Nurse Diana, a stout woman she’d guess to be somewhere in her late thirties, marches into the room, authoritative in every action: her walk, her talk, her purpose in life. She’s a natural-born nurse meant to deliver babies.
“See, you’re getting the hang of it! I told you the nurturing instinct kicks in.” A dazzling smile crosses her face as she observes the two young parents. Deborah’s unsure if there’s a paternal bone in Jonathan’s body. “Did we decide on any names?”
Deborah nods her head before Jonathan can speak. “Yeah, I did.” Deborah hates how she sounds: defensive, uptight. Or maybe it seems that way because she’s being oddly assertive, a far cry from her usual soft-spoken demeanor. Jonathan’s eyes are trained on her, waiting to pounce. Typically, she’d defer to him. But pushing not one but two babies out has given her a take-charge attitude, at least while she’s in the hospital, safe from his wrath.
Nurse Diana raises her brow in anticipation, holding tight to her clipboard.
Forging ahead, Deborah says, “Sibley.” Then, bravely, “And Soren.”
“Oh, those are good! I like! Different. New age. Can you spell them for me?” With a chuckle, she adds, “I want to make sure the birth certificate is accurate.”
“S-I-B-L-E-Y.” Deborah expects Jonathan to cut in at any moment. “S-O-R-E-N.”
“Middle names?”
For once, Jonathan doesn’t argue; instead he muses, his eyes fixed on the twins, “I think my mother’s name goes with Soren.”
Deborah gives him this, his dead mother’s moniker, beaming at him. “Sibley Eleanor and Soren Annette,” she says with finality.
Diana clucks her tongue as she clicks her pen. “Last name Sawyer?”
Jonathan firmly nods his head as Deborah clenches her jaw over the name Pearson. They should have his last name, she secretly laments. “Yes,” they both say in unison.
Tears start to run down Deborah’s cheeks, and mistakenly, Diana assumes they’re from happiness.
“Oh, child, aren’t you in good spirits!” She tucks a loose strand of Deborah’s messy ponytail behind her ear. She probably doesn’t realize it was carefully constructed to cover the bald patch Jonathan caused when he dragged her across the room by her hair.
Deborah’s tears aren’t entirely in celebration of new life. They roll down her face, a reminder of the pain tugging at her heart. The throbbing between her legs isn’t a match for the constant ache of knowing her true love will never have a place in her life or the baby girls’.
Jonathan gives her a small smile, a glimmer of hope in his green eyes. He thinks they can be a family, that the twins will stitch together their broken home just like the doctor did with the tear in her skin. In his eyes, any transgression on his part is forgivable. He only has to go to church to pray, because the pastor preaches nothing is more sinful than divorce. Except for adultery, of course.
And that pastor is her father.
She closes her eyes to stop the wetness from turning into a full-on faucet, to interrupt Jonathan’s piercing stare, to protect herself. Her pain is visible, and she doesn’t want him to know its extent, not because he would comfort her but because he would enthusiastically find pleasure in her grief. Keeping them tightly shut, she imagines a life with her babies, without him.
It’s not until she jerks awake to the sound of heavy footsteps that she realizes she must’ve fallen asleep. Instinctively she stares down at her now-empty arms.
“I have some news about the twins. One of the girls . . .” Jonathan’s voice trails off. “We lost her.”
Deborah hears the word lost, and she clenches her fist, the one not tethered to Jonathan’s hand. It’s as if he’s talking about something inanimate, like a missing sneaker or his car keys. A newborn baby that just entered the world does not belong in the same category as a misplaced object.
She hears herself speak but doesn’t remember forming the words. “How did you lose her?” Her voice sounds calm while her hands tremble. You could almost believe she was asking about breastfeeding etiquette or a preferred diaper brand.
Now, a loud crash in the other room abruptly interrupts Deborah’s tearful flashback, and she quickly slams the baby book shut. Surprised Sibley’s home already and worried she’s going to barge in at any moment and discover her crying, Deborah wipes a sleeve across her cheek, drying her eyes.
Deborah’s never dared to tell Sibley she had a twin sister.
After shoving the baby book underneath her bed, Deborah struggles to stand upright, using the flimsy ironing board to help her to her feet. Instead, it topples over and takes her down with it. Yelping, she sits on the floor in frustrated silence at her clumsiness until the sound of the television echoes from the living room.
CHAPTER 35
Deborah
The smell of fresh wood clippings and tobacco drifts to her nostrils, and at first, she wonders if Sibley found a box of Jonathan’s things that unleashed the powerful, manly spice.
About to ask, she stops dead in her tracks.
A hand automatically crosses her heart in disbelief.
Sibley’s not in sight, but a man is. This one is different from before.
He’s seated in Jonathan’s old recliner in the living room, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans, his unruly salt-and-pepper hair sticking out in tufts, as if he got electrocuted by a light socket.
Worse, he dares to smoke a pipe in the house without permission, one leg draped casually over his other knee, as if he belongs in her home, in his chair.
A scream dies in Deborah’s throat.
Did
