“It’s okay, little man. You’re home now. Daddy just wanted to help you.”
The language barrier made contact difficult. We touched them gently as we spoke to them, in an exaggerated mime, so they could understand the meaning of our words. I had a sudden idea.
“Would you boys like to take a nice bubble bath?”
I took both of them by the hand to follow me upstairs. Gregory suggested he would make dinner in the meantime. We slowly climbed the stairs. I mimicked their steps, setting both feet on each stair. Jules snaked through our legs and waited for us at the top. “He’s a naughty kitty, isn’t he?”
The hint of a smile lit up their faces. I realized Jules was my key to winning them over. I thought briefly of the interview with Giselle, where I’d made the foolish mistake of suggesting we’d get rid of him. Poor Jules.
“Come on, boys. The bathroom is right here. You can help me run the bath.” I placed my hand over Vanya’s so he could help me turn the taps. Then I did the same with Daniil to pour the soap into the stream of water. The bathroom was soon filled with the smell of orange blossom and Mustela soap. Once I had adjusted the water temperature, I gently dipped them into the water one at a time. They acquiesced without a peep. As I soaped them, I got to tenderly discover their delicate bodies. Their skin was amazingly pale; not a single birthmark or freckle marred its perfect texture. In comparison with their unblemished flesh, my own skin seemed well-worn. I handled them like fragile, precious objects that at any moment could break apart.
I let them play in the water for a good half hour. They were perfectly calm and didn’t splash at all. The hospital had warned us their behaviour might still be altered by their withdrawal over the next few weeks, and stressed that they might be irritable or angry. For the moment, they seemed timid and reserved, but I was ready for anything. One after the other, I dried them with a fluffy towel and warmed them against my chest. Their thick hair brushed against my face as I inhaled their fragrance. I didn’t care for their military-style haircuts and vowed to let their beautiful blond hair grow out.
It took me several weeks before I would accept visitors. I suspected an unbearable voyeurism in the desire to meet the twins. But Gregory insisted.
Since the babies had arrived, I had gradually been increasing my safety perimetre around the house. For a while, the prolonged winter gave me a pretext for staying indoors. In the first weeks, I was overwhelmed with panic whenever I would go more than a kilometre from the house. I was afraid the babies would cry, afraid they’d get sick, afraid they’d throw a fit. I was constantly thinking back to the plane ride. I was terrified of reliving those moments, even though, for the time being, they were adapting well. At home, safe from prying eyes, I felt better. Gregory went back to work right away and fell back into his routine. He was impatient for me to bring the babies by the office to introduce them to our colleagues, a prospect that didn’t excite me at all.
On Gregory’s recommendation, I started by inviting Magalie over. Her son was now three, and he could become a good friend for the boys, but I was deeply apprehensive about this playdate. I hadn’t officially introduced them to anyone. Our respective parents were supposed to be come and meet them, but they didn’t seem to be in any more of a hurry about it than I was. Moreover, they all lived far away, which gave everyone a good excuse. I wondered if they’d have been more insistent if the twins were their biological grandchildren. My mother took the loss of my baby very hard and often asked when I would try again to get pregnant. When she understood that I didn’t want to try again, she resumed her life. We sent photos regularly and talked on the phone. That was enough.
The morning of our playdate, I left the babies in just their diapers so that they wouldn’t soil their clothes, dressing them at the last minute. I hesitated at the dresser for a long time before finally choosing two little sailor outfits. Magalie was scheduled to come over before their nap; the twins were easiest in the morning.
When I opened the door, Magalie stood in the middle of a mess of bags, in the midst of which was her son, Trevor. She had brought gifts for me, but also a number of items she no longer needed. I grinned fixedly as I watched her drag the clutter into the front hall. Sitting against the armchair in the living room, the twins watched this intrusion with a patient curiosity.
“They’re beautiful!” she said.
She seemed surprised. What had she been imagining?
“It’s crazy, they look like you—same light eyes, same hair, same skin tone…”
She had intended it as a compliment. But beneath the innocence of the remark, I could sense all her prejudices. Because my children were blond like me, it was a perfect deception. I had nothing to worry about, no one would be the wiser. I looked like their real mother, was that it? I suddenly hated her.
She moved toward them with such exaggerated playfulness that Vanya, frightened, kicked a foot in the air.
“You’ll have to sign him up for tae kwon do,” she tried to joke.
Magalie’s husband was Korean. They lived in a semi-detached house north of Bloor Street in Little Korea. Trevor had inherited his father’s eyes and his mother’s light brown hair. Today, he was
