The process of conception, in all its arcane biological complexity. Long stretches of their married life together had been given over to such concerns—packets of materials arriving in the mail; hushed, endless waiting rooms and the subsequent conversations with condescending specialists and gently manipulative quacks; silent drives home afterward.
He could often sense Amber brooding as he drove. She was a lawyer by training, and she was bothered by the unfairness of it—by the simple fact that so many women had babies without even trying. They hadn’t had to struggle, as she was; they hadn’t even had to ask. Sometimes, in a supermarket or on the street they would encounter a mother who was not taking proper care of her baby. The mother would be swearing at it, or carrying it in the bright sunlight without a bonnet, or holding it carelessly against her hip, ignoring it, letting its nose run as she gossiped with another mother. At such times, Zach would watch Amber’s eyes settle on the woman. It would seem that the very molecules of the air vibrated with Amber’s disapproval, with her intense dislike.
Once they had heard on the radio a program about a woman who had drowned her two toddlers during some kind of postpartumdepression and Amber’s hands had tightened against each other in her lap.
“I’d like to see that woman tortured,” Amber had said quietly. “I’d like to see her burned alive.”
Zach hadn’t said anything then, though the light in her eyes had disturbed him. They didn’t really argue about things, the way he imagined other couples did—though the ghosts of their disagreements would waft underneath their conversations, curling like the fingerlets of incense smoke that Amber would sometimes burn. RELAXATION , the incense said. GOOD FORTUNE, HAPPINESS .
He looked up at her face from his hospital bed and he was reminded of the grim look she would get as she lit her little incense sticks and candles. She had never expected to have so much hardship in her life.
Amber had looked up from her reading at last, and she’d noticed that his eyes were open. They regarded each other, and he could see her expression tighten. It felt as if her thoughts were withdrawing backward into the shadows so that he couldn’t see them.
“You’re awake,” she said softly.
For a moment, he expected that Amber was going to tell him that their baby had died. That was, of course, what would happen eventually. Sooner or later, some member of the hospital staff would emerge from a closed room to speak to them in a hushed voice:
Mr. and Mrs. Dixon
. They both knew this was coming.
I’m so sorry to tell you—there was nothing to be done
. The doctors hadmore or less assured them of this, even as they prepared for the surgeries. There had never been a successful separation.
On the Internet, Zach had found one example of a craniopagus parasiticus baby who had survived into childhood. This was the so-called Two-Headed Boy of Bengal, who was born in 1783 in the village of Mundul Gait. He had apparently lived for four years without any special medical treatment, and had purportedly died of a cobra bite, rather than anything relating to his condition.
The skull of the Two-Headed Boy was still on display at the Hunterian Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons in London.
Zach would sit in front of the computer late at night after Rosalie was born, searching the Internet. He downloaded a photo of the Two-Headed Boy’s fused skull. He read various accounts.
He read that the parents of the Two-Headed Boy were poor farmers who soon realized that they could earn money by exhibiting their child. In Calcutta, they would cover him with sheets to prevent people who hadn’t paid from glimpsing him.
After the Two-Headed Boy died, he was buried near the Boopnorain River, outside of the city of Tumloch. The grave was later plundered by an agent of the British East India Company, who dissected the child’s decaying body and
He could often sense Amber brooding as he drove. She was a lawyer by training, and she was bothered by the unfairness of it—by the simple fact that so many women had babies without even trying. They hadn’t had to struggle, as she was; they hadn’t even had to ask. Sometimes, in a supermarket or on the street they would encounter a mother who was not taking proper care of her baby. The mother would be swearing at it, or carrying it in the bright sunlight without a bonnet, or holding it carelessly against her hip, ignoring it, letting its nose run as she gossiped with another mother. At such times, Zach would watch Amber’s eyes settle on the woman. It would seem that the very molecules of the air vibrated with Amber’s disapproval, with her intense dislike.
Once they had heard on the radio a program about a woman who had drowned her two toddlers during some kind of postpartumdepression and Amber’s hands had tightened against each other in her lap.
“I’d like to see that woman tortured,” Amber had said quietly. “I’d like to see her burned alive.”
Zach hadn’t said anything then, though the light in her eyes had disturbed him. They didn’t really argue about things, the way he imagined other couples did—though the ghosts of their disagreements would waft underneath their conversations, curling like the fingerlets of incense smoke that Amber would sometimes burn. RELAXATION , the incense said. GOOD FORTUNE, HAPPINESS .
He looked up at her face from his hospital bed and he was reminded of the grim look she would get as she lit her little incense sticks and candles. She had never expected to have so much hardship in her life.
Amber had looked up from her reading at last, and she’d noticed that his eyes were open. They regarded each other, and he could see her expression tighten. It felt as if her thoughts were withdrawing backward into the shadows so that he couldn’t see them.
“You’re awake,” she said softly.
For a moment, he expected that Amber was going to tell him that their baby had died. That was, of course, what would happen eventually. Sooner or later, some member of the hospital staff would emerge from a closed room to speak to them in a hushed voice:
Mr. and Mrs. Dixon
. They both knew this was coming.
I’m so sorry to tell you—there was nothing to be done
. The doctors hadmore or less assured them of this, even as they prepared for the surgeries. There had never been a successful separation.
On the Internet, Zach had found one example of a craniopagus parasiticus baby who had survived into childhood. This was the so-called Two-Headed Boy of Bengal, who was born in 1783 in the village of Mundul Gait. He had apparently lived for four years without any special medical treatment, and had purportedly died of a cobra bite, rather than anything relating to his condition.
The skull of the Two-Headed Boy was still on display at the Hunterian Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons in London.
Zach would sit in front of the computer late at night after Rosalie was born, searching the Internet. He downloaded a photo of the Two-Headed Boy’s fused skull. He read various accounts.
He read that the parents of the Two-Headed Boy were poor farmers who soon realized that they could earn money by exhibiting their child. In Calcutta, they would cover him with sheets to prevent people who hadn’t paid from glimpsing him.
After the Two-Headed Boy died, he was buried near the Boopnorain River, outside of the city of Tumloch. The grave was later plundered by an agent of the British East India Company, who dissected the child’s decaying body and
Similar Books
