All Good Children Page 9

  WHEN OMALIS WAKES UP THE sun is back out, tanning the backs of the birds who got the first worm and are now singing their good fortune. Marla’s cotton sheets are damp beneath Omalis’s skin and she feels hot, but nice. She opens her eyes to see a blurred outline of her girl drawing open the shades and pulling up the window, letting the cool morning breeze float in and greet her. Omalis’s nipples grow hard. She frowns at Marla, turns onto her stomach and curls up and closes her eyes again.

  “Heaven,” Marla says, and her lips begin to kiss Omalis awake, starting at her shoulder and moving down the length of her back.

  “Get back in,” Omalis says, her voice muffled by speaking into the down pillow.

  Marla obeys, wrapping herself around Omalis, synching their curves, settling heavy and content.

  Their breath is all that fills the room for long minutes. And then Marla whispers, “I love you, baby.”

  Omalis pretends to be asleep.

  FIVE

  JUNE

  WHEN THEY WERE YOUNGER, I never hit my children. I grew up with an iron fist always waiting for me on the right side of wrong and it was something I vowed at the age of twelve never to let myself do to my own future offspring. I can’t lie and say it was easy, say there weren’t days, small moments within days, when I wanted to do it. To raise my hand, just once, snap their father’s belt, just once, and make them listen to me. Stop running through the house with muddy feet, stop pulling each other’s hair, stop screaming, stop breaking the lamps, the flowerpots. Once, I discovered a clutch of chicks in Jeremy’s room where he had made a nest for them on a pile of his good church clothes, and brought hay up for them to lie in. We had to have the whole house fumigated for fleas and other mites, and the stains never did wash out of his trousers and polo shirts. But I kept my hands in my pockets when I confronted Jeremy, all of ten at the time, scrawny as ever, and lonely, I knew. Even though I wanted to take him by his bony shoulders and shake some sense into him, I saw in his eyes that all he wanted was a friend, something to care for, something to talk to. So, instead, I put him in Time-Out.

  That’s where I feel I am now, in Time-Out, except it’s more like Death Row Time-Out, for the hardcore offenders, the ones who can’t be rehabilitated, population: me. In our house, we set a chair in the corner of the dining room, facing the wall, and sat the kids down and set a timer that they could hear sluggishly ticking away behind their backs, for fifteen minutes or twenty, depending on their crime. Often they would shout, throw a tantrum, especially Jordan, until she realized the time didn’t count until her butt was in the seat. Then she took to sitting silently, slumped, like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders, thumping the heels of her feet against the chair’s hard wooden legs until they bruised. That made me feel awful, like I’d caused her that pain, like I’d failed her anyway. But—stop this; it’s all I do now, think about the ways I failed my children. There are so many.

  Here, my Time-Out is self-imposed, in the semi-private bathroom of the nurse’s locker room. No one’s here, I made them leave, not with anything I said but with the look in my eyes, the uncontrolled tangle of my hair, the blood on my pale, bare hands. They rushed out, a few of them half-dressed, to catch up on the gossip, to see what I’d done. One or two have come back since to check in, to try to talk to me. I’ve locked the door to the shower stall and switched on the hot water to drown them out, drown myself out. Now, I’m just sitting here, still in the surgical scrubs I never changed out of, still with the blood caked under my fingernails and growing redder with the hot water that burns into my scalp and skin. I’m just sitting here, counting to sixty, fifteen times.

  IT’S ONLY BEEN A WEEK. That’s the reality, slow and agonizing, but it’s also my husband’s argument, obnoxious and pitying.

  “It’s only been a week, June. You need more time.”

  He’s standing by the sink, letting the water run to fill it up so he can wash the dishes I’ve been ignoring since last Friday. He doesn’t look at me when he talks, choosing instead to stare out the small window, partially fogged from the water’s steam, at a pair of squirrels jostling for a perch on the plastic bird feeder his mother got us for Christmas last year. Done up in an already grease-stained white t-shirt and ripped blue jeans, he’d wanted to spend the day working on the tractor and its various attachments. Instead, he’s snapping on a pair of yellow rubber gloves and having this conversation with me. Again.

