I floated through the first month of my daughter's life in a sleep-deprived fog, buoyed along by almost hourly shots of espresso-like energy when I discovered something new to panic about. Christine assured me that all the things I was tied in knots about were normal new-baby things, but the little angel seemed rather defective. She couldn't really work out how to burp, so Christine had to thump her. I hated this thumping; it looked as though her little eyes were going to be shot right out of her skull, but if she wasn't thumped and she didn't burp, she got a gassy tummy and cried. On the other hand, she couldn't really work out how to keep the food in her tummy when she got it, so nearly every time she was thumped she spit something up. I fretted that the entire design seemed poor. Christine was mortified when I mentioned my fears. Good Catholic girl that she was, she felt I shouldn't question the Ultimate Designer.
We settled on 'Mireille Ange' for her name—Masson contributed 'miracle' from our conversation, and 'angel' just seemed a perfect accompaniment. 'Mireille' was a bit much for Masson, so immediately she became 'Miri-ange'.
Christine swung on a pendulum of emotions. She was overjoyed about the baby, but frustrated at feeling so tired. The frustration in turn made her weepy, and it was no good for me to assure her that she was working doubly hard caring for an infant and an extremely needy two-and-a-half-year-old. I did everything I could for Christine, but there was little that she would permit me to do for Miri-ange; she didn't want the baby out of her sight, and after all, I couldn't feed her. She seemed to believe that I was completely incompetent to care for the baby in those little things that I could do. Once, I tried to bathe Miri-ange and give Christine an opportunity to doze. In a few moments, she was creeping up behind me, demanding "What are you doing? Not like that, Erik; give her to me!"
I tried not to take it personally. I didn't understand it, but it hurt. I turned to Masson, as he did to me. We went to the park every day, we played music, we went to the opera…we did everything together from morning til night.
Masson did not like Miri-ange. I tried to mention it to Christine, but she would not hear it. She insisted that Masson's feelings were normal and they would change with time. She told me I worried too much. She got irritated and asked me if she didn't have enough to worry about without me piling ridiculous fantasies on top of it.
But to me, there was nothing ridiculous about it. Every day I saw how Masson looked at his little sister, and I recognized what I read in his eyes. He was my son, there was no mistaking it.
"Papa, can we give the baby back to God?"
"No, Masson, she's ours to love and to keep. We'd be sad if Miri-ange went away."
He did not reply, he only climbed into my lap and fished into my waistcoat for a coin.
"It's hard to have to share so much of Mama's time. I miss her; don't you?" I asked him.
"Mm," he shrugged.
"You know, Miri-ange can't do anything for herself, like you and I can. She really does need Mama for everything, but you know Mama loves us just the same."
He nodded.
"As soon as Miri-ange gets a little older, we'll have Mama and Miri-ange both to have fun with."
I told Christine about the conversation, and suggested that she might let me have Miri-ange and have a bit of special time with Masson. She agreed that it sounded like a good idea, and Masson took her to his duck pond. He was much more like his old self when they returned, but the light in his eyes dimmed the moment she reclaimed Mari-ange from my arms.
His big boy potty habits went all to hell, and he sucked his fingers almost constantly. Most nights I actually fell asleep sitting on his big bed with him. After story time, he pleaded with me not to leave him, and we'd cuddle up together. I'd wake up sometime in the middle of the night, tuck him in with a kiss on the forehead and wander in to lie down with Christine and Miri-ange.
Christine and I gave Silke a pair of pearl earrings in gratitude for her help when Miri-ange was born. She protested that it wasn't necessary, but we knew better.
I went down for a glass of wine one evening, and Silke was there, drinking tea. I recalled what Christine had told me, about asking Silke to take Masson if something should happen. I mentioned it to Silke, told her I thought it was a generous, brave thing she'd agreed to.
"No Sir," she demurred. "I love Masson. He's the dearest child!"
"Well, still, it was a tremendous gesture, Silke."
"It's so beautiful to see you with him, Monsieur Rouen. You're—"
Her smile faded and she sprung up, rushing to the kitchen window. She looked out into the darkness, twirling a loose curl distractedly. "I'm just glad Madame Rouen is alright. I would never want anything to happen to her, ever," she insisted.
"Silke, what's wrong?"
"I…almost feel…never mind. Never mind!"
She had nearly escaped the kitchen when she turned and rushed back to me. Her eyes were wide with confusion, but her face held something unmistakably hopeful. She dropped her gaze, conflicted.
I must have second-guessed myself a dozen times in a second. Surely I was imagining things! However, I didn't think I was; not really.
"Silke, you're a lovely woman," I whispered, as kindly as I could. "If my heart were free, it would be more than I could hope for; I hope you believe this."
She looked at me again; I could feel her willing me to kiss her. It was impossibly surreal.
"But neither of us would ever hurt Christine," I smiled. "Good night, Silke." I slipped past her and upstairs to my priceless young family.