Twice in a Lifetime

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  Other words raged in Marie-Thérèse’s mind, but she bit them back, reminding herself that this child had never been taught the most basic things. Hadn’t Pascale said the apartment had been full of feces, and that Celisse’s clothes had been unsalvageable? Celisse had even come dressed in castoffs kept by the agency.

  Marie-Thérèse sighed and let go of Celisse’s arm. “Don’t go under the table. We have to clean you up. Just a minute, though, while I finish feeding Raquel her bottle.”

  An hour later Marie-Thérèse was sitting on Brandon’s bed with her back against the wall reading a picture book. Raquel lay along the length of her knees, wide awake, but Celisse had fallen asleep at her side. Marie-Thérèse shut the book and for a blessed minute listened to the silence. The wood wall clock on Brandon’s bed ticked softly and steadily toward one o’clock. Where had the morning gone? She had laundry to do, seemingly double now with the girls here, and the bathroom was worse than it had been for a long time. She would have to get a freshener in there to rid it of the smell left by Celisse’s dirty underwear.

  A rush of thoughts assaulted her: What am I thinking, telling Mathieu I will pray to see if these girls should be in my life? They wouldn’t be in my life, they would be my life. I wanted a baby, a baby like Raquel, not a problem that would take away all my control. What was I thinking? What was Mathieu thinking? Oh, dear Father in Heaven, can I do this? Can I really be a mother to these little girls—to Celisse? She needs so much, she takes so much . . . and then what if . . . what if . . .

  Marie-Thérèse couldn’t complete the idea. Celisse couldn’t be returned to her mother, could she? What about Raquel? For a brief, bitter moment Marie-Thérèse wished she’d never seen the children, that she hadn’t opened the door to Pascale or let her inside—anything to save herself more heartache. She only stopped short of wishing the police hadn’t found the girls in the first place, although the appalling thought did cross her mind.

  I can’t do this. I don’t want to. I won’t!

  Trembling, Marie-Thérèse gently laid Raquel on the bed next to her sleeping sister before falling to her knees. Dear Father, help me! I feel so inadequate . . . so frightened. But then when I think of what Celisse has been through, I feel so guilty and horrible inside. Why shouldn’t I be able to help her? Who else can love her and take care of her? Can I even love her? I do want what’s best for her. But she’s so . . . needy. And I am so lacking.

  Marie-Thérèse trailed off, thinking of her neat cupboards and her alphabetized system of organizing her canned and boxed goods. She thought of the last Friday of the month where she always sat down and made plans for the next month’s meals—even to making up each week’s shopping list. She also made at least four meals to freeze and eat during the month when she wouldn’t have time to cook a proper meal. Then there were the crocheted bedspreads she was working on for Josette and her mother. How would she ever have time to finish them for Christmas if she had to worry about Celisse? And of course there was Larissa. How could she make sure her daughter didn’t do something drastic if she was always cleaning dirty underwear and coaxing Celisse from under the table? In fact, when was the last time she’d carried on a decent conversation with either of her children? When would she ever sleep?

  Am I so selfish? she thought. This is all about me, isn’t it? Mathieu thought it was only because of fear that I’m hesitating, but the reality is that I don’t want to do something so hard, something that will make me lose control over my life.

  A gurgling sound disturbed her self-examination, and Marie-Thérèse opened her eyes. Raquel lay on the bed, watching her silently with wise brown eyes, and a rush of sweet love filled Marie-Thérèse’s heart. Then her gaze wandered to Celisse. Even in sleep, her small face did not relax completely, as though she waited instinctively for something terrible to happen.

  As it has in the past, Marie-Thérèse thought.

  She swallowed hard. All at once the uncertainty and fear vanished like mist in the afternoon sun. Nothing like that will ever happen to her again! Not if I have anything to say about it. I will make Celisse happy! It won’t be easy, and some days I’ll probably want to quit or run away, but I will make it. The Lord has always given me the strength I need. He will not fail me . . . or Celisse.

  The change in Marie-Thérèse’s heart didn’t come with bursting fireworks, a notable vision, or even with a burning in her chest; rather it was a quiet knowledge that entered her heart suddenly and with such profoundness that she felt forever changed. There was work to be done, and she was the one to do it. It was as simple as that.

  She would also be the one to receive the subsequent joy. Whatever self-pitying had come before was erased as though it had never been. In the eternal scheme, her concerns were nothing in the face of this child’s tremendous need. Full of thankfulness, she closed her eyes and finished her prayer

  She had her answer.

