Our lives do not exist in stasis, and neither do we - people change, circumstances change, indeed, even the very course of history changes. These changes are sometimes so monumental that it's easy to see them as coming ponderously, like the slow switch in direction of an ocean liner. Oftentimes, however, they happen suddenly, like storm clouds sailing across a clear summer sky: Come and gone before you even realize it. In the past year, Lincoln's life had altered course three such times, twice very quickly, and once not so quickly. The first was his falling in love with Lily. The feelings may have been there, locked deep inside of his heart, but they broke free all at once the night he made love to her for the first time. She came into his room his sweet little sister, with whom he shared a special albeit platonic relationship, and she left the most revered thing in his world. He treasured her completely and loved her with unconditional abandon; her smiling face was his sun, her laughter the warm, gentle breeze, and her dark, shimmering eyes the moon and stars. In the span of less than an hour, his feelings for her deepened and expanded, consuming him like a black hole eating up the universe. The next change was gradual: The conception and carrying of his daughter, Layna Rose. For nearly nine months, the little girl gestated in Lily's womb, nurtured and nourished by her mother's boundless love, all the while Lincoln waited for the day of her arrival, first with apprehension, then with bursting excitement.
The fina change came swiftly. At 9am on July 28, 2031, he was planning his future with Lily, constructing elaborate castles in the sky; at noon, he was planning her funeral.
She's gone, Dad said in a shell-shocked voice. He sank limply into the chair across from Lincoln and melted...that's the only word Lincoln could come up with, melted. Mom slumped in her own chair and hugged her trembling frame, her head bowed to hide the grief on her face. Lola and Lana both wept silently, and Lucy held her hand to her mouth, the slight twitching of her fingers betraying her stoic facade. Lincoln only stared wide-eyed at the floor, numb with horror. He knew what Dad's words meant...knew that the girl he loved and adored was dead...but he couldn't wrap his mind around it; it was too great, too terrible, like gazing upon the face of God. Instead of facing it, his spirit retreated into the cold and blissful darkness of shock. What about the baby? he heard himself ask. At least he thought it was him.
He fully expected her to be dead too.
She's fine, Dad said, a-a little...they're keeping her in the...in the...he trailed off, unable to speak any further. He held his face in his hands and wept.
Alive, Lincoln thought. A glimmer of hope flickered in his chest, and he would have smiled had his face not been frozen. Tears filled his eyes and obscured his vision, but they did not fall; his little girl was okay.
Sometime later, after the sun sank below the rim of the earth and cast the land in shadows, Lincoln stood in a dimly lit corridor, peering through a large window into the nursery. Rows and rows of bassinets lined the room, some occupied, many not, some with blue sheets and others with pink. His eyes went to the last one on the left, second row: Layna, wrapped in a pink blanket, kicked her legs and took in the world around her with big, inquisitive eyes so much like her mother's that looking into them made Lincoln ache. Joy and misery wrestled for dominance in his chest, and he smiled through the falling tears, his forehead pressing against the cool glass. She was beautiful and perfect...and she would never get to know her mommy the way the other babies would...never be snuggled to her breast, never be kissed or tickled or sang to.
Of all the things Lincoln had endured today, that was what broke him. Hanging his head, he sobbed bitterly, hand shielding his eyes and his shoulder hitching with the cadence of his lament. At some point, a hand fell on his shoulder, and he whipped his head up to find his father standing next to him, face dour, eyes downcast; new wrinkles creased his skin and fresh grays nestled in his thinning hair. He gave Lincoln a tepid squeeze and turned to the pane, his reflection watery and indistinct, like a lost soul trapped between worlds.
Lincoln shuddered when he realized his daughter was trapped between worlds too; with Lily gone and no father to sign the birth certificate, she was technically a ward of the state. Dad called a lawyer as soon as his bereavement ran its course - on Monday morning, he was going to file a custody petition on Mom and Dad's behalf. Until then, his little girl existed in limbo, illegitimate and unloved, without a mother or a father.
He clamped his lips shut and forced himself to turn away before he cried anew. Your mother told me, Dad said, his voice even but tired. Lincoln braced himself for a reproach that did not come. Are you ready for this? Dad asked.
Lincoln nodded. Yes, he instantly vowed. And he was...ready for all of it; the light nights; the early morning feedings; the never ending diapers; the gassy smiles; the coos; the snuggles. He would give up everything else - his art and the retarded Ace Savvy fandom - and live the rest of his life for her, just as he planned to live it for her and Lily. All the love he had stored for her mother would go to her, and it would carry her the rest of his days.
A baby's a big responsibility, Dad warned, His hand fell from Lincoln's shoulder and dangled at his side. And...you're not exactly the most responsible person.
Normally, Lincoln would have flinched at such blunt condemnation, but not now; he was already a seething mass of pain, what was a passing jab when you're head's already laid open and your guts hanging out?
