small thing.

  Today, I would tell you I hate my job. (I hate my job.) But I cannot quit my job, and I never intend to, but I still won’t call it my career, because that would imply that it is something I had a hand in choosing.

  It feels like hypocrisy, that’s the thing, and after thirteen years it becomes increasingly impossible to ignore. But you still have to do it, you still have to trudge along down that path, because you’re not walking alone anymore, and that’s the scariest thing of all, the thing that keeps you up at night, the thing that makes you embrace your hypocrisy and your guilt and your self-hate and get on with it.

  I have three children, and all of them are still asleep as the sun comes up and I’m washing placenta off my hands. I’ve been awake for close to twenty-four hours, on the job for eighteen, and my feet don’t even ache anymore, that’s how tired I am. I can go home in twenty minutes, if I make it out of the door before my name is screeched out over the hospital’s PA. I can take a quick shower and steal a kiss from Jay before he starts the back-spraining work of preparing the heavy equipment for baling season. I can put on a pot of coffee and watch my children sleep for a few precious minutes before I wake them up and the shouted bickering kicks off another glorious Friday morning. I can’t think beyond the next hour, and I don’t have to, not right now, because right now, I have one more thing to take care of, one more thing to hate.

  Mr. and Mrs. Elliot came into the emergency room at a quarter past midnight, him with his wife cradled in his arms, her overnight bag slapping heavily against his back. He was crying, she was laughing, and once we got a room set up for them, he joined her laughter, her joy, and proceeded to regale every nurse that strolled within six feet of the room with the story of his unnecessary yet charming heroics (she was only two centimeters dilated and her contractions were mild). They were having triplets, which surprised me until Mrs. Elliot explained that she’d miscarried when they’d tried the fertility drugs so they decided to gamble on nature. She didn’t want any pain meds, but when the contractions worsened, she changed her mind.

  The birth itself took four hours. The first one came with unsettling ease, two hard pushes and he was in my arms, but the second refused to follow her brother’s example. When she did come, the umbilical cord was tangled around her neck and we had to work fast to cut it and clear her airway. By this time, Mrs. Elliot was exhausted and scared, but her husband held her hand and talked her through. That’s when she started pushing out more blood than baby, and we discovered our third girl was breech and had to do an emergency caesarean section. It took its toll on the mother but her daughter came out just as small and loud and perfect as her siblings.

  And that, all of that, suffering so bravely through that pain and that fear, won’t spare them from what I have to do now.

  She’s in recovery, where she’ll spend the morning just in case. Her husband is in their private hospital room, getting her oral-hygiene things from her overnight bag. Their babies are one floor below us in the nursery, crying at the sharp taste of oxygen and sting of the fluorescent lights. And I am standing at the sink, drying my hands, and trying to will my legs to move so I can meet the Liaison who’s waiting for me in the hall.

  He’s worked on the maternity wing of this hospital almost as long as I have, ten years. He started here when we still referred to the wing as a “ward,” until someone in the position to do so decided that “wing” had fewer negative connotations and changed the term. Personally, I thought ward was fitting, if not for my patients then certainly for me.

  His name is Kevin Daniels and I only speak to him when I have to, which is more often than I like to dwell on. I’ve spoken to him twice since I started my shift, but he came in six hours after me. I spoke to his prede
cessor, Alice Richter, once before he got here. Did I say I did not like to dwell on the numbers? Well, it’s still true.

  In the hall, I don’t greet him, I never do. We’re supposed to be polite to the hospital Liaisons but I think a curt indifference suffices. He has stony blue eyes and long blond hair that he keeps neatly tied in a ponytail, no facial hair, though I suspect on the weekends he allows it to grow out. There are deep creases in his forehead but no lines in his double-breasted dark gray suit, and I would place him at about thirty-two, maybe thirty-four, nine years younger than me at least. He always smiles and nods when I come out but he respects my decision not to shake his hand or exchange pleasantries.