  “What am I supposed to do around here, Jay?” I ask him. He shakes his head and takes the ratty sponge, which I’ve been meaning to replace, to a glob of barbeque sauce that’s beginning to sprout its own ecosystem on the bottom of our cast-iron skillet. He scrubs in such a way that answers me, This, June. You’re supposed to be doing this.

  I change my counter-argument to one I’ve used before, one that’s still not been, for me, satisfyingly disputed. “You’ve gone back to work. Same as always. That’s what you want from me, isn’t it? To go about things, same as always?”

  I’m wearing one of the bathrobes Jason cast off once he discovered he had muscles and learned that cotton doesn’t show them off quite as nicely as a simple pair of boxer shorts and a white tank. It still smelled of him four days ago when I put it on; now it only smells of me and the showers I’ve managed not to take in just as long. At the sink, Jay sighs so long and forceful I swear I feel it over here, at the table, feel it ruffling the sleeves of the robe, wafting my own sour scent up to my nose. Well, I think, if he’d let me go back to work, maybe I’d shower.

  I’m about to toss this nugget of compelling information into the debate when he says, “June, of course we can’t just go on pretending everything’s the same. When did I ever say I wanted that? I go on working because I have to; do you want the crops to turn? Or the cattle to run dry? I have to work. You, honey, you just don’t need to; you don’t need to go back to that place, not yet.”

  He’s meticulously rubbing the sponge between prongs on all the forks he can rustle up from the soapy water as he says this. I watch him place them into the drainer without rinsing them and I don’t say anything for maybe a minute. There’s a mug of cold coffee, gone an unearthly beige from six packs of powdered cream, sitting beside my plate of uneaten scrambled eggs and buttered toast. I reach for it and sip it, tepid and sweet, thinking over what Jay’s just said, and what he hasn’t said, the thing he’s most concerned about that he just won’t say, because, to him, it probably goes against our marriage vows to even think it, that I’d be so stupid, so careless.

  Mostly, though, I’m rethinking the thing that I hadn’t said, hadn’t got the chance to say and am glad for it. If you’d let me go back to work. Let me. It occurs to me, now, that I’ve been listening to Jay this past week not because his is the sagest of advice—“Take some time, stay off your feet, let this sink in, don’t rush into anything, rest,” as if I were only sick with the flu, And drink plenty of fluids!—but because he is the only one dispensing it. What might the ladies at the hospital have to say? My coworkers and friends who surely must have guessed by now the reason for my absence? Their opinion as to how much time off is necessary in this situation might just differ from that of my well-meaning but oversensitive husband. And who am I, a medical professional, not to take my own oft-given advice and seek a second opinion?

  Slowly, I get to my feet, and carry the plate of uneaten food and mug of liquid creamer over to the sink. I scrape the food into the trash bin without a word and reach over Jay’s arm to drop the plate in the water. My exposed wrist glances against his forearm, clammy with sweat and dishwater, and, for some reason, I blush. I set the mug of wasted coffee by the drainer, and walk away, more anxious now.

  From behind me, Jay calls, “Where are you going?”

  I don’t stop walking. “To take a shower,” I say.

  IN THE SPACE BETWEEN THE stall door and the tiled floor, my husband’s face appears. I can’t tell how much of myself he is able to see from his crooked angle, but I can see the creases in his
brow, the heavy bags under his eyes, the gray in his fine brown hair.

  “Honey, open the door,” he says, low, like he’s only talking to me. As if a handful of nurses and doctors and orderlies and maybe even the janitor aren’t standing behind him, eager to find out what happens next.

  Margie probably called him; she was the first one to see me, after. Or Doctor Hanson, he was the one who tried to stop me. They are both friends, in the coworker sense, or at least were; who knows, now. I don’t know anything, except that I’m not opening this door, not until this blood comes out.

