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Authors: Kim Edwards
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want to leave the room.
Now Bree came back in carrying a tray with coffee, fresh bread, butter. Her long hair fell over her shoulder as she bent to put a tall glass of ice water on the table next to Norah. She slid the tray on the coffee table and settled onto the couch, tucking her long white legs beneath her.
"David's gone?"
Norah nodded. "I didn't even hear him getting up."
"You think it's good for him to be working so much?"
"Yes," Norah said firmly. "I do." Dr. Bentley had talked to the other doctors in the practice, and they had offered David time off, but David had refused. "I think it's good for him to be busy right now."
"Really? And what about you?" Bree asked, biting into her bread.
"Me? Honestly, I'm fine."
Bree waved her free hand. "Don't you think-" she began, but before she could criticize David again, Norah interrupted.
"It's so good you're here," she said. "No one else will talk to me."
"That's crazy. The house has been full of people wanting to talk to you."
"I had twins, Bree," Norah said quietly, conscious of her dream, the empty, frozen landscape, her frantic searching. "No one else will say a word about her. They act like since I have Paul, I ought to be satisfied. Like lives are interchangeable. But I had twins. I had a daughter too-"
She stopped, interrupted by the sudden tightness in her throat.
"Everyone is sad," Bree said softly. "So happy and so sad, all at once. They don't know what to say, that's all."
Norah lifted Paul, now asleep, to her shoulder. His breath was warm on her neck; she rubbed his back, not much bigger than her palm.
"I know," she said. "I know. But still."
"David shouldn't have gone back to work so soon," Bree said. "It's only been three days."
"He finds work a comfort," Norah said. "If I had a job, I'd go."
"No," Bree said, shaking her head. "No, you wouldn't, Norah. You know, I hate to say this, but David's just shutting himself away, locking up every feeling. And you're still trying to fill the emptiness. To fix things. And you can't."
Norah, studying her sister, wondered what feelings the pharmacist had kept at bay; for all her openness, Bree had never spoken of her own brief marriage. And even though Norah was inclined to agree with her now, she felt obligated to defend David, who through his own sadness had taken care of everything: the quiet unattended burial, the explanations to friends, the swift tidying up of the ragged ends of grief.
"He has to do it his own way," she said, reaching to open the blinds. The sky had turned bright blue, and it seemed the buds had swollen on the branches even in these few hours. "I just wish I'd seen her, Bree. People think that's macabre, but I do wish it. I wish I had touched her, just once."
"It's not macabre," Bree said softly. "It sounds completely reasonable to me."
A silence followed, and then Bree broke it awkwardly, tentatively, by offering Norah the last piece of buttered bread.
"I'm not hungry," Norah lied.
"You have to eat," Bree said. "The weight will disappear anyway. That's one of the great unsung benefits of breast-feeding."
"Not unsung," Norah said. "You're always singing."
Bree laughed. "I guess I am."
"Honestly," Norah said, reaching for the glass of water. "I'm glad you're here."
"Hey," Bree said, a little embarrassed. "Where else would I be?"
Paul's head was a warm weight, his fine thick hair soft against her neck. Did he miss his twin, Norah wondered, that vanished presence, his short life's close companion? Would he always feel a sense of loss? She stroked his head, looking out the window. Beyond the trees, faint against the sky, she glimpsed the faraway and fading sphere of the moon.
Later, while Paul slept, Norah took a shower. She tried on and discarded three different outfits, skirts that bound her waist, pants that strained across the hips. She had always been petite, slender and well-proportioned, and the ungainliness of her body amazed and depressed her. Finally, in despair, she
Now Bree came back in carrying a tray with coffee, fresh bread, butter. Her long hair fell over her shoulder as she bent to put a tall glass of ice water on the table next to Norah. She slid the tray on the coffee table and settled onto the couch, tucking her long white legs beneath her.
"David's gone?"
Norah nodded. "I didn't even hear him getting up."
"You think it's good for him to be working so much?"
"Yes," Norah said firmly. "I do." Dr. Bentley had talked to the other doctors in the practice, and they had offered David time off, but David had refused. "I think it's good for him to be busy right now."
"Really? And what about you?" Bree asked, biting into her bread.
"Me? Honestly, I'm fine."
Bree waved her free hand. "Don't you think-" she began, but before she could criticize David again, Norah interrupted.
"It's so good you're here," she said. "No one else will talk to me."
"That's crazy. The house has been full of people wanting to talk to you."
"I had twins, Bree," Norah said quietly, conscious of her dream, the empty, frozen landscape, her frantic searching. "No one else will say a word about her. They act like since I have Paul, I ought to be satisfied. Like lives are interchangeable. But I had twins. I had a daughter too-"
She stopped, interrupted by the sudden tightness in her throat.
"Everyone is sad," Bree said softly. "So happy and so sad, all at once. They don't know what to say, that's all."
Norah lifted Paul, now asleep, to her shoulder. His breath was warm on her neck; she rubbed his back, not much bigger than her palm.
"I know," she said. "I know. But still."
"David shouldn't have gone back to work so soon," Bree said. "It's only been three days."
"He finds work a comfort," Norah said. "If I had a job, I'd go."
"No," Bree said, shaking her head. "No, you wouldn't, Norah. You know, I hate to say this, but David's just shutting himself away, locking up every feeling. And you're still trying to fill the emptiness. To fix things. And you can't."
Norah, studying her sister, wondered what feelings the pharmacist had kept at bay; for all her openness, Bree had never spoken of her own brief marriage. And even though Norah was inclined to agree with her now, she felt obligated to defend David, who through his own sadness had taken care of everything: the quiet unattended burial, the explanations to friends, the swift tidying up of the ragged ends of grief.
"He has to do it his own way," she said, reaching to open the blinds. The sky had turned bright blue, and it seemed the buds had swollen on the branches even in these few hours. "I just wish I'd seen her, Bree. People think that's macabre, but I do wish it. I wish I had touched her, just once."
"It's not macabre," Bree said softly. "It sounds completely reasonable to me."
A silence followed, and then Bree broke it awkwardly, tentatively, by offering Norah the last piece of buttered bread.
"I'm not hungry," Norah lied.
"You have to eat," Bree said. "The weight will disappear anyway. That's one of the great unsung benefits of breast-feeding."
"Not unsung," Norah said. "You're always singing."
Bree laughed. "I guess I am."
"Honestly," Norah said, reaching for the glass of water. "I'm glad you're here."
"Hey," Bree said, a little embarrassed. "Where else would I be?"
Paul's head was a warm weight, his fine thick hair soft against her neck. Did he miss his twin, Norah wondered, that vanished presence, his short life's close companion? Would he always feel a sense of loss? She stroked his head, looking out the window. Beyond the trees, faint against the sky, she glimpsed the faraway and fading sphere of the moon.
Later, while Paul slept, Norah took a shower. She tried on and discarded three different outfits, skirts that bound her waist, pants that strained across the hips. She had always been petite, slender and well-proportioned, and the ungainliness of her body amazed and depressed her. Finally, in despair, she
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