  We walk down the hall together, he two steps behind me, arms clasped behind his back, polished shoes clinking against the freshly waxed linoleum. Every step is a struggle for me, every square tile I pass over is a mountain and I’m always afraid I’ll fall coming down the other side. This part has always been hard but it’s always been necessary, and it’s only gotten worse since Monday, since that Liaison was in my home, invited in, yielded to, led directly to my children as directly as I lead this one now, and catered to almost as easily. Almost.

  It’s only because I’ve been doing this for thirteen years that I am able to keep doing it, to keep leading someone down the halls to the rooms of my patients, to turn the knobs and let them in, walk them to the sides of the bed, to the parents still in awe of what they’ve just created, introduce them, watch the parents’ faces crack and break, and explain the process in an emotionless voice that scares me, wearing a vacant expression that haunts my dreams and carries me on the edges of a scream to waking.

  We catch them laughing as we come in, but this stops abruptly when they turn to watch us walk through the door. In my experience, smiling doesn’t help, hesitating only hurts.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Elliot,” I say, in that voice that isn’t mine. “This is Kevin Daniels. It’s time to make your decision.”

  With the experienced parents, this pill never sits well but it does go down smoother, without all that denial to block the way.

  “Are you…. You’re not serious?” the husband asks, his voice small and his eyes darting between Kevin Daniels and me. It’s hard to look at his face but I make myself look. I always make myself look.

  “I am serious,” I say. “Mr. Daniels will approve your selection and we’ll begin the process immediately. Once placement is set, you’ll be allowed to know which program—”

  My words are cut off by a deep, strangled noise spreading up and out of the wife’s throat like a storm siren. She clings to her husband, and his face grows red.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he says, his voice angry and demanding but it’s still a plea. “You can’t do this.”

  This is when I step back, literally, and let Kevin Daniels force the reality upon them. It’s supposed to be easier when the news comes from their doctor, the person they’ve been with through the whole thing, eight months of uncertainty and doubt, the person they trusted to get them, and their babies, through this. But it never works like that. I start, and the Liaison finishes, and we spin around in this sick dance I wish I’d never been invited to.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Elliot,” he begins in a rational tone. I look at his ponytail and dig my fingernails into my palm. “This was all explained to you during your first appointment with Doctor Fontaine. We had your full compliance then and we expect your full compliance now. I understand how difficult this must be for you, but you must realize that we absolutely cannot make any exceptions regarding this matter. If it would help move this process along, you can waive your selection and we’ll choose for you….”

  “Evil,” Mrs. Elliot mutters into her husband’s shoulder, so low and muffled but I hear it. Then she turns her head and looks directly at Daniels. “This is evil,” she whispers harshly, and her eyes flick over to mine. “You are evil.” I can’t help but flinch.

  In the end, they have no choice, and they waive their selection, as most of them do. We leave them to comfort each other and go down to the nursery, the Liaison still two steps behind me. I suppose this is a tactical maneuver, designed to make me feel as though I am in control, as though I have any amount of power. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to leave himself vulnerable with his back to me.

  In the nursery, he looks over the triplets, finally settling on the boy.

  “This one?” he asks, bending to pick him up. He was sleeping, but he wakes upon the Liaison’s touch and begins to cry, loudly, achingly, prophetically.

  I don’t know if Daniels expected an answer from me but I don’t give him one. I’ve spoken with him too much today.

  The Elliots’ chart is on the wall and I go to it.

  “It’ll probably be the Feed Program,” he says. “But we’ll contact you if this changes.”

  I nod absently. I checked the box before he even spoke.

  AT HOME, THE CHAOS HAS already begun.

  I haven’t even cut the engine before Jordan comes tearing out the front door, followed seconds later by Jason, who’s waving a doubled-up belt in his hand above his head like a crazed cattle driver. I undo my seatbelt as I watch Jordan vault over the porch railing and sprint around the far side of the house, those lithe and muscular legs making it look easy, making Jason curse and go around red-faced to the stairs which he hops down in a fury.