It was also true. He wasn't very responsible - he got himself kicked out of RWCC not one year ago, didn't he? He worked a shit job, his room was a mess, and he got his eleven year old sister pregnant...killing her.
But this was different. I know, he admitted, but I am, Dad. He sent his eyes back to the pink swaddled newborn, all alone in the world, just like him, and his heart skipped. I swear, he told his daughter, I'll be a good father. I promise.
Dad sighed and nodded. W-We'll help, he said. If the court accepted the petition, which the lawyer said they likely would, his parents would have legal custody of Layna. Dad's offer made it sound like they wouldn't kick him out and keep her away from him. If they did...he couldn't say it wasn't for the best. If they could give her a good life in his absence, he wouldn't fight them...it would kill him every single day, but he had his little girl to think of, and what was better for her is what he would do.
Before leaving, Lincoln held his daughter for the first time; she was smaller up close, but her eyes just as bright and curious. He smiled lovingly down at her, and she furrowed her brow in confusion. Who are you? she seemed to ask. She reminded him so much of Lily it hurt, and he imagined that as she grew, the resemblence would only become more striking - she would be beautiful, kind, and silly, just like the mother she would never meet...the radiant lamp now extinguished forever, lying cold, pale, and dead in the basement morgue.
He felt more tears welling in his eyes, but held them back. For Layna. I love you, he whispered and placed a tender kiss to her forehead. Daddy loves you, baby.
That night, he lay awake in his bed, one arm bent behind his head and his eyes gazing into the gloom. The shock was beginning to wear off, and the pain it hid bubbled up and festered in his chest like cancer. He felt Lily's loss with the sharp intensity of a knife blade to the heart, and his arms literally ached to hold her. He rolled to his side, drew his knees to his sternum, and hugged them tightly. The realization that he would never hear Lily's voice again, or look into her eyes, or kiss her ever again finally sank in, and he hitched in silent desolation.
A somber pall hung over the house in the days immediately following Lily's death; the atmosphere weighed heavy, like a living thing, and no one spoke. 1216 Franklin Avenue was like a body without a spirit, and before the end of the first whole day without her, everyone in residence came to realize that she was its true heart and soul. Lincoln spent most of that time at the hospital with his daughter - the thought of her being alone even for a moment disturbed him greatly, and he stayed from the minute visiting hours started in the morning to the minute the nurses kicked him out. He held her, carried her up and down the hall, fed her bottles of formula (Lily planned to breastfeed if she could), and rocked her gently to sleep. By the end of the week, Lincoln was a regular fixture at the hospital, as much a part of it as the support columns supporting the emergency room's exterior overhang. The head nurse on the maternity ward, a slight creature with faded brown hair and dull green eyes, called him a good uncle once, and he flashed a wan smile. Like any father, he wanted to shout his pride from every high place in town, but he was forced by circumstance, and that pesky thing called generics, to keep quiet.
It didn't matter...such a small thing, really...but how badly he wanted to tell her, a woman he didn't even know, that he was not Layna's uncle, he was her father. She was not an orphan, she was not illegitimate, she had more than the distilled love of grandparents and aunts, she had him, and he loved her with every fiber of his being. She was the most important thing in his life...she was his life.
In the evening, separated from Layna, Lincoln fumbled aimlessly like a man in the dark. Mom rarely got out of bed, and Dad sat on the couch with the same vacant expression on his newly aged face that he wore after Dr. Becker broke the news of Lily's passing. She went into convulsions and cardiac arrest, he said, and she passed away. Much later, Lincoln would learn that the doctors were forced to choose between safely birthing Layna or risking her life by focusing on stabilizing Lily. If they did the latter, there was a very high chance that she and Layna would both die...so they concentrated their efforts on saving Layna. Brooding alone in his room at night, Lincoln vacillated between rage at them letting Lily die, and gratitude that they rescued Layna instead.
Lincoln saw very little of his mother in the week leading up to Lily's funeral, and when they did happen to be in the same room together, she refused to so much as look at him, and the dark waves rolling from her, like cold from a block of ice, told him that she probably wouldn't for a long time to come.
While he waited for custody to be awarded to Mom and Dad (or, oh God, not), Lincoln read every single parenting book he could lay his hands on, voracious in his pursuit of knowledge. He knew a little from having so many younger sisters, but he needed to be both a father and a mother to Layna, a task for which he felt so woefully unprepared it was like drowning. Layna deserved his absolute, uncompromising best, and he intended to give it to her.
Sitting alone in his room after work, reading by soft lamplight, warm summer wind slipping through the open window and caressing his sweaty face, Lincoln missed Lily with bitter intensity, and sometimes he would break to stare up at the stars. He believed in God in the vague, taken-for-granted way that many Americans do, but he didn't know for sure, and he often found himself wondering if she still existed somewhere - a spirit, a mass of energy, or something else. If so, was she aware? Did she watch over him and their daughter? Was she waiting for them to one day join her so they could finally be a family?
