carried the fused skull away with him to England.
Sometimes Zach would fall asleep in front of the computer and wake up with his forehead pressed against the keyboard.
One morning after he’d been up nearly all night, he awoke and Amber was standing above him. “Zach,” she was saying, her hand against his shoulder, and when he lifted his head he couldfeel the tooth marks of the keyboard impressed into the skin above his eyes. “Zach,” Amber said, and she stared at the screen of his computer, at the photo of the Two-Headed Boy of Bengal’s skull in its glass museum case—
“It’s seven-thirty,” she said, and glanced at her cellphone. He didn’t know what she had been doing with her own night, while he had been following various branching trails of information, one Internet search leading to another and then another. Sometimes he would find her sitting in the television room, watching a sitcom; sometimes he would find her sleeping, curled up on the bed, on top of the covers with her shoes off, and he would lean over her, wishing that he had found a useful bit of information to give her, some kernel from his long foraging.
“I’ll see you at the hospital at six,” she said. She touched the screen of her phone, used her thumb to scroll, furrowed her eyebrows, and he ran a hand through his hair.
“Even when a child’s death is imminent, the parent must forever carry the image of the child moving forward, alive, into the future.” After Amber left, he had found this written in his own handwriting on a Post-it note on his desk. Was it a quote from something? Had he thought of it himself?
He was thinking about all of these things as Amber spoke to him. “You’re awake,” she said and he opened his eyes and Amber’s face floated above him.
He was aware of specific thoughts, images, connections: the fused skull in the museum, the movement of Amber’s fingers against her phone, the little Post-it note. All of these things had been in the process of sliding into place, connections were beingmade, and then the links seemed to unfasten as his mind rose out of sleep. He lifted his hand and some kind of monitor was clipped to his index finger.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and there were so many things that he didn’t even know what he meant. Was he sorry for the two-headed boy, exhibited by his parents; for all the time he’d spent reading such stories, staring at his computer while Amber moved through another part of the house; for falling asleep at the wheel and leaving her alone to deal with the terrible details of their child’s last days; for being yet another burden to worry about; for the life they had been thrust into, which was unexpectedly difficult and unexpectedly unexpected; for his hoarse voice, which was a crackling of paper.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry
.
“Zach,” Amber said firmly, as if she hadn’t heard him. “Are you able to focus? Can you hear me talking to you?”
There was still a little paperwork to be done concerning Rosalie’s upcoming operation. Release forms and so on. These documents needed to be signed immediately.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m listening.”
Meanwhile, upstairs, the babies had opened their eyes again as well.
Above them, a mobile was turning in a slow circle: blue giraffe, yellow duck, red doggy, bobbing on wires, turning slowly around an axle, and the babies followed the motion of the shapes as they wheeled by.
Rosalie moved her tongue inside her mouth and the other one’s brow furrowed. Rosalie’s hands waved gently in the air and the other shifted her eyes back and forth, searching. After a time,they could see the pointed cap of the nurse above them, a blurry white peak on the horizon. A hand emerged and lowered itself toward them and they felt the cold of the air as their diaper was undone. The legs gave bright, athletic kicks, a burst of energy or excitement, and the parasitic head smiled dreamily.
“There, there,” the nurse
Sometimes Zach would fall asleep in front of the computer and wake up with his forehead pressed against the keyboard.
One morning after he’d been up nearly all night, he awoke and Amber was standing above him. “Zach,” she was saying, her hand against his shoulder, and when he lifted his head he couldfeel the tooth marks of the keyboard impressed into the skin above his eyes. “Zach,” Amber said, and she stared at the screen of his computer, at the photo of the Two-Headed Boy of Bengal’s skull in its glass museum case—
“It’s seven-thirty,” she said, and glanced at her cellphone. He didn’t know what she had been doing with her own night, while he had been following various branching trails of information, one Internet search leading to another and then another. Sometimes he would find her sitting in the television room, watching a sitcom; sometimes he would find her sleeping, curled up on the bed, on top of the covers with her shoes off, and he would lean over her, wishing that he had found a useful bit of information to give her, some kernel from his long foraging.
“I’ll see you at the hospital at six,” she said. She touched the screen of her phone, used her thumb to scroll, furrowed her eyebrows, and he ran a hand through his hair.
“Even when a child’s death is imminent, the parent must forever carry the image of the child moving forward, alive, into the future.” After Amber left, he had found this written in his own handwriting on a Post-it note on his desk. Was it a quote from something? Had he thought of it himself?
He was thinking about all of these things as Amber spoke to him. “You’re awake,” she said and he opened his eyes and Amber’s face floated above him.
He was aware of specific thoughts, images, connections: the fused skull in the museum, the movement of Amber’s fingers against her phone, the little Post-it note. All of these things had been in the process of sliding into place, connections were beingmade, and then the links seemed to unfasten as his mind rose out of sleep. He lifted his hand and some kind of monitor was clipped to his index finger.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and there were so many things that he didn’t even know what he meant. Was he sorry for the two-headed boy, exhibited by his parents; for all the time he’d spent reading such stories, staring at his computer while Amber moved through another part of the house; for falling asleep at the wheel and leaving her alone to deal with the terrible details of their child’s last days; for being yet another burden to worry about; for the life they had been thrust into, which was unexpectedly difficult and unexpectedly unexpected; for his hoarse voice, which was a crackling of paper.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry
.
“Zach,” Amber said firmly, as if she hadn’t heard him. “Are you able to focus? Can you hear me talking to you?”
There was still a little paperwork to be done concerning Rosalie’s upcoming operation. Release forms and so on. These documents needed to be signed immediately.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m listening.”
Meanwhile, upstairs, the babies had opened their eyes again as well.
Above them, a mobile was turning in a slow circle: blue giraffe, yellow duck, red doggy, bobbing on wires, turning slowly around an axle, and the babies followed the motion of the shapes as they wheeled by.
Rosalie moved her tongue inside her mouth and the other one’s brow furrowed. Rosalie’s hands waved gently in the air and the other shifted her eyes back and forth, searching. After a time,they could see the pointed cap of the nurse above them, a blurry white peak on the horizon. A hand emerged and lowered itself toward them and they felt the cold of the air as their diaper was undone. The legs gave bright, athletic kicks, a burst of energy or excitement, and the parasitic head smiled dreamily.
“There, there,” the nurse
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