Twice in a Lifetime

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  Marie-Thérèse digested the information slowly. “What does her mother say?”

  “Mademoiselle Despain hasn’t been found yet. My guess is that someone tipped her off about the police. Now we have to wait to see if she shows up or if the police find her. Regardless, it’s unlikely Celisse will ever go back there. Besides the terrible state of the room, she has cigarette burns on her arms, numerous scars over her body, and the doctor we took her to this morning said she has been sexually molested. You should have seen how upset she was when we tried to do the examination. He did only the bare minimum while she was awake because he didn’t want to traumatize her any further. He had to give her a sedative to continue—we needed evidence for the court. He’s seen a lot of our cases, but he recommended taking her to a specialist—both for her psychological damage and for her physical needs. He thinks she’ll need surgery to correct the damage.” Pascale shook her head sadly, and the lock of escaped hair fell over her shoulder. With an impatient gesture, she pinched open the comb at the nape of her neck and repositioned the hair inside. “Of course, that will all come later.”

  The sick feeling in Marie-Thérèse’s stomach had increased with Pascale’s words. She could almost see the child’s bright blue eyes staring at her gravely. No wonder she hasn’t spoken, she thought. How can anyone ever make up for what she’s been through?

  “From what we can determine, she’s four years old,” Pascale continued. “Or nearly so, though she’s small for her age—more like a three-year-old. Lack of nutrition, no doubt. Like I said before, she hasn’t said a word since she was placed in my care, though she eats everything I give her. Fortunately, the baby seems to have escaped much of the abuse—she hasn’t cried once since we fed her. We don’t have any idea what her name is or how old she is, but she’s probably somewhere between two and six weeks old. She’s small, but healthy, so it’s hard to tell.”

  Pascale’s dark eyes met Marie-Thérèse’s. “So can you do it for a few days? I know it won’t be easy, but Celisse deserves a home that can give her consistency and kindness. I can’t just toss her in with anyone. I’ll have to find the perfect family. She’s been through enough.”

  Marie-Thérèse took a deep breath. “Of course we’ll help. We’ll be glad to. You don’t have to worry. I’ll take good care of them until you find a foster home you feel comfortable with.”

  “I can wait while you call Mathieu.”

  “It’s not necessary. You know Mathieu—of course he’ll be fine with it.”

  Relief etched over Pascale’s worn face. “Thank you. You can’t begin to know how much I appreciate this.”

  Marie-Thérèse tucked her hair behind her ear, thinking that it wasn’t so important what Pascale thought as what little Celisse was thinking. That poor child!

  “There’s formula in the bag . . . and diapers. Also a few clothes that we had at the office—what they were wearing was not salvageable. Looked like it’d never been washed. What I brought isn’t much, and you’ll need more to get through the weekend. We’ll reimburse you, of course.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve done this before with my children.” Marie-Thérèse’s mind was already racing, wondering if the outfits she’d saved from Larissa’s childhood were still usable. Or maybe she had some material she could use to whip up something simple on the sewing machine. “It’s been a while since they were small, but it’s like riding a bike, right?”

  “Probably.”

  The moment the door closed on Pascale, Marie-Thérèse’s confidence faded away. She had a baby just waking up in a car seat and a little girl who crouched in silent terror under the table. What should she do first?

  She set the car seat on the table and knelt down to address Celisse. “Would you like a cookie?”

  The child said nothing but stared at her with wide blue eyes. Her back was pressed up against the wall, as far away from Marie-Thérèse as she could get.

  The baby started crying then, pursing her tiny button mouth and howling as though she were being tortured by a thousand needles. “It’s okay.” Marie-Thérèse placed a consoling hand on her stomach. The infant sobbed harder.

  Marie-Thérèse was still on her knees trying to quiet the baby and coax Celisse from under that table when the slamming of the apartment door signaled her children’s arrival.