He couldn't say whether that thought comforted him or disturbed him. A little of both, he reckoned.
The day before Lily was buried, a Royal County Family Court judge granted preliminary custody of Lyna Rose Loud to Lynn Sr. and Rita Loud. Lincoln was so excited to have her home that all of his grief burned away like clinging mist in the spreading light of dawn. Because his room was so small, he temporarily transferred to Lily's, where a makeshift nursery was already set up and waiting. Lincoln remembered Lily being so excited as they set it up she glowed, and anguish clawed at his heart. Sitting on the edge of the bed with his daughter asleep in the bassinet beside him, his hand devotedly caressing her fine, sparse hair, Lincoln wished Lily was here to share this with him.
Twenty-four hours later, on a humid and oppressive August afternoon, he stood at Lily's graveside and stared blankly at the coffin. The rest of his family crowded around: Mom, Dad, Lola with Layna in her arms, Lucy, Lisa, Lana, Lynn, Leni, Lori, Luna, Luan, and Pop-Pop, old and frail in his wheelchair, his eyes clouded with confusion. A minister in a suit and tie stood at the head of the casket and spoke words of everlasting life that sounded like so much droning to Lincoln.
Toward the end of the service, Layna started getting fussy, and Lincoln took her from his sister, who looked lost without her; everyone fell as deeply in love with her he had, and at the reception at home later on, she was passed from one relative to another. She's literally the most beautiful thing ever, Lori fawned. She's totes adorbs, Leni added. She looks kind of like Lily mixed with Lincoln. Strange.
Mom and Dad hadn't told the girls about Lincoln being Layna's father, so Lily had no way of knowing how true that statement really was.
That night, Lincoln lay in Lily's bed, where so much love was made (perhaps indeed, where Layna herself was made) and listened to the soft, gentle sound of her breathing, too afraid to drop off lest something bad happen to her and he not be awake to protect her. He already let one girl he loved die, he wouldn't let it happen to another. He finally slept, but woke an hour later to Layna's thin, hungry cries, so groggy he toppled over when he tried to sit up. Flipping on the bedside lamp, he grabbed one of the bottles from the nightstand (prefilled with water at Lori's suggestion), picked the plastic tub of Similac up off the floor, and scooped some into the bottle. He screwed the cap on, shook it, and pulled Layna out of the bassinet, cradling her to his chest: She issued high, warbling screams and shook her head back and forth as if in denial of being left to starve after two whole hours. Shhhh, Lincoln said and brought the rubber nipple to her lips, Daddy's here. She latched on and sucked greedily, tiny pants rising from her working through. Her lids drifted open, and she favored him with murky eyes; he stared deeply into them and smiled tiredly. He read somewhere that babies bond with their parents during feedings by looking them in the eyes, so he made sure to keep his gaze locked with hers. I love you, he thought in the vague hope that his thoughts would communicate telepathically.
At some point, they fell asleep, and when he came awake to the shrill, piercing wail of the alarm, she was still nestled in his arms.
That was his first day back at work since Lily died, and he reluctantly left Layna with Lola and Lana, both of whom solemnly swore we'll take good care of her, Linc. He hated to doubt his sisters, especially since they genuinely wanted to help, but, to paraphrase his father, neither one of them was very responsible. Nor, for that matter, had they ever displayed the slightest inkling of maternal instinct whatsoever. They wouldn't ignore Layna, but they wouldn't give her the same attentive dedication that he did. Then again, they surprised him once by instantly taking to Layna in the first place, so maybe it would be okay.
Letting go and having faith is hard when something as precious as your daughter was on the line: He was racked with worry the entire day, and broke every half hour to call home. Yes, Lincoln, Lola said impatiently, we're fine. You can go back to your job now. Once he heard Layna crying in the background, and his heart dropped. What's wrong?
She's hungry and Lana's about to feed her. We got this. Goodbye.
The afternoon passed at a crawl, and when his shift finally ended, he raced home. He found them in Lola's room, Layna laying on a play mat and staring bemusedly up at an arch from which dangled an assortment of rattles, mirrors, and animal plushies. Lana lie stretched out next to her, fingers laced behind her head, and Lola sat at her vanity applying make-up. Lincoln went to his daughter, checked her for bumps, cuts, and scrapes like a worried mother, then peppered her face with fleeting kisses. Lana rolled her eyes. She's fine, dude, damn. You act like we're monsters.
Sorry, Lincoln said and sat beside the play mat. First day jitters, I guess.
Those will pass, Lola said from her station before the mirror, her hand waving dismissively. She spoke with the utmost confidence, as though she were a wizened mother who'd been in Lincoln's spot before and not a seventeen year old girl whose knowledge of infants started and ended Boss Baby.