  Chapter Ten

  Rebekka awoke early on Tuesday, and after a breakfast of dry toast and chocolate milk, she finished translating the newspaper release and sent it to her boss in America. She knew he would send it to Samuel and that he would be the one to get it to the papers. Maybe it was time she did work more through Samuel. After all, it wasn’t as though he was still holding a torch for her after all these years.

  In her room, she readied for her doctor’s appointment with a heavy heart. How different today was from the last appointment, when she’d been bursting with anticipation. The only difficulty had been keeping the suspicion of her pregnancy from Marc that morning as they readied for the day.

  “What is it about you this morning?” he had asked, kissing her and holding her close.

  “I’m just so happy. I love you so much.”

  “You are my life, you know that?” He’d told her a hundred times, but she never tired of hearing the words. The love in her heart threatened to overflow and drown them both.

  If only she’d known.

  At the restaurant where she waited to meet Marc, she had told the maître d’ that day was the happiest of her life. Why didn’t she know better? Why hadn’t she gone to Marc’s office when she was early instead of to the restaurant? She could have told him there. They would have been delayed, celebrating their joy. They would have reached the intersection long after the purse-snatcher and his victim were gone. There would have been no tragedy.

  Better yet, she could have asked him to go to the doctor with her. Either way, he would be alive today.

  Rebekka sank to her bed, silent tears cascading down her face. She knew it wasn’t really her fault, but that didn’t make her miss him any less. She wrapped her arms around her waist and stared into nothingness.

  * * *

  André reached Rebekka’s apartment at nine-thirty, in plenty of time to get her to the doctor’s appointment at ten o’clock. He’d put in three hours at the office already that morning to take care of pressing work, and Raoul had come in early, too. With Marc gone, work was piling up and they needed to figure out what direction they should take for the company. Nine months ago André and Marc’s younger brother, Louis-Géralde had come home from his mission to Ukraine and had begun working for the company. He was doing quite well but was still far from able to fill Marc’s shoes. After a few more years of education and training, maybe, but for now they were short-handed.

  During the last month André and Raoul had discussed taking on another partner, and had even gone so far as to hear a few offers. But that meant opening the company to someone who wasn’t family, and neither of them liked that idea. So today they’d finally agreed to hire a chief operating officer to handle the day-to-day operations. Once arrangements were made, André and Raoul would still own the company and be involved in all the important decisions, but they would be relieved from some of the daily pressure. They both needed that now.

  As he drove up to Rebekka’s apartment building, a flower delivery man was pushing on an intercom button, obviously waiting to be let inside the building
. There was no answer to his ringing. The man gave his watch a frustrated glare and punched the button again. Rebekka’s apartment button.

  Where was she? He hadn’t imagined that she might not be home. She was still feeling ill in the mornings, and besides, Raoul mentioned that she had a lot of translating to do. Why wasn’t she answering? An uneasy feeling settled in his gut.

  “That’s my sister-in law’s apartment,” he told the man, taking out his keys. “I’m going up if you want to come. Or I can take the flowers for you.”

  “Her name Rebekka Perrault?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sign here please.”

  André scribbled his name and the man thrust the heavy vase of flowers toward him and was gone.

  “Good thing I’m not a flower thief.” André balanced the vase carefully as he opened the door to the lobby. Even if Rebekka wasn’t home, he could put them on her counter and meet her at the doctor’s.

  Not until he was leaving the elevator on the fourth floor did he wonder who the flowers were from. There were various kinds and colors, interspersed with green ferns and bunches of baby’s breath. The only flowers he recognized were the white-petaled daisies. The aroma reminded him of a spring day in a flower garden.

  Who had sent them? He fingered the card, but it was sealed and he had no business opening it. He only hoped it wasn’t something that would cause Rebekka more pain. Surely most of the funeral flowers would have been long delivered. Perhaps one of his sisters was trying to cheer Rebekka up.

  Shaking his head resolutely, André walked to Rebekka’s door. When no one answered his ring, he let himself in. The apartment was absolutely silent. “Rebekka?” he called. No answer. He set the flowers on the table, his mind racing ahead. She must have had an errand to run before the appointment. I can still meet her there.

  The dying plant by the kitchen window called his attention. Already he’d replaced the plant twice, knowing Rebekka must love it because it had been Marc’s. Rebekka never seemed to notice the difference in the plants, though they were slightly differing sizes, and she had thanked him several times for remembering to give it water.

  The soil around the plant was still moist, so André turned to leave. Something stopped him—almost as though he had hit an invisible barrier. Stupid, he thought and moved toward the door. See, no invisible wall. Only your own strange thoughts.

  He paused. Or maybe not.

