As the morning went on, we quickly learned to tell the boys apart. Daniil was fair skinned, his eyebrows and eyelashes so pale they were practically invisible. With a wet pout, Vanya observed the world inquisitively. While more frail than his brother, he was also more mobile. After heading off on his hands and knees, he took a few steps back towards us. One of his feet turned inward; he didn’t so much limp as hop from one foot to the other.
The babies eventually let us pick them up. I pulled my hair back in a loose chignon, a natural gesture to keep it out of the way. Soft and plump, Daniil smelled like damp biscuits. When I brought my face close to his, I noticed a scar starting at his brow bone. It must have been a serious wound, as there were stripes still visible on his forehead, even though you could see it had healed. I stroked it with my finger, as if to erase it. Vanya was more fragile. His little joints were bony. He exuded a lemony, vegetable scent. I inhaled the hollow of their necks for a long time. I didn’t know what else to do other than cuddle them. It was hard to get their attention and they didn’t want to play. They didn’t understand French, and we didn’t speak Russian. We had to appreciate just being there with them.
Gregory’s beard intrigued Daniil; he reached out his hand and touched it with his fingertip, which made Gregory laugh. Holding each of them in turn, he patted the contours of their bodies, trying to resist squeezing them too hard. They had muscular calves and straight shoulders. They were big, healthy boys. Gregory was visibly filled with an immense pride and was already in love with them.
When I got out my phone to take some photos, an employee rushed to let me know it was forbidden. She didn’t speak French, but her abrupt tone was unequivocal.
The director appeared again to let us know it was time to leave. We had a very hard time separating ourselves from the babies, even though they showed no emotion as they watched us retreat. I kissed them each on the forehead, whispering, “Mommy will be right back. Mommy will get you out of this place.”
Vonda walked so fast we nearly had to run to keep up with her. She hadn’t authorized us to stay for lunch. She didn’t think the bag I’d handed her would be useful, and told me to bring it the next day for their discharge. When we asked her for more details, she shrugged and replied that releasing the children was simply a formality.
Pushed to the exit, we found ourselves once again on the street a few moments later, before I could understand what was happening. I looked back as the door closed behind us, stripping me of my children. The feeling of being ejected and evacuated from my own life reawakened all my buried anguish.
They put me on an operating table, in case there were complications with the delivery. Two nurses and a doctor busied themselves around me. They had been with me all day, but I didn’t want to remember their names or faces. They were vague shadows I refused to identify. I looked only at Gregory so as not to see their movements. A furrow split his brow. He squeezed my hand between his.
Instruments clicked on metal trays. Nurses forcefully massaged my stomach and their hands rummaged inside me. My name echoed throughout the room, but I was unable to respond. They were emptying me out. The epidural had numbed me, so I only experienced the pressure, the agitation. The smell of iodine caught in my throat. I felt a final suction and then my feet were soaking wet. I let go of Gregory’s hand. My fingers scrambled over my forehead, my eyes, my mouth; I was drowning.
Gregory wept into my hair.
A nurse wrapped the baby in a blanket and handed it to me sadly. She paused. Her voice was soft. She guided my movements for me to take it. My body convulsed with sobs and contractions. I was afraid I would drop it, my hands were shaking so badly. His face was waxy, his stunted limbs glistened. His delicate skin seemed to contain water rather than organs. I wasn’t ready to see him this way. I looked at him, my eyes clouded with tears, the poor little bundle in the crook of my elbow. His bottom was pointed, protruding under the blanket; no one had bothered to diaper him. I rocked him, saying his name over and over, my mouth distorted.
An aroma of uncooked bread dough, of yeast, rose from him. I plunged my nose into his neck. I wanted to lick him, to absorb him, but they were already taking him away.
My son was going to have an autopsy.
I howled, clinging to Gregory’s neck, digging my nails into his back, drenching him with tears and snot. A horrible migraine was swelling in my skull, making me dizzy with pain. The walls shifted before my eyes.
Curled up in the sterile bed, I didn’t sit up when a nurse came in, harshly announcing herself. She pressed the electric bed’s control button. A few palpations assured her my uterus had regained a normal shape. Under the hospital gown, I could feel my sagging belly, swollen as if it still carried a baby. I turned my head to bury my face again in the pillow.
I didn’t know where Gregory was.
