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As I hold her, she begins to shake again, her eyes so glassy that I can easily understand why I might have mistaken my daughter as blind.
Petrified, I alert Erik, who watches solemnly. We stare into each other eyes for a long time.
He sighs. "The physician wants to talk to you."
On the couch downstairs, Adora tucked protectively in the crook of my arm, the elderly physician tells me fluently in French that my daughter has epilepsy. The term means nothing to me, and I look to Erik in confusion. He shakes his head ever so slightly, and nods towards the physician, not willing to explain. Adora has had seizures—several small ones already. I learn that this can be very dangerous for a baby, especially when she begins to walk and move around unattended. Erik's fingers cut into mine, the physician's works confirming his fears; it is a mark of how serious the situation is that Erik sits next to me calmly, comfortable with the present company—a feeling apparently not shared by the physician, judging on the way he does everything he can to avoid looking Erik's way.
But my Erik is brave. He is doing this for Adora.
"The very good news is that she will most likely grow out of this." the physician tells me confidently. "It may linger up until her early childhood. There is nothing much to be done for her at this time. I will, of course, offer you my care if you should ever need it."
When he leaves, Erik is up instantly, taking off his mask and pressing his hands into his eyes, pacing. I rock my sleeping baby, unwilling to believe that there is anything wrong with my perfect, precious angel.
Her next seizure is not for several days. When it happens, I hold her carefully, distraught over the fact that there is nothing to do for her. Nothing! I can do nothing to help my child.
But I must hold myself together, for I learn quickly that where I panic quietly and take deep breaths, Erik grows completely hysterical.
"What is the matter?" I ask in shock and worry when I find Erik sobbing in our room not five minutes later. I put Adora down in her little crib and go over to him, putting both of my hands on his shoulders. "Erik, tell me what's the matter! And don't you dare say—"
"It's all my fault!" he moans brokenly. "It must be my fault!"
My heart sinks. "Darling, how can you even—"
"I still cannot give you what you want!" he says, clawing onto both of my hands so that I must carefully lean down in front of him, looking upon him very seriously. "Erik begs you—no, he cannot give you perfect children! The ones you deserve. She's flawed, like me. She's not perfect, like you! She ought to be, but I have cursed her, because you called her mine. How can you suffer beside her? You will not suffer with her! You don't want her. You don't love her, because she is not perfect!"
He is speaking from experience, Christine… be patient, please…
"Tell me," he begged. "Do you hate her, like my poor mother, because she is not perfect? Do you hate her?"
"How could I?" I say softly, and he cries against my hand, and will not look at me. "She is our child. And I love her for what she is. And she is perfect."
There was no way we could hold a conversation like this, not when he was so irrationally upset. He clutches onto my dress and releases horrible, racking sobs.
But Adora had no more episodes for a very long time. She was, it seemed to me, actually very healthy. She ate when I fed her, reacted to our voices, and almost instantly, began sleeping through the night.
How could Erik see her as anything but perfect. It occurred to me slowly that what should concern me wasn't that he didn't see her as perfect, but that he thought I didn't see her as perfect.
As the months went on, Adora's eyes turned a darker blue, identical to mine. Her nose has the same little tilt to it that mine has, and her lips curve in the same direction. Her hair is growing darker than mine, a chestnut brown with very, very thin curls that stick out straight from her head.
Erik calls me crazy, but I see him in Adora as well.
Part of me wonders if Erik simply has forgotten what he looks like, but I find pieces of him in her growing features. Most dominantly are her high cheekbones, which will give her quite the look of a sophisticated young lady when she is older; she certainly did not inherit that from me. There is also something in the shape of her eyes and face—unlike the roundness of mine, hers is more oval.
The next time I see Erik cry is when I cut her hair. It grows surprisingly quickly, and the silky curls go haphazardly over her head.
"It doesn't hurt her." I promise Erik comfortingly, while he presses his lips together and refuses to look. "It must be done eventually. Look, it is going in her eyes. You wouldn't want her to not be able to see fully, would you?"
"Be quiet and do the damn thing already." he snaps.
I wasn't sure of what to accredit that reaction to. Perhaps it bothers him that it may hurt her in some way; perhaps he is just partial to her curls.
One evening, when I am trying to make supper, she cries when I lay her down. I pass her off to Erik, who happens to be in the hallway at the time.
"She just wants to be held." I say absently, my back to the both of them, pulling down bowls.
As I turn back, Erik is frozen, his arms held out from his body, Adora positioned rather precariously.
"Erik!" I scold, but he only stares at her with wide, glowing eyes, both of his abnormally long hands enveloping her entire body. He touches a curl with his pointer finger, and then breezes past her nose. She squirms, and he looks up, shocked to find me standing there.
"Take her!" he cries suddenly, his arms thrust out towards me. He vanished.
I sigh.
When she sleeps, I like to lay on the sofa, her little body curled into my chest. It's is amazing how tiny she truly is when she brings her legs up and her arms together. I have watched her for hours before, captivated by the life that was once held inside of me. Even now, I am silent and still while her eyes are closed and her lips parted, until she wakes up and coos at me.
Her newest talent is this coo—her face molds into a surprised look and that lovely sound escapes from her pink lips.
Erik doesn't find it as interesting as I do—or if he does, he is very good at hiding it. "She ought to be speaking soon." he states flatly.
"Oh heavens, Erik, she's only a few months old!" I say, cradling her in my arms and cooing back to her.
Erik watches me make a fool of myself with an odd look on his face.
Adora doesn't talk for quite a long time; she takes her first passable steps before she utters anything that is remotely passable for a word.
It was a dramatic moment in our household (for me, at least—Erik said that all children walk, and to make such an affair out of it was sure to harm her in later life—but he was smiling rather deviously as he said that) when Adora took her first, hesitant step towards me, her pale, solemn eyes focusing on my waiting arms.
She is such a smart girl! Even Erik admitted that she seemed very bright one afternoon, as he stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, his eyes fixed rather proudly on our little daughter.
Our daughter. At the Opera House, when I first saw his dark figure for the first time, could I have even imagined that future that we would have?
Her next seizure comes the same night that I thought my deep thoughts, just as I am fondly lowering her down into her crib. There is nothing I can do again!—only to hold her and keep her safe.
But still, I cannot describe my absolute panic, my heart in my throat, my arms trembling so much that I am afraid I might drop her.
But Erik comes and pulls her out of my arms, holding her himself. He can hold her tighter than I can, while she twists in his arms, her eyes not seeing his upon her.
When she is still, her eyes flutter closed, and he sets her down softly in her crib.
"You shouldn't panic so," he tells me quietly while I bury my face in his shoulder, still shaking myself. "We do not want to distress her. The physician is right, she will grow out of this."
I cling to him. "But… it's so unfair!"
He holds onto me. "She's fine."
In my heart, I know she is… But I'm frightened for her. I don't want her to be in any pain. I want her to be happy.
"I believe you." I murmur. He feels nice and strong after holding Adora—her scent still lingers upon both of us, and I inhale. I can feel the presence of both of my loved ones very close to me. It makes me feel safe. Loved.
He carries me to bed.
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