  “Honey,” Jay says again, pleading. He’s got his arm shoved under the stall door, replacing his face, bent and reaching for the handle that is just out of reach. If he wanted to, he could straighten out that arm and just touch my ankle with the tips of his fingers. And, at this moment, that’s what I want him to do, that’s all I want him to do, just reach out and touch my ankle, the very feather of a touch, nothing more. But he doesn’t. His arm snakes back out through the space and there’s his face again.

  “Look, it’s okay,” he says, pleading again. “What—what is this gonna do, huh? Hiding in here? Just come out, okay Junebug, just come out. Let me…let me hold you, you’ll see. It’ll be okay, it’s okay.”

  It is almost the same spiel he gave Jason when he was five and got the chicken pox, except instead of “let me hold you” it was “let me put the calamine lotion on you, you’ll see, it’ll be okay.”

  I ignore him and go back to my nails, thinking he is right. A little earlier, I’d pried up a piece of cracking tile near the drain and started picking at the drying blood underneath my thumbnail. I’m on my ring finger now, of my left hand, and the blood is running again but I’m pretty sure it’s only mine. The hot water has cooled to warm by now, and I’ve started to shiver in my soaked clothes from the draft shooting in from underneath the stall door.

  For a second, I allow myself to think, What am I doing? But this thought has come at least an hour too late and there’s no point entertaining it now. And then, inexplicably but not entirely unexpectedly, I think about my babies. I wonder, for the millionth time, what they must be doing right now, what they must have been doing this past unbearably long week. This, of course, can’t go on; I can’t let it, especially when details try to push their way in: the brittle texture of the thin mattresses I imagine them lying on, the stifling heat of the rooms they must be crammed into, the overwhelming stench of the gruel they are forced to eat each morning. All in my imagination, thank goodness, and hopefully, certainly, only in my imagination. Because things can’t be as bad as the frightful scenarios that play out behind my closed eyelids, things can’t be that real. But, of course, I can never know how it is for them, can’t even guess, as it has never happened to me.

  But Jay went to the summer camps, more than two decades ago, early in their implementation, when no one quite knew exactly what to expect (or knew, but made themselves believe otherwise). And that is why, when he says everything will be okay, when he tells me in the darkness, as we lie chaste beside each other in our sterile pajamas, not to worry about our children, that they will make it through, that they aren’t in any pain or harm right now, that we can see them soon and see for ourselves that they are fine so close your eyes and go to sleep and just stop worrying your pretty little head—that is why I don’t believe him, and why I get so angry, at his lies, his denial. You can be married to someone for eighteen years, share a bed, their highs and lows, bear their children, bury their loved ones, and never fully know all of their secrets. But you can know that they have them, deep and rooted, hidden even from themselves. You can know their scars, the ones they won’t talk about, the ones that may not be physical but that show all the same—in a look; in the way he tosses in his sleep; how close he holds you when you make love; how long it takes him to take the training wheels off your son’s bike; in the stretching silences; the long hours he spends under the sun, working the fields. And you can know—deep down, rooted, hidden—just how far from okay everything truly is.

  WHEN I GET TO THE hospital, no one asks where I’ve been. Granted, I only pass a handful of nurses on my way to my office, one floor above the delivery rooms—the Hole, we call it, on a bad day—and they only know me peripherally, probably wouldn’t recognize me without my surgical mask on, asking for suction. In my office there is one small window, one small square catching what little light peeks around the corner of the bank’s corporate headquarters next door and tossing it across my desk, onto the letterhead, the appointment book, the framed family photos. It’s not enough to illuminate the entire office, which is no bigger than a moderate walk-in closet, really, but it’s cozy, comfortable, warm…like a womb.

  When I walk in, I go immediately to the desk and flip the photographs onto their faces; I do the same to the ones on the walls, turning them to face the off-white drywall. Then I sit at my desk for a minute or two, trying to decide if I should close the window’s curtains, as I’ve developed a sharp behind-the-eyes headache that might have something to do with the late-morning sunlight bathing my direct line of sight. I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes. From the hallway I hear the soft, seasoned footsteps of nurses shuffling to and from one of the supply closets down the hall, their pleasant laughter, their quiet mumbled conversations. I think, It’s just another day for them. I think, Jay was right; what am I doing here?

  To keep myself from thinking, I open my appointment book and double-check my roster. Someone has blacked out my appointments for the week, assuming my leave of absence would extend into next. It was probably Doctor Hanson, head resident. So, no appointments, no scheduled deliveries. I twiddle my thumbs, I pick at my cuticles. A cloud moves across the sun, shadows move across my desk. I think of my children again, of saying goodbye to them, or, rather, doing everything I could not to say goodbye. I think of Jeremy, how hard it was to get my arms to leave him, to watch him climb into that van after his brother. Jason, so stoic, so much like his father, trying to lead by example, trying to be the rock for the others—and how I was too afraid, even, to touch him one last time, to let him know how much I care about him, too afraid he’d only sigh, or, scarier, tell me he cared, too.

  And then, in the fading shadow crawling across my letter opener, I see Jordan’s face, hard and vulnerable at the same time, looking at me with eyes that aren’t quite experienced enough yet to completely hide her heart. I see her, again, at the van, and I see myself, reaching out to her, wanting, as with Jason, to make something of this moment, not to let her go without knowing, unequivocally, how much I care. But stopping short, failing again, and Jordan’s mouth opening, and that venomous wit, that aching sarcasm, her final words to me, “I pierced my navel.” And how much, once they had driven off, once the dust had settled behind them, I laughed, so full and loud, and Jay walked away from me, slamming the front door, and I knew I should have stopped and followed him in, but I laughed and laughed and didn’t stop until the sun went down.

  Light replaces the shadow. An airplane roars overhead. I cover my mouth, afraid I’ll begin to laugh again. When the phone rings I jump and let out an involuntary yelp.

  “Doctor Fontaine,” I answer.

  “Oh!” comes a surprised voice through the handset. “I didn’t know you were back. I was only going to leave you a voicemail.”

  “Who is this?” The voice is female and deep, rusty, like it hasn’t been used for anything other than to request another pack of cigarettes at the liquor store.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, “this is Penny Baker, I’m the new RN. How are you this morning? Oh, I suppose it’s getting on to afternoon now.”

  The pain behind my eyes throbs anew. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Oh, I was only calling to leave a voicemail. I heard you were on temporary leave. Well anyway, I was just going to leave you a message that your client, Miss Reynolds? She delivered early so you can cross her delivery date out of your books.”

  Quickly, I
flip through my calendar. Reynolds isn’t due until late July. “Jenny,” I say, “She’s five weeks early. What happened? Were there complications? Why didn’t anyone call me?”

  “It’s Penny,” she says, then there’s a pause. I can hear muffled static and faint voices, like she’s placed her hand over the phone and is consulting with someone else, trying to figure out how much to tell me. But I’m not new to this business, as she surely must know; I can guess what has happened, and I know what will happen next. The throbbing in my head moves down to my chest.

  Finally, Nurse Penny gets back on the line. “There were complications, yes.” Another short pause, an intake of breath. “She’s recovering well, though.”

  “Penny,” I say, struggling with the volume of my voice. “What. Happened.”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor Fontaine,” she says in a rush. “Doctor Hanson alerted me to your own personal situation, and he feels that Miss Reynolds’s situation might be slightly—” Then there’s a rustling, more muffled voices. I’m standing now, pacing as far as the phone’s cord will let me, ready to drop the handset and all this bullshit and go down to the nurses station and cause a scene until someone tells me what happened to my patient’s babies.

  Then Doctor Hanson’s voice is in my ear. “Fontaine,” he says. Then, softer, “June. I thought you’d be taking more time off. You are allowed, you know. You’re not the only one who can handle umbilical cords and afterbirth around here.”

  His forced laugh makes me furious. “Tell me about my patient,” I demand. “How many made it? How many, Dan?”

  His pause isn’t long, but it’s revealing. “One,” he says, and I feel as though the pain in my chest has throbbed its way out, broken my ribs as it went, dragging my heart along the shards behind it. “Two were stillborn. One’s in NICU, but it doesn’t look good.”