She was right, however - the first couple weeks were hard, and he worried himself sick, but every day he came home and Layna was okay. Tuesday she hung out with Lisa, sitting in her automatic swing, rocking side to side like a pendulum as Lisa worked with volatile, corrosive, and dangerous chemicals. I assure you, Lincoln, that your progeny is completely safe in my care. Lincoln spotted something wedged in between the seat and Layna's leg - it looked like a vial. What's that? he fretted.
Lisa adjusted her glasses and went over. Huh. There's my plutonium.
Thursday, she lay flat on her back in Lucy's bed, dozing with her hands up on either side of her head in a W while Lucy recited a passage from a thick hardback book. "Make him get rid of it, Lloyd," the dark man who was now the pale man whined. "Make him take it back where he got it. Make him-" She looked up when he sat on the edge of the mattress, her eyes peering out from under her bangs. Seeing her from afar, you would expect them to be dark, but they were the lightest blue, like the crystalline surface of a placid mountain lake. Her thin lips rested in a neutral line, but turned slightly up in an amused simper when Layna snorted. We're reading, she said with a pleased inflection.
Lincoln nodded. He could see that. Reading was important and he wanted Layna to get an early jump on her education like any father would, but this was Lucy, and her books tended to be...how should he pu this? Trash full of sex, gore, and ghoulish violence. Dean Koontz? he asked with a trace of hope. Dean Koontz was the least of it; in fact, some of his stuff was downright comfy compared to other writers of his genre.
Shaking her head, Lucy said, Stephen King.
Ah.
Did anyone die?
Lucy considered her reply for a moment, as though people dying in Stephen King novels was such a common occurrence that she simply stopped noticing when it happened. They shot Glenn, but she was already asleep.
Well...okay, then.
Friday, he came home and went to Lola's room, but the younger girl didn't have her like she was supposed to. Lana took her a while ago, Lola said; she lounged on her bed with one knee drawn up and a magazine hovering above her upturned face, a bud shoved into one ear and a thin white cord trailing away to parts unknown. She lazily smacked a stick of gum (wintergreen, by the smell of it) and flipped a page with a crisp snapping sound.
Alright. Lana, like Lola, had more than proven herself capable of caring for Lily; no reason to worry. He left Lola to her own devices and went across the hall to Lana's room.
She wasn't there.
No big, you can't stay locked up in your room like an inmate in a cell, can you? He went downstairs, expecting to find them in the kitchen (Layna sitting in her highchair, face and onesie smeared with peas), but the sunlight gushing through the window over the sink revealed the kitchen to be empty save for the wavering shadows of breeze rustled branches across the linoleum. He went to the back door, opened it, and stuck his head out; nothing.
Next he checked the basement, the attic, the bathroom, his room, Mom and Dad's room, Lisa's lab - they were nowhere, and his chest twanged with dread. The last place he looked was the garage: Lana was bent over the guts of her '78 Monte Carlo, legs spread far apart, and Layna sat in her bounce seat on the toolbench, gurgling happily and slapping a dangling frog that lit up and played music. Lincoln let out a pent up breath and sagged with relief. Metal clanged, and Lana hissed a curse word. That's a third degreer. She shook her hand and sucked air through her teeth. You gotta wear gloves, she stressed to the infant, I was dumb, I didn't, now look.
Layna flashed a gassy smile and blew a spit bubble.
The following Monday, Mom's day off, she kept Layna. She sat on the couch, her arms crossed, and when Lincoln handed the baby over, she took her with a breathless hiiii. She did not speak to Lincoln, or meet his eyes, or acknowledge him in any other way. The day before, after church, he was sitting on the couch with his father, Layna off with one of her aunts; it had been three weeks since Lily died, and he and his mother had barely been in each other's presence since. They were, he thought, two phantoms passing sometimes in the night, one angry, the other melancholy. At first, he was too caught up in Layna, and in surviving his own suffering, to care, but it was starting to bother him greatly - the chilly silences, the strained patience, the heavy, choking air of enmity between them. Does Mom...hate me now? he asked, wincing at how childish that question sounded.
Dad hesitated, as though he didn't know what to say, then he sighed. No, he said, she's just...she's trying to cope with it. All of it.
He meant Lily's death...and the startling revelation of hers and Lincoln's relationship. He could understand that...but with every revolution of the earth, every sunrise and sunset, his convictions hardened. She did hate him...and she blamed him for what happened to Lily. Ha, well, get in line, Mom, because I blame myself too.
If she did, so be it, he could handle that, he just hoped she didn't blame Layna too.