  “What’s going on?” Larissa glared at her with piercing brown eyes. Her very short, almost black hair, sculpted around her skull with her customary gel, made her look older than almost sixteen—and mean. Her nose wrinkled in angry disgust. “You went ahead and did it, didn’t you? You got a kid without even asking me how I felt. I can’t believe it. You talk about honesty, and then you do this. I can tell you one thing; it’s not sleeping in my room!” With a jerky movement of her gangly body, Larissa threw her backpack to the ground. Her school books tumbled through a hem that ripped with the impact. She ran from the room, and Marie-Thérèse stifled an impulse to run after her daughter and wring her little neck.

  Ignoring his older sister, Brandon shrugged off his own backpack and set it on the table. “Cool,” he said, dipping his head to peer at the baby. The brown hair on his head was longer than Larissa’s and fell forward with the movement. “Can I hold him? Without waiting for an answer, he unhooked the safety belt and scooped the baby out of the seat. At once the baby stopped crying. “Hey, he likes me. What a smart kid.”

  “She. She’s a girl.”

  “Even better. I like girls.” He stroked her soft cheek. “She sure is cute. Like Aunt Josette’s babies, only smaller. Hey, this isn’t so hard. But she’s trying to suck my finger. Looks hungry. Can I give her a bottle?”

  Marie-Thérèse blinked away sudden tears. At least one of her children was reasonable. “Sure,” she said with a sigh. “Now what do you know about getting a scared child out from under the table?”

  Chapter Three

  For Rebekka, the months since Marc’s death had passed in alternating bouts of numb disbelief and agonizing tears. The grief was all-encompassing, like a suffocating blanket she could not remove—nor would if she could. She had never realized how a feeling could permeate every aspect of her life. Or how trite the well-meaning condolences sounded from people who didn’t know real tragedy—though she believed they were all sincere.

  That day at the restaurant her life had ceased, though strangely the world had gone on. Bills continued to arrive in the mail, the television stations continued to air their programs, birds still sang outside her window. People woke up, went to work, ate, and went to bed. Even her body had gone on, though at first it had surprised her that her body still demanded food, rest, and regular trips to the bathroom. It was all too mundane for any semblance of reason, and yet it was these ordinary things that helped her cling to sanity. Yes, she believed she would one day be reunited with her husband, but at twenty-eight, the belief wasn’t as comforting as she’d hoped. Her heart was utterly broken.

  “Eat up,” André encouraged, breaking through her thoughts. He was at the window, watering the potted plant Marc had always cared for. Rebekka didn’t want to point out that it was way too late. She’d never remembered to water it before Marc’s death and afterward, there had seemed even less reason to do so. How could she care about a plant when her life was over?

  “Come on,” André said. “I know how you love rye bread.”

  She lifted the sandwich Marie-Thérèse had made and took a bite. The smell of the mustard made her stomach queasy and she dropped it to the plate. She would much rather contemplate the warmth of the sunlight through the curtains. Or maybe she should go through her bedroom and out onto the balcony to feel it better. But no, it wasn’t August anymore, it was October. There might be a cool breeze and that meant the sun would feel warmer coming through the glass. She should have remembered what month it was. Why did she always think of it as still being August? Would it always be August? The month Marc died.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I always knew he would die b
efore me. I mean, with him being ten years older it was likely. Or if he didn’t die from old age, there was the chance of kidney failure. Either way I expected that there would be time to say goodbye.” Her voice had begun calmly enough but rose steadily as she talked. “So it’s over just like that? No tender goodbye as I watch him struggle for breath? No time for last minute declarations of love and undying loyalty? No intense looks? No kisses to endure a life time?” She was nearly yelling now. “No! I have nothing! Nothing! It was over, just like that!” She snapped her fingers.

  “Rebekka,” André groaned.

  She knew he hated it when she talked that way, and she even felt a little sorry for him—if she stopped to think about it long enough. But she was also angry because André had shared her husband’s last few moments of life while she’d waited obliviously at the restaurant, believing her good news would insulate them from all trials.

