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Authors: Diane Cook
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losses. And the man waited a lifetime for some relief.
Linda regarded her sullen brood. They stood expectant, sad and hungry-looking. Her stomach sank.
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Linda phoned her neighbors and left messages. The man is dead, and I have all the children. Come and see if any are yours.
Only a few women came, called out names that werenât recognized, tentatively lifted children, peered at their heads and bottoms as if making sure of something, then left with the ones that most fit what they thought they remembered or what they most wanted. Only one woman teared up with joy. The others emanated a feeling more like confusion. Or resignation. If you could suddenly get back everything youâd already said good-bye to, would you want it? Other women she had called answered with their silence. They never came.
Linda recognized their parents in some of them. Inherited noses, eyes, smiles, temperaments, gave them away. She was certain she could match these children, walk them over to their proper homes. Two children who had earlier been claimed reappeared on her doorstep, apology notes pinned to their jackets. She could have sent them back to their indecisive parents. But she didnât do it. She kept all the children.
Linda hired men to build a cramped addition onto the house, and her husband worked extra hours to pay for it and for all their new expenses. Often after work he took long night drives, drank late at a bar, anything to avoid coming home to this new bustling clan. Linda remembered how, when they were newly married and fantasizing about their family to come, he had argued that three was the ideal number of children. Now they had twenty-five.
The new addition covered the footprint of the backyard and left no room for outside play. The children slept in rows on rough-hewn bunk beds that reminded her of a shipâs galley: industrial, sad, adult. She tried not to picture it that way and concentrated instead on how these children were no longer stolen. They had been found. Freed. She had rescued them. But was anything better? Her husband was unhappy; the children who had seemed content in their forest home now seemed lethargic. And though she had her children back, she still felt grief for what could have been, for what would never be. Maybe this is what her neighbors had tried to tell her. Motherhood was naturally replete with loss.
She tried to keep her own children close. She put their beds in her bedroom. For Lewis a crib and then later his own small bed, with a train engineâs face painted onto the foot, covered in conductor-striped sheets. And for Beatriceâa bed with pink sheets and a comforter trimmed with lace. But Beatrice didnât sleep there.
Beatrice prowled the house at night, looking through cabinets and books. She went for long walks and came back with things that didnât belong to her. In the morning, Linda would find her curled in a corner under a moldy, yellowed blanket Linda didnât recognize and couldnât remember bringing from the manâs house. Beatriceâs socks would be half off her feet in that way socks slide off childrenâs feet but never adultsâ.
Beatrice kept her treasures in her corner of the living room, and at night, when the children were in bed, when Lewis was asleep, when her husband was working late to avoid the teeming house, when Beatrice was loping through the halls, Linda explored the collection. Mixed in with the dirty baseballs and lost car keys, Linda found a box of letters she had written to her stolen daughter and hoped one day to give to her. Baby pictures were tucked into a dog-eared grief book heavily marked with Lindaâs handwriting. Beneath it, Lindaâs hairbrush, full of wiry grays, a sweater she hadnât worn in years, a swatch of pink snipped from Beatriceâs own lonely bedding doused in an expensive perfume Linda kept on her dresser.
Linda waited for some warm tug of emotion, but the collection only made
Linda regarded her sullen brood. They stood expectant, sad and hungry-looking. Her stomach sank.
Â
Linda phoned her neighbors and left messages. The man is dead, and I have all the children. Come and see if any are yours.
Only a few women came, called out names that werenât recognized, tentatively lifted children, peered at their heads and bottoms as if making sure of something, then left with the ones that most fit what they thought they remembered or what they most wanted. Only one woman teared up with joy. The others emanated a feeling more like confusion. Or resignation. If you could suddenly get back everything youâd already said good-bye to, would you want it? Other women she had called answered with their silence. They never came.
Linda recognized their parents in some of them. Inherited noses, eyes, smiles, temperaments, gave them away. She was certain she could match these children, walk them over to their proper homes. Two children who had earlier been claimed reappeared on her doorstep, apology notes pinned to their jackets. She could have sent them back to their indecisive parents. But she didnât do it. She kept all the children.
Linda hired men to build a cramped addition onto the house, and her husband worked extra hours to pay for it and for all their new expenses. Often after work he took long night drives, drank late at a bar, anything to avoid coming home to this new bustling clan. Linda remembered how, when they were newly married and fantasizing about their family to come, he had argued that three was the ideal number of children. Now they had twenty-five.
The new addition covered the footprint of the backyard and left no room for outside play. The children slept in rows on rough-hewn bunk beds that reminded her of a shipâs galley: industrial, sad, adult. She tried not to picture it that way and concentrated instead on how these children were no longer stolen. They had been found. Freed. She had rescued them. But was anything better? Her husband was unhappy; the children who had seemed content in their forest home now seemed lethargic. And though she had her children back, she still felt grief for what could have been, for what would never be. Maybe this is what her neighbors had tried to tell her. Motherhood was naturally replete with loss.
She tried to keep her own children close. She put their beds in her bedroom. For Lewis a crib and then later his own small bed, with a train engineâs face painted onto the foot, covered in conductor-striped sheets. And for Beatriceâa bed with pink sheets and a comforter trimmed with lace. But Beatrice didnât sleep there.
Beatrice prowled the house at night, looking through cabinets and books. She went for long walks and came back with things that didnât belong to her. In the morning, Linda would find her curled in a corner under a moldy, yellowed blanket Linda didnât recognize and couldnât remember bringing from the manâs house. Beatriceâs socks would be half off her feet in that way socks slide off childrenâs feet but never adultsâ.
Beatrice kept her treasures in her corner of the living room, and at night, when the children were in bed, when Lewis was asleep, when her husband was working late to avoid the teeming house, when Beatrice was loping through the halls, Linda explored the collection. Mixed in with the dirty baseballs and lost car keys, Linda found a box of letters she had written to her stolen daughter and hoped one day to give to her. Baby pictures were tucked into a dog-eared grief book heavily marked with Lindaâs handwriting. Beneath it, Lindaâs hairbrush, full of wiry grays, a sweater she hadnât worn in years, a swatch of pink snipped from Beatriceâs own lonely bedding doused in an expensive perfume Linda kept on her dresser.
Linda waited for some warm tug of emotion, but the collection only made
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