She didn't. Most evenings, she hogged her granddaughter to herself and Lincoln didn't get her back until it was time to go to bed. On a few occasions, Mom kept her later, and Lola or Lana would bring her into Lily's room long after Lincoln fell asleep. On weekends, Mom usually took Layna shortly after breakfast and sat with her on the couch - a couple times, Lincoln walked in on her clutching the baby to her chest as fat, glistening tears dribbled down her wrinkled cheeks. Lincoln couldn't help but wonder if she was using the newborn as a type of substitute for Lily or, perhaps, if being with Layna made her feel closer to her departed daughter. Dad did say that Mom regretted not spending more time with Lily, so maybe this was her way of making up for it. Lincoln didn't know, he wasn't a psychologist, he was an artist, and while not all artists are superficial, he kind of was. He dealt in visuals and dialogue bubbles - you can tell a good story that way, but it wasn't a particularly deep method. Or maybe he was wrong...maybe he was just a stupid person making stupid cartoon fan art. He suspected his mother's remorse over not being closer to Lily led her to want a fuller relationship with her daughter as something of a surrogate.
Knowing how she felt, it was hard to be upset with her, or to bemoan her 'hating' him. She, like him, had her regrets. Neither of his parents and none of his sisters were close to Lily - in a way, they took her for granted the way they took each other for granted. They didn't know what they had until it was gone, and now they were wracked with guilt, Mom more so than anyone.
For over a month, Lincoln avoided her as best he could, giving her the space she needed to work through her emotions. He secretly hoped, day after day, that she would come to him and apologize for being distant, or at least tell him she loved him, but she didn't. In mid-September, he resolved to take the initiative, like the man he was trying to become, and go to her. It was a sunny early Saturday afternoon when he approached her. Lana and Lola took Layna out for auntie- niece bonding time (whatever that entailed), Lucy was out with her boyfriend, and Lisa, of course, was in her lab, mixing chemicals like a techno-witch with her potions. Mom stood at the counter chopping onions, her back to him; forbidding, uninviting. He paused at the archway, took a deep breath, and went to the kitchen table, where he sat. Mom did not acknowledge him, and for a long time, tense silence hung between them, clouding the air like smoke. He cast about for something to say, but could only come up with I'm sorry.
She tensed...then relaxed a little. For what? she asked, a knowing hilt to her voice. You know exactly what you did and I demand you throw yourself at my mercy, it said. A rush of indignation colored his cheeks, and his first instinct was to get up and walk away with at least some of his dignity intact. That's what an egotistical fanboy artist would do, though; a man would swallow his pride and admit his mistakes.
.He wouldn't apologize for loving Lily the way he had, because for that he was not sorry. He would not apologize for expressing that love with his body - he did not regret it and would do it again given the chance. He would not even apologize for getting her pregnant; he thought, long ago (it seemed) that he was sorry, because Lily was so young. After having Layna for over a month, after holding her and rocking her to sleep and living entirely for her, however, he was not. In the least. There was one thing that he regretted, one thing that burned in the center of his chest every waking second of the day like a bed of embers, that gnawed endlessly at his stomach like gnashing teeth, the dark spot that he would carry on his soul until the day he died.
For killing Lily, he said.
Mom stiffened, and the world began to blur as new tears welled in Lincoln's eyes. He brushed them away with the heel of his palm and sniffed. Setting the knife down, she laid one hand on the edge and twisted around, her face a blanch mask of horror. Killing Lily?
Lincoln nodded. He opened his mouth to speak, but a sob rushed up from the depths of his pain, and she swallowed it down. Yeah, he whispered, it's my fault she's dead.
Mom gaped for a moment, then closed her mouth with a snap. You don't really think that, do you?
No, he didn't think that, he knew it. She was a normal, healthy girl and would have lived a long, natural life had he not gotten her pregnant when he did. She would have been able to handle a delivery in three years or five, but not now. If it weren't for him, she'd be alive right now.
He said as much, and Mom sighed. Coming over, she sat at his right and took his hand, surprising him. Honey, she said with heartfelt earnesty, it's not your fault. I-I-I hope I didn't make you think I thought that, I'm just...I lost my baby and it hurts so bad. Water flooded her eyes and her grip tightened, as though she were trying desperately to keep herself from falling back into her pit of misery. I miss her so much and I wish I was a better mother to her. I'll never get the chance and it kills me. The last two words came out as a strangled sob and she bowed her head. Lincoln blinked back his own tears and held her hand. I don't want to do the same thing to you, she continued after a moment. I'm sorry. She pulled away from his grip and swept him into a hug. I love you, Lincoln.
I love you too, he quivered and hugged her fiercely back.
Reconciling with his mother was a relief, but there were other, even more pressing concerns, such as finding a better job. Mom and Dad invited him and Layna to stay as long as they needed, and even reduced the price of his rent so you can better provide (per Dad), but as kind and welcome as that was, Lincoln didn't want to raise his daughter in his parents home. They needed their own space.
