Thias, I heard myself murmur, lazy contentment ripe in my voice; no one other than me called him that particular nickname. Thunder grumbled in the distance, a muted sound only slightly louder than the steady rain at our bedroom window. Insulated in our cozy bed, I slipped one leg between both of his and he smoothed his warm, broad palm along my thigh, bare beneath the old maternity t-shirt I wore. On that rainy November twilight our newest son was only two weeks old.
This is what I longed for all my life, Mathias murmured, stroking hair from my forehead. His voice was husky with sweetness and love. My woman, our babies. Honey, I love you so much that my heart almost hurts. He grinned before whispering, I need a kiss.
Come here, I murmured in response, reaching to cup my hand around the back of his head. He leaned over our nursing son, with great care, and our mouths met with a soft suckling sound. I opened my lips and he swirled his tongue in voluptuous circles, tasting me from the inside out.
Lingering close, he whispered, This is my dream, honey. This is it, right here, right now. Thank you for that.
Mine too, love. You made it come true.
Just below our faces, the baby detached from my nipple with a soft popping sound and Mathias smiled, leaning to kiss his downy forehead.
He smells so good, he whispered. You think I’d be used to it by now, their sweet baby smell. But it gets me every time.
We lay in our room tinted by the ashy light of a stormy evening, kissing softly, snuggling James between us, while rain continued to streak the windowpane. When a wall-rattling burst of thunder exploded above our cabin we both startled, then laughed as James’s blue eyes sprang wide; immediately he let loose with the chuffing, breathy cries so common to newborns. Seconds later we heard the sudden thumping of little feet down the hallway.
Mathias grinned. Brace yourself, honey. Incoming!
Brantley was the first to bolt into our room, hooking his elbows on the mattress and diving for his father’s chest, where he was cuddled instantly close. Henry was on his brother’s heels, leaping from the end of the bed. I cautioned, Careful, sweetheart, as Henry crawled toward me, intent on claiming the spot that James had, out of necessity, overtaken.
C’mere, little one, Mama’s nursing the baby, Mathias said, and I heard the amusement in his voice as he caught Henry around the torso and hauled him close, one twin curled in each arm. He resettled the boys against his powerful chest. Now we just have to wait for the girls.
Millie Jo isn’t scared, Brantley said, hiding his face against Mathias as the next round of thunder detonated.
Don’t be too sure, I murmured as she appeared in the room a moment later, holding Lorie by the hand. Lorie began fussing, reaching for me with both plump toddler arms; she had been the youngest for the past three years and was struggling to relinquish the role to her newest brother. Millie lifted Lorie to the bed and climbed up after her, elbowing Henry. He whined while Lorie wiggled as close to me as she was able, wishing to reclaim the spot which had recently been all hers.
I cupped my youngest daughter’s head, ruffling her soft curls and staving off her tears, then placed a protective forearm around James, who had latched hold and energetically resumed nursing. Thunder crashed and lightning sizzled blue-white at the windows; the kids all shrieked, simultaneously fighting to get under the covers. Mathias was laughing.
As he did so often, he began to sing one of his favorite songs, feeling this occasion required the John Denver tune about a crowded feather bed. I giggled as he took up the chorus with characteristic gusto. The kids joined in, with merry exuberance, forgetting their fear of the thunderstorm. They knew all the words; Mathias and I had sung to them from birth. There seemed to be about twice as many pointy elbows and knobby knees than actually accounted for. Parenting was all about elbows and knees in your bed. I smiled at my husband, whose lips were pursed as he sang, getting into the song, as always.
Later, after the kids trundled back to their own beds, baby James asleep in his crib no more than arm’s length away, I snuggled happily against Mathias’s chest, curling my fingers through the thick hair there, burying my nose and inhaling. He kissed my temple, rubbing my shoulder blades, whispering sleepily, Good-night, honey.
I latched a thigh over his hip, with utter contentment. I love you, Thias.
I know, he whispered. And it’s what makes every day worth living.
I drove due north, keeping my gaze fixed on the interstate. I did not take the exit ramp which angled west toward Minnetonka, drawing upon every ounce of willpower in my possession. I tried to keep my mind empty but it was a monumentally worthless effort. Memories of our family assaulted like waves against jagged rocks, close enough to touch, to inhale like a drug. I could not conceive of a world in which those years of memories were negated, where my husband and babies had ceased to exist. Of a world in which Mathias was married to someone else, a woman named Suzanne with whom he shared a different family.
To counteract the horror I passed the miles back to Landon reliving the births of all five of my children.
I collected my strength, building small emotional shields in preparation for answering more of Mom’s questions about Ruthann and Blythe.
I cried until my eyes burned, until I could not catch my breath.
I listened to the radio even though I was revolted by what seemed like an otherwise normal day out there in the world. Weather reports, two-minute news bits, mundane announcements of local events. I despised all of it just now, hated it to the very center of my being.
I rolled back through Landon just
