When he did not stir, she’d bend her lips to his face and kiss each of his sleeping eyes. She’d feel her own eyes glossing over with the tears that came at will and without her even knowing.

When his eyes opened he’d search for her and look intently at her as she’d say, “You’re my beautiful boy.” Her voice would send him back into his blessed sleep. What had he seen, looking up at her? And why could she not stop weeping, with all her joy?

Hosea had begun to wonder the same thing. He’d cosseted her from the hour of Odd’s birth, stopping in her bedroom every morning before he went down to the shop and again each evening before dinner. He’d check her abdomen and feel her forehead and then switch his attention to the babe.

“How’s the wee lad this morning?” Hosea might say, not expecting an answer.

Thea would not even look up.

“Dear me,” Hosea would say, checking the boy’s forehead. “I’m worried about you, Thea.”

Down in the shop, during the late-morning lulls, he was consulting Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy and Charles Daniel Fox’s Psycho pathology of Hysteria. He’d made a preliminary diagnosis of postpartum melancholia but knew such a diagnosis wasn’t complete. There was no question she cried often, almost incessantly. She talked to herself, he knew from passing her room, and she seemed to have no eagerness to rejoin him and Rebekah at table or in ordinary conversation. She was overly protective of the boy, seemed paranoid, was even twitchy at times. Yet despite these symptoms, he was mystified by what he could only think of as an aura. Though she’d always seemed, in some way or another, angelic, in those first days after Odd was born she literally had a sheen about her, a radiance that as much as lightened the air around her.

When two weeks passed with no change in her aspect — two weeks he’d spent immersed in his books, mulling options for her cure — he decided something had to be done. Before he went downstairs to open the shop he stopped in to Thea’s room.

“Good morning, Thea.”

She adjusted Odd’s cap.

Hosea thumbed the wee boy’s little toes, spoke his baby gibberish, then stood up and looked down at Thea. In his clumsy Norwegian he said, “Has two weeks of rest given you your strength back?”

Thea did not answer.

He continued in Norwegian, “You’ve hardly spoken at all since the child was born. Are you feeling well? Are you happy?”

She turned her attention back to the child, touched his face gently, then looked back at Hosea. “Very happy,” she said.

Hosea stepped forward and knelt at her bedside. He put his hand on her arm. “Join Rebekah and me at supper tonight.”

Thea nodded, smiled.

“Very good!” Hosea said in English now. “Rebekah will prepare a feast.”

And she did, fish soup and buttermilk biscuits, apple strudel for

dessert. Thea came to the table for supper with Odd in her arms. She appeared sleep-starved and nervous, and when Rebekah asked — as she’d been instructed to — if she could hold the boy, Thea shook her head and held him closer.

“Now, Thea, you can’t hold him forever,” Hosea said in Norwegian, his voice jolly, his line rehearsed. “Rebekah wants a turn with the little one.”

“Sleepy,” Thea said in English. “Odd. Sleepy.”

“Okay, child,” Hosea said, his tone full of sympathy.

By the time Rebekah served the strudel, the boy was indeed asleep. Thea held him close while she nibbled on the baked apples, tending constantly to the blanket wrapped around him, to the knit hat he wore on his head.

“I’ve got something for Odd,” Hosea said, setting his empty coffee cup on the saucer. He stood and wiped his mouth with the napkin off his lap. He went into his bedroom and returned a moment later lugging a birch-wood bassinet. He set it down next to Thea. “A place for the boy to sleep,” he said, rearranging the muslin canopy. There was a scalloped skirt hanging under the ticking.

Thea leaned forward, looked into the bassinet, at the plush bedding. She looked doubtful, seemed to be holding the boy closer.

Hosea did not hold much hope she would put the child to bed properly. “You must get some rest. Your humors are not well.” And with those words Hosea left Thea and the boy at the table, carried the bassinet across the flat.

Rebekah stayed up late that night. She trimmed the apothecary with holly and mistletoe, with candles in all the windows and a ten-foot spruce covered in tinsel and strung cranberries. When she came upstairs after midnight Thea was changing Odd’s diaper. He was fussing, sending up his little howls, punching the air with his balled fists. After Thea finished wrapping his bottom and straightening his layette she lifted him and started to sing.

Her voice was lilting and faint and it put the boy at ease. She went to the rocking chair next to the window and lifted her nightdress. Her full breast shone in the winter moonlight. Odd as much as lunged for it, and in an instant Rebekah could hear him suckling.

Thea began another song, her voice even fainter from across the room.

“What does it mean?” Rebekah asked, her voice upsetting the deep silence enough that Odd pulled off Thea’s breast.

Thea guided his head back to his feast. “A bear sleeping,” she said softly.

“It sounds pretty. You sing nice.” Rebekah could see Thea’s smile in the moonlight, could see her glassy eyes. “It’s a lullaby. A song you sing your baby. It’s called a lullaby.”

“Lullaby,” Thea repeated.

“You’re making me sleepy.”

Again Thea smiled.

Then there was only the sound of Odd suckling, of Odd catching his breath when he was finished. Thea put him over her shoulder and stood and walked around the room as she patted his back. She stopped at the window and stood there with her son, the moon gone higher but still shining through the glass.

Rebekah watched them for what might have been an hour. Long enough that the moon no longer gave them light. When Thea finally returned to her bed with the sleeping boy, she did so still whispering the lullabies. She fluffed her pillows and lay down. She pulled the bedding up over her legs and sang to him more.

And Rebekah might have fallen asleep listening to Thea sing but she was intent on enforcing Hosea’s will. So she struggled to stay awake. When no sound had come from the other bed for some minutes, Rebekah slid from her bedcovers, crossed the room, and stood above Thea and her son. It was the first time she’d seen Thea sleep since the child had been born. Odd lay in her limp arms, wrapped in his blanket, the cap falling off his head, his hair winging out after his bath earlier that night.

Neither Odd nor Thea woke when Rebekah picked up the boy. She held him as she’d seen Thea, setting him in the crook of her arm, holding his head with her free hand. His lips puckered and he reached for his face with his bunched hands and she was sure he’d wake bawling but he only settled deeper into her arms. The floor creaked as she stepped off the carpet, into the whispered light from the window.

Thea slept soundly, her head fallen on her shoulder, her breathing slow and tremulous. There were no dreams there. And there were none in the boy, either. She could see that. All of that sleep absent of dreams saddened Rebekah deeply. She laid the boy in the bassinet and tiptoed to bed, thought she might conjure dreams for all of them. Lord knows she had them.

Rebekah woke to Thea’s screams and the light of morning. Her eyes flashed open and the first thing she saw was Thea thrashing in her bed, kicking and tearing at the bed linens. “Odd! Odd! Odd!” she said, her voice shrill and piercing.

Rebekah threw her covers back and jumped from bed, not remembering her antics in the middle of the night before. They reached the bassinet at the same moment and looked together into its emptiness.

Thea hollered as she ran from room to room in the flat, her panic rising alongside her shouting, Rebekah

Вы читаете The Lighthouse Road
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