At the beginning of September, Lola, Lana, and Lucy went back to school and were no longer able to watch Layna. Lisa offered to keep her, and while Lincoln agreed, he didn't think the arrangement would work long term. Mom put in for subsidized daycare that was approved at galacial speeds: The government paid all of Layna's childcare costs save for 300 a week, which Mom and Dad offered to help with. Lincoln wanted to accept, since that was a lot of money, but he wanted to be an independent father even more, so he turned them down. He could afford it himself, but with very little leftover. All of Layna's things went from name brand to store brand: Diapers, wipes, formula, even her pacifiers. Lincoln wasn't keen on the idea of her having a binkie (using one leads to increased risk of tooth decay), but Lola stuck one into her mouth one day when she was fussy, and she took to it like the proverbial fish to metaphorical water. She took it out to drink her bottle, but that was it - sometimes she even fell asleep with it. If you tried to take it away, she melted down like a nuclear reactor in the middle of Armageddon, and Lincoln, exasperated, finally let her keep it.
It was kind of cute. He wound up buying her a variety, her favorite being a green one with a little plastic handle. Lincoln teased her by slipping his finger through the loop and pulling it out of her mouth. She would instantly open her mouth and throw herself at it, huffing indignantly like a dog on a hot day.
In late September, he applied at Tyson Foods again, as well as at the hospital and for a night watchman position at an industrial complex in Elk Park. He wasn't hired by any of them, and as autumn deepend, he sank into despair. He went back to doing commissions - he'd been away from the fandom since Layna was born (between being busy with her and depressed over Lily, he didn't give one shit about Ace Savvy or the assholes populating its fandom), and his return was met with such effusive celebration you'd think he was Jesus Christ.
Ew, he back, Rex the Porn God posted, I knew I smell bitch. I Will End Ace Savvy greeted him with Darn and I was just about to overtake you as the best artist in the fandom (IWEAS's artistic output consisted primarily of other people's memes and promising that one day he'd get off my ass and actually create something). Dabadoxxer hit him with a dab emoji; Falgg was being salty again; CorruptedWriting sighed in a very Lucylike fashion; ToddRombo interrupted the festivities to tell a long, meandering, and probably untruthful story about his teacher hitting on him; Hospital asked him to plz choke me daddy; Madness-613 immediately put in a commission; and three people left the server. Fuck you guys, too, Lincoln thought. By the end of the first week, he'd made three hundred dollars - not a kingly sum, but enough that he had some breathing room.
In mid-October, he reapplied at Tyson Foods yet again...and to his shock, he was hired as a production assistant for the 9-5 shift, Monday through Friday. The pay wasn't great, but it was far more than he was making at Sal's. It also allowed him to both drop Layna off at daycare, then pick her up, minimizing his need for help from his family. If he absolutely couldn't do something alone, he would hang his head and go to them, but for Layna's sake, not his.
At Tyson's, a production assistant worked on a conveyor line handling various aspects of the meatpacking process. For Lincoln, that was stamping packages with the date and making sure they made it down the belt in a neat and orderly line. The stench of chicken and the loud, ceaseless whine of machinery clung to him long after his day ended, and by the time he clocked out, his body ached from his neck to the soles of his feet. His supervisor, a scrawny yokel with glasses named Jim, wasn't as bad as Sal, but he was close - he floated around in a pair of goggles, a white hard hat, and white zip up coveralls, a clipboard always in his hand and complaints perpetually on his lips. He was one of those people whom you could never make happy -if you tried, you'd go crazy. Lincoln knew that from dealing with Sal for so long, so he dealt, but just barely; some days he left shaking and flushed, angry, depressed, and close to tears. If he didn't have Layna to worry about, he'd walk out and never fucking come back, but he did, so he held on, even when doing so dug deep, stinging, bloody trenches into the padding of his palms, even when his arms strained, quivered, and started to rip as though he were a stuffed animal.
Eventually, things got easier, like they usually do. He worked, came home, and spent time with his daughter, who was growing up far, far quicker than he remembered his sisters growing up. At six months, she could stand unassisted, and by eight she walked.
As soon as she was mobile, she started getting into everything. All of Mom's vases, knick knacks, and photos wound up in her little hands at least once, and if you left anything on the coffee table, you'd come back to find it missing, a lesson Lola learned the hard way when her cell phone vanished. She searched the whole house in a flustered state of panic verging on hysteria before finally finding it in the living room toybox. The same thing happened to Dad, only this time around it was his car keys, and he wound up hitchhiking to work. They were missing for three days, then Mom found them wrapped in Layna's pajamas.