  Quickly he swiveled on his heel and walked the other way, down the hall toward the bedrooms and Rebekka’s office. The office door was open and no one was inside, and Raoul’s door was closed, but in the other bedroom Rebekka was sitting on the neatly made bed, fully dressed in a smart, long-sleeved pantsuit that set off her still-slender figure. Her dark auburn hair was in place, her high cheek bones and wide-set eyes accentuated with exactly the right amount of makeup, but her oval face was utterly blank as if Rebekka herself were not inside the beautiful shell. Her arms wrapped around her middle, their support seemingly the only thing keeping her erect.

  “Rebekka?” he asked, feeling he’d intruded upon an agony too private to share. Yet he couldn’t leave her this way. That wasn’t even an option.

  As he approached, he could see a trail of drying tears on her smooth cheeks and more tears shimmering on her eyelashes. She blinked but didn’t appear to notice his presence.

  “Rebekka.” His voice came hoarsely, full of the love he felt for her. Her face turned in his direction, but her dark, cloud-gray eyes held no recognition. He pulled her unresisting body into his arms, holding her tightly.

  For a moment she lay limp in his grasp, and then her arms went around his chest and she laid her cheek on the stark white of his dress shirt. Her body began to quake with soft sobs that seemed to emerge from somewhere deep within her soul. He continued to hold her, fighting his own feelings. There was pity, yes, and a deep mourning for the brother he’d lost. But there was also the longing to have Rebekka hold onto him for reasons that had nothing to do with Marc.

  Gently, he massaged the back of her head, smoothed the already smooth hair. “It’s okay, Rebekka,” he murmured. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  She didn’t appear to hear him, but she didn’t let go, and after a while the sobs stopped and she drew in a shuddering breath, pulling back from him. “I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t cry.”

  “You have every right to cry.” Despite himself, he wiped the tears from her face with his fingertips.

  “No, I . . . because of the baby.”

  “A little release won’t hurt the baby, and it’ll do you a world of good.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I came to take you to the doctor.”

  Her eyes looked beyond him to the door. “I don’t want to go . . . alone.”

  “That’s why I came. Come on.” He took her hand and led her to the door.

  “But my face . . . I’ve been crying.”

  “You look beautiful.”

  For the first time since he’d entered the room, she looked at him and really saw him. She smiled. He held her hand all the way down to the car, completely forgetting the vase of flowers.

  * * *

  As André went around the car to open her door, Rebekka dabbed at her face with her compact and spread on a little lipstick. She grimaced at the wan face in the mirror. She didn’t look beautiful as André had said—not even close. Crying made her few freckles stand out like flies on top of a fresh bucket of milk. She’d seen that very thing once on a field trip as a child and it had always stayed with her. Oh, well. Nothing I can do about it now.

  André opened the door, smiling gently at her as if she were made of glass. No wonder, with the way she’d let him see her back at the apartment. Then there had been that terrible and wonderful moment when he’d held her. For an instant, she could almost believe it was Marc holding her, and she wanted it never to end.

  Crazy. I’m crazy, she thought. But no. It was just a mistake. A mistake made by a lonely, pregnant woman.

  She’d been feeling well this morning, but now she was sick again. A good sign. That means I’m not losing the baby.

  The reassurance was nice, but she wanted to hear the heartbeat. She craved to know with absolute certainty that the baby was all right. Maybe she would even buy one of those fetoscopes she’d read about so that she could listen for the heartbeat whenever she became worried.

  At the doctor’s office, the nurse called her in to give a urine sample. Within minutes, Rebekka was back in the waiting room with André. Her eyes wandered over the large area, furnished with oversized sofas and chairs, tall fake plants, and tables with magazines geared for new parents. She picked one up and thumbed through it, seeing nothing. “I should really buy a book or two,” she said aloud for something to say. “I hardly know what to expect.”

  “I have a few you can have. They were Claire’s. Well, we both read them, but she practically memorized them.” André let his gaze swing the length of the room, resting for a brief second on the occupants—mostly women in differing stages of pregnancy.

  “You don’t have to stay.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Your duty, she thought with more than a little bitterness.

  “I mean,” he added, “that I’d really like to stay, if that’s all right with you.”

  “What about work?”

  “It’ll keep. Your brother’s there. And we’ve decided to hire some additional help.”

  “Do you need me to sell my stocks?”

  “Not unless you need the money.”

  “I don’t need the money. The apartment’s paid for and the stock dividends are more than enough for the rest of my needs. But you know all that.”

  He nodded absently. “Marc made sure you’d be well-taken care of.”

  Rebekka tried not to feel anything at the words, but they made her furious. Marc had always believed he’d die first. Had his premonition of doom actually led to his accident? No, she couldn’t believe that. Marc loved