  I pound my fist into the center of the steering wheel and the Civic’s mild horn bleats loud enough to stop Jason in his tracks.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I scream at him as I climb out of the car and slam the door behind me.

  His mouth goes from startled oval to flapping lips as he searches for a believable excuse, finally settling on a resigned scowl as he howls, “Jesus, Mom, you let her get away with everything.”

  Less than two minutes home, haven’t even kicked off my shoes yet, and I’m already Public Enemy Number One. The exhausting thing is that this is not a new record.

  “Give me the belt, Jason,” I demand, holding my hand out for it.

  He looks at my hand in disgust and heaves the heavy sigh of the beleaguered teenager. He slaps the belt into my palm, not hard enough to leave a welt but hard enough to have been purposeful, and throws his hands in the air.

  “You always take her side. Just ’cause she’s a girl, I swear to god!”

  “Jason, I just got home, I haven’t taken anyone’s side.”

  Zero to eye-roll in point-six seconds. “Whatever.”

  Jason has his father’s build, which is a blessing considering the wispy men that hang limply from my family tree. Broad shoulders and barrel chest pushing out against the seams of his plain white t-shirt, standing a good three inches taller than his five-nine father, large enough to be intimidating but his face still retains its innocently rounded youth. If only he would shave more often I might be able to maintain some control over him, but his rough beard started to darken his chin two years ago and he became his father’s charge. It seems all I can do for him now is provide a scapegoat.

  He stomps back up the porch steps, mumbling a string of things I’m sure I’m better off not hearing.

  “Just go inside and get dressed,” I call after him. The front door slams in response. It’s my turn to sigh.

  The sun is just beginning to peek over the prickly tops of the small spattering of pine trees that grow to the east of the house. Its early-morning glow paints the cloudless sky a hazy orange-pink. Dew drips from the long grass in the yard, and the air feels wet, heavy. I can hear the slight, tentative calls of our cattle in the fields, testing out the day. We have a rooster but he’s shy. I finger Jason’s belt in my hand and stand there, breathing in the morning.

  I think about going after Jordan. She doesn’t know that I know about her secret hiding place—the loft in the hay barn—and I’m sure that’s where she’s run to now, but I am also sure it would only upset her to be found. She wouldn’t yell at me outright like Jason does, but she would look at me, her
brow curved sharply to the bridge of her nose, the left corner of her mouth sloped downward, her light hazel eyes grown dark with disappointment. She is the only person I know who can pierce me with such guilt from one single look, guilt over trying to protect her. I can’t stand that look.

  One more deep breath, then I mount the stairs two at a time. I shake off my jacket in the foyer and hang it in the closet. Overhead, I hear the shower running, and think it must be Jeremy. Jay is a nighttime bather; it used to be one of our evening rituals, when I was home.

  Jason is in the kitchen, cracking fresh eggs directly into the skillet and tossing the brown shells in the direction of the garbage can, falling about three inches short with each toss.

  I set his belt and my purse on the kitchen table. “Jason.”

  I don’t even have to finish (or, really, start) my sentence, that’s how attuned he is to my tone of voice. It just must scream nag directly into his ear canal and he jumps to cut it off. With an even heavier sigh than the one he graced me with outside, he goes across the room to the garbage can and stoops to pick up his mess.

  “Thank you,” I say. I rub my eyes hard with one hand, trying to push out the exhaustion that has crept in at the thought of saying what I’m going to say next. It’s a struggle not to sigh myself. “You want to tell me what just happened here?”

  He’s back at the skillet, sprinkling in some diced onions and shifting everything around with the black plastic spatula. He shrugs.

  “You were clearly fighting about something,” I try again.

  “Don’t worry about it, Mom,” he says. “She’s just a brat.”

  “Well, what did she do?”

  Another shrug. He turns down the flame on the gas stove and comes over to the table to grab his plate. I touch his arm and he practically recoils.

  “Jason, honey, you said you didn’t want me choosing sides, and I’m trying not to. But it’s hard not to be biased when the first thing you see upon pulling into the driveway is your son threatening your daughter with his leather belt.”