Layna spoke her first word when she was seven months - in answer to Lana playfully trying to steal a toy from her. Layna whipped away, knitted her brows, and said No. Lincoln was hoping for dada but he was pleased nevertheless. By the beginning of the summer, her vocabulary had expanded to include dada, gahma, gahpa, eesa (Lisa), Ohah (Lola), ana (Lana), oocee (Lucy), baba, binkie, hungee, firsty, poo poo, and mine. She used the last one the most; everything was hers, even if it was yours. Lincoln would be laying on the couch after an especially exhausting day, and she would toddle over, grin...then yank his sock off his foot. Mine. She snatched Mom's reading glasses off her face once, mine; grabbed a tuft of Dad's hair, mine; took one of Lucy's book and scribbled in it with crayon, mine; and took Lana's baseball cap away, my haaaaaat. She was like a small, territorial animal...or a bandit from a Hardy Boys paperback, stealing everything she could get her paws on and hoarding it in a cave outside town AKA her toybox, where all missing items were presumed to be until proven otherwise.
On July 28, Layna turned one, and Lincoln could hardly believe that it had already been a year since the happiest day of his life and the saddest too. Time had never flown for him, but proceeded rather like a frozen river; the first 12 months of his daughter's life, however, passed like a warm summer's day. They held a party for her in the backyard: Hamburgers, hotdog, watermelon, cake, and lots of presents. Leni was the only extended family to come, but everyone sent something: Lynn a football, Luan a rubber chicken, and Lori a check for 1,000 dollars that Lincoln put toward Layna's college fund. It was a joyous gathering but tinged with solemnity. After it was over, Lincoln left Layna with Leni and drove out to the cemetery, where he sat in the grass before Lily's grave and told her all about the party. She's growing up fast, he said, unconscious of the tears in his eyes, I really wish you could see it.
That October, he finally had enough money saved up to rent a place of his own. He started looking just before Halloween and found a two bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Chippewa Falls for 950 a month. It was perfect for just the two of them, and less than five miles from Tyson. They moved in on December 15; Mom, Dad, Lola, Lucy, Lana, and Lisa helped, then they ordered pizza and ate in the kitchen. Layna took hers (plain cheese) cut into tiny, bite sized pieces; she ate the equivalent of two slices, which didn't surprise him, since she loved to eat. Pizza, chicken nuggets, and French fries were her favorites, but she would eat just about anything just so long as it wasn't broccoli.
Her second birthday rolled around just as suddenly as her first, if not more so. Her hair, once short and wispy, was now long and golden blonde, just like her mother's. Lincoln kept it up in pigtails because leaving it down led to tangles, which in turn led to him having to brush them out...a ritual Layna hated. She'd sit on the closed toilet lid, cross her arms sullenly, and glare at him. I no like this.
I know, he would reply as he hovered over her like a gay hairdresser, but we have to make your hair look pretty. You wanna look like auntie Lola?
That usually worked - of all her aunts, Layna was closest to Lola, who was currently in her sophomore year at Michigan State University in Ann Arbor. Layna wasn't what Lincoln would call "girly", but she looked up to her aunt and liked to emulate her hairstyles and absolutely loved when Lola gave her makeovers. They never lasted very long, because Layna's favorite place in the world was the park, and when she played, she played hard. She'd come home covered in dirt, cuts, and bruises, so exhausted Lincoln had to carry her, but she wouldn't have it any other way. Lynn suggested he get her into sports, but sports was her answer for everything. She was energetic enough, but far too little and uncoordinated. Plus, she might get hurt, and for Lincoln, the possibility of his daughter being injured was the most frightening thing imaginable. If he could put her in bubble wrap and keep her in a hermetically sealed chamber, he would...but that's not how it works. He worried about her constantly, and some nights he dreamed of her...only she looked like Lily, and she was pregnant too. Then, just like her mother, she died on the operating table; Lincoln invariably woke from these dreams slathered in sweat and shaking. Each time, without fail, he would get up, cross the hall, and check on her. She was always fine, a tiny, angelic face nestled among thick pink bedding, but one day, he was scared, she wouldn't be - she'd be taken away from him just like her mother was.
Every night before bed, Lincoln cuddled up next to her and read a bedtime story. She would curl up with her chin resting on his stomach and his arm around her shoulder, and listen with a calm and rapture that she displayed at no other point in the day. Every time he flipped the page, she would look up at him with the same boundless curiosity that she'd possessed since she was a baby and that Lincoln hoped she never lost. Then what happened, Daddy? When he reached the end of the book, she would ask him the same thing.
Then this happened, he'd say, then attack her stomach with tickles that sent her into peals of laughter that he cherished dearly.
When she was four, Lincoln transferred departments at work and became a safety inspector. It was more money and included benefits. That year, he also started on a government program that allowed him to make payments on his student loans; he tried to start making payments to Mom and Dad, but they never accepted them, and after a while he stopped. He felt guilty because he owed them over 10,000 dollars, but he didn't want to push the matter, because they might change their minds, and he'd have less for him and Layna.
The following year, Layna started school - she wasn't the least bit nervous since she'd been in daycare her whole life, but Lincoln was. He dressed her in a denim skirt, pink leggings, and a white shirt with a cat on the front, and did her hair up in pigtails with white ribbons; he held her hand and walked her to the main doors, his stomach tossing, then, after a brief and anxious hesitation, he let go. Getting down on one knee, he gave her a big hug. Have fun, he said, I love you.