  The silence between them grew, and then he said, “I know what you’re feeling, Rebekka. Claire and I . . . I never got to tell her what a difference she’d made in my life, and how grateful I was for her love and companionship.”

  Rebekka closed her eyes, unable to bear the pain in her heart or the terrible loss in his eyes. “Claire knew,” she whispered.

  “So does Marc.”

  Rebekka forced her eyes open. “I know, but I wanted to say it. I wanted him to remind me that he would be looking down from heaven, that our marriage was eternal. You of all people should understand that.” Her voice broke as she lifted her face to the ceiling. “You hear me Marc? That wasn’t fair!”

  “Life’s not fair!” The words came roughly from André’s lips.

  She focused on his face, bleary from her tears. “You don’t think I know that? I’m not stupid, André. I may have been a lot of things in my life, but I’m not stupid.”

  Suddenly it was all too much. All of it—the rye-bread sandwich she had no appetite for, the powerful smell of the mustard, the continual ache of missing Marc. She sprang to her feet and ran down the hall to the bathroom. She heaved repeatedly into the toilet, but nothing came except the single bite of sandwich she’d swallowed, now mixed with bitter gall. She sobbed and heaved and sobbed some more. At long last, she wiped her mouth with trembling fingertips and sank to the floor, her back against the wall and her knees tucked close to her chest. She wrapped her arms around her legs. That’s right—hold them tightly against my heart. That way maybe it won’t hurt so much.

  There was a noise, and she looked up to see André who stood watching her from the doorway. Instead of the sympathy she’d expected, his face wore a stunned expression, one that held more than a hint of anger.

  “So how long have you known?”

  Rebekka stared at him blankly. She tried to rise, but felt too nauseated to move. Instead, she gripped her legs more firmly.

  He was unyielding. “Don’t play innocent with me. How long have you known you were pregnant?” She didn’t reply, and he slapped the wall with his open palm. “I can’t believe it. I’ve been here twice a day since . . . twice a day!—and I never guessed.”

  Rebekka squeezed her eyes shut, allowing new tears to fall. The tears turned to sobs. Releasing her hold on her legs, she clenched her fists and rubbed the pulse of her wrists over her wet eyes.

  “It was that day,” she said finally without looking at André. “I suspected before, but there have been so many disappointments these last few years that I wanted to be sure before I told Marc. I’d just come from the doctor’s . . . ohhhhh!”

  Rebekka curled into a miserable ball on the floor, the position in which she’d spent so much time these past two months. She did it without thought, perhaps as a subconscious effort to protect her unborn child. Her sobs came heavily and continuously, until she wondered if she would cry herself into nothingness.

  Strong arms encircled her, and before Rebekka realized what was happening, she was cradled against André’s chest. “Shush now. It’ll be okay,” he murmured.

  She wasn’t comforted. “He’ll never know. I mean, not so that he can be involved. He won’t be able to see our baby grow, play tiger with him as your dad did with you guys, or . . . or anything.” Her sobs became a wail. “Oh, why did it have to happen?”

  André didn’t answer, seeming to understand there could be no answer that would satisfy her. He carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed. “Try not to move,” he ordered.

  Rebekka didn’t feel she could move so obeying wasn’t too difficult. She couldn’t remember feeling so sick during her entire life.

  Shortly, André returned with a bed tray. Rebekka pried open one eye and groaned, “I can’t eat that sandwich.”

  “Of course you can’t eat that sandwich. It has too much of that gourmet mustard you like so much. Far too tasty for an expectant mother. You have to eat differently now. At least at first. Here.” As he lowered the tray, Rebekka saw a plate of dry toast and a mug of warm milk. “Eat up,” he said. “Or do you want me to feed you?”

  What she really wanted to do was throw it at him, but something in his eyes forbade such an action; he just might actually follow through in his offer to feed her. So she brought pieces of the toast to her mouth and chewed steadily without stopping, following the bits of bread with sips of warm milk. Miraculously the nausea began to subside.

