Trevor made a move toward the boys, and Vanya responded by clawing the air.
“Careful, honey!” said Magalie, petrified, as if my son was a wild beast.
“It’s okay,” I said defensively. “He didn’t even touch him.”
There was a sense of discomfort in the room that the cake we shared next couldn’t allay. We tried talking as we normally did, but nothing was like before—or was I the only one who felt the difference? When I’d lost the baby, Trevor was just over a year old. When we would see each other, Magalie almost never brought him, out of sensitivity perhaps, or to ensure he didn’t interrupt our conversations. I realized I hadn’t seen her very often in her role as a mother, and I had just been thrust into my own with children who were no longer infants, yet I was expected to already know them. Magalie moved confidently, clearly had a routine, spoke to her son—who responded. So many little details showed that she was his mother. Meanwhile, my boys didn’t look at me when I spoke, and didn’t understand simple instructions, which made me look awkward. The juxtaposition was unbearable.
Before she left, Magalie wanted to go over how to use the items she’d brought me. I had to hide my disdain for her bargain, Disney-coloured hand-me-downs. Did she really understand me so little? Didn’t she see that they didn’t belong in my home? I thanked her as politely as I could and we hugged, promising to see each other soon.
As I closed the door, I laughed, picturing Gregory’s reaction to this stuff. Our house was decorated with a rigorous consistency that had been acclaimed by a number of Toronto magazines. I considered sardonically that Magalie’s shabby gifts might put the brakes on my husband’s desire for socializing and I might just get a little peace.
We decided right away to extend my maternity leave until the boys started school. The firm easily replaced me; there was no shortage of design interns in Toronto. I was still a partner as far as research went, and my office was waiting for me. Gregory promised that it was just a matter of time. He wanted me to stay at home with the children. He thought it was for the best, considering the circumstances. His argument was circular; he refused to place the boys in a traditional daycare structure. It would be like sending them back to the orphanage. He trusted no one, not even me.
And so I reorganized my life around them. I didn’t really miss work, and had so many new preoccupations that I wasn’t sure I’d have been able to focus on my clients’ projects. Renovating a bathroom or organizing a wardrobe now seemed meaningless to me when compared with my sons’ language instruction and social integration and establishing trust between us. In the past few months, they had become less timid, but still had trouble expressing themselves, which frustrated them. They were easily angered and impossible to console. When one of them was angry, it was his brother he turned to, never me. They often clung to each other, curled up together in the corners. At first, I found this cute, but over time, the gesture struck me as a brazen rejection.
The more time passed, the more it seemed to me that they understood what I was saying, but refused to listen. I even went so far as to translate a few words of Russian to be sure they were making the connection. “No/he”, “come/просто,” “there/tam,” “here/здесь.” It wasn’t too complicated, but they pretended not to hear.
Every day was a steady stream of activities. The boys always woke early, around five-thirty. I tried to make them play quietly until Gregory woke up around seven. We ate breakfast together, and then, when Gregory left for work, I would spend a few hours at the neighbouring school’s park to let them frolic before the other children arrived. Spring came, and while it was still grey outside, we could play for a little longer outside each day.
The days passed identically. I sat in the sandbox, making castles they wasted no time in stomping. When they ignored the reassuring hand I offered to them as they climbed a ladder or slid down the slide, I didn’t let it bother me. Instead, I admired their courage and independence.
When the park filled up, we had to leave. The presence of other children overexcited them and they didn’t know how to interact. They pushed, punched, and threw sand in order to get attention. I wondered if it was this kind of behaviour that the orphanage had tried to counteract with the alcohol. The other mothers seemed concerned when we were there. I hated them all.
The backyard then became our refuge. From the kitchen window, Jules, who was not allowed outdoors, oversaw our games. I sang them songs, threw the ball, created obstacle courses for them to run. I did everything I could to channel their energy. Inside the house, the twins misappropriated every toy within reach: cars became projectiles, building blocks were hurled against the walls, books torn, crayons devoured. Violence was part of the routine, but their conflicts particularly affected me. As an only child, I had a hard time understanding their aggression, never having fought with anyone at all. Gregory assured me it was normal for boys to play rough and reminded me that he and his brother used to fight all the time.
But I wasn’t going to stop trying to break their violent habits. I devoted extra attention to their diet, and forbade them artificial colouring, gluten, sugar substitutes, and most processed foods that might lead to behavioural issues. I spent my evenings preparing special meals just for them.
Gregory would return from work