I will, she piped, I love you too.
She pulled away and ran inside, swept on a tide of excitement and jubilation that brought a wistful smile to Lincoln's lips, her pink backpack jostling from side to side and her pigtails swishing like wings. Lincoln watched her go with a sigh, then got up and left, hoping to God she made friends and didn't have a hard time.
Thankfully, she did...and she didn't. Like her mother, she was bright and excelled in her studies; being a social butterfly, she made a lot of friends and was, her teacher told him, quite popular. One night in November, after Lincoln finished with her story, she looked up at him with a serious expression. Why don't I have a mommy? she asked.
A fist of dread clenched in Lincoln's stomach. He was expecting this, was surprised that it hadn't come much sooner...hoped that it didn't come until much later. Well, he started and closed the book, your mommy's in heaven.
Layna scrunched her brow. She had a grasp on the concept of heaven and God from the occasional trip to church with Mom and Dad. My mommy died? The question was devoid of hurt, simply curious.
Yeah, Lincoln said, she did.
What was she like?
Lincoln took a deep breath. Talking about Lily still hurt even after six years, hell, thinking of her hurt. Every errant memory grated like sandpaper to a seeping wound, and those memories were many. He strove to keep them away, but occasionally he indulged his self-flagellant side and wallowed in them, always late at night when no one could see or hear him cry, remembering the love and happiness they shared, pining for her to fill the empty spot next to him. If he could see her face one more time...just one moreā¦
She was beautiful, he said, a dream-like haze creeping into his eyes, and smart. She was kind and funny and silly and a really good artist. You remind me a lot of her.
Layna meditated on his words for a long time. She sounds really cool. I wish I could meet her.
Yeah, so did Lincoln.
He leaned over, kissed her forehead, and stroked her hair. I do too.
To get her mind off her missing mother, he read her another story - Green Eggs and Ham, one of her favorites. She liked Sam I Am because he was goofy.
That wasn't the end of it, he knew, there would be other questions eventually, questions that he wouldn't want to answer, hadn't yet decided how to answer. He did not want Layna to know Lily died giving birth to her...not until she was much, much older, and maybe not even then; he didn't want her to feel even an ounce of guilt, not now and not ever. What happened was beyond her control, but she might take it into her head that she was responsible, and that probability made Lincoln sick.
In Layna's sixth year, she asked about her mother again. She sat at the kitchen table coloring while Lincoln made dinner. All of a sudden, she stopped, put the crayon down, and looked at him. How did you meet my mommy?
That question threw him for a loop. Like the previous one, he expected it, but not until she was older. What did he tell her? He didn't want her knowing she was the product of incest anymore than he wanted her to know her mother died in labor. We lived in the same neighborhood, he said haltingly, unsure if he should lie or just deflect.
Were you friends?
Lincoln nodded. Yeah, we were friends.
Layna was quiet for a moment. Then you had sex and made me?
Lincoln sputtered. Where did you hear about sex? he demanded.
TV, she said matter-of-factly.
Apparently it was time for The Talk. The thought of talking to his little girl about...that...filled him with horror, so he did the only thing he could think of.
He asked Lola to do it for him.
I need a woman to do it, he explained over the phone, and since you're close -
On it.
Two days later, Lola came over, took Layna into her bedroom, and shut the door. When they came out again, the little girl's eyes were wide and traumatized. Auntie Lola said the boy's thing goes in the girl's thing, she shivered later at dinner.
Maybe he should have held off.
Life continued on in this fashion, little domestic drabbles written day by day. Lincoln was promoted at work and made more money; they left the apartment and moved into a tiny ranch house in Royal Woods; Lincoln dated and married; and one day, when she was thirteen, Layna came home from school happy as a lark because the boy she liked liked her back. She wanted to know if they could go to the movies together. Lincoln said yes.
Every so often, Lincoln visited Lily's grave, and today, a week before Layna turned fifteen, he sat before it with his legs crossed Indian style. The summer sun hung high in the dusty blue heavens and a warm breeze slipped through the green treetops. He didn't speak to the tombstone as he used to, but simply enjoyed the company of Lily's spirit, which he felt every time he did this. Somewhere, he decided, she did exist, and she was watching. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he took it out. A text. From Layna; she and her friends were at the mall. We're ready, it read.
Putting it back in, he cast one last look at the headstone, got on his knees, and placed a soft kiss on the rough surface. "I love you," he said, like he always did, "and I'll take good care of her. I promise."
The wind picked up and washed across his face like the faint, loving caress of a small, slender hand, and a feeling of peace and serenity decided upon him. He got to his feet, stared down at the stone for a long moment with a nostalgic ache dulled by years, then turned and went home to Layna.