  “You have to eat small meals more often,” André told her from where he sat at the foot of the bed. “And begin before you’re actually hungry. If you wait until your stomach’s growling, it’s way too late. In the morning, you need to eat a few crackers or something before you even try to get out of bed. Keep them on the night stand within reach.”

  “I know all that.”

  “No you don’t. Or you would have done it.”

  “That’s because . . . ” Rebekka couldn’t finish.

  André’s eyes become sympathetic. “Look, I know it’s been hard and I’m sorry, but you should have told us about the baby. Marc’s baby.” After a moment of silence, he added wistfully, “Marc would have been so excited.”

  “Is excited,” Rebekka corrected. As if that changed things. Marc could be as excited as he wanted in heaven, but her baby still wouldn’t have a father on earth.

  André was apparently thinking along the same lines. “We’ll all pitch in,” he said, lifting his right shoulder in his customary shrug. “That baby has four uncles, two grandfathers, and a host of older cousins. He’ll be just fine.”

  Rebekka knew that, but her heart ached for Marc and for what they’d lost. She sighed wearily. “Thank you, André. You’ve been great.”

  “I’m gonna be here, Rebekka. I promised Marc.”

  That stung, though she didn’t know why. She spoke before she thought the words through: “I wonder if he would have asked you to take care of me if he knew that you were the reason I broke our engagement.”

  Immediately Rebekka wished she could take the words back. Tears gathered in her eyes, and this time they weren’t for Marc. André had been nothing but honorable, and she had no right to say such things.

  André regarded her with the air of one whose conscience was clear. “I told him that day,” he said, “but he already knew. He’d guessed. No, don’t get all upset—he knew you loved him. He knew if there’d been something important to tell him about us, you would have told him. And he didn’t blame me for . . . caring for you.”

  “You didn’t really—at least not in that way.” Rebekka remembered too clearly how André had been the one to take himself out of the running, claiming that he was still mourning his wife and that Rebekka belonged with Marc. By doing so, he’d helped her realize that she couldn’t possibly live without Marc. So she had married him.

  And now she would be living without him.

  She placed her hand on her abdomen. Their unborn baby was now the most important thing in her life.

  André looked as though he wanted to say something, but he shook his head. “That’s all in the past. We made the decision we did and i
t was the right one. You can’t deny that.”

  She didn’t want to. Two years and eight months wasn’t a long time to be with the man she adored, but she wouldn’t trade loving him to avoid the pain of his loss. The biggest comfort was that she was sealed to him in the Lord’s holy temple. They would be together in the next life and for the rest of eternity. That knowledge would have to be enough.

  André came to his feet, reaching for the tray. “I think you might try a little salad in an hour or so, or maybe some fruit. Whatever you feel like, but you must keep eating. The first three months or so is the most common time to miscarry, and you’ve already lost too much weight.”

  A new fear leapt to life in her heart. She stared at him, almost hating him for voicing the thought. Through gritted teeth she muttered, “I’m three months now. And I can’t lose this baby.”

  “I know.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment. Standing there, he looked so much like his brother, that Rebekka longed to reach out and ask him to hold her, to comfort her. But it wasn’t André she wanted, it was Marc, and out of long habit, she resisted the urge to touch André. With Marc gone, André had to be even further out of her life; she would not betray her husband by encouraging a relationship with his brother.

  What makes you think André would even be interested? a nasty voice sneered inside her head. He didn’t fight for you the last time. There had been a time when Rebekka would have laughed at such a ridiculous thought, but now everything hurt too badly.

  “When is your next doctor’s appointment?” André asked, balancing the tray with her empty dishes on one hand.

  Rebekka didn’t answer, her eyes wandering to the French doors leading onto her balcony. There was no light filtering directly though the sheer curtains and she remembered the balcony caught only the morning sun. She’d always wished it was the other way around—the kitchen should have the morning sun and the balcony the evening rays. She and Marc had joked about it.

  “Well? When’s your next appointment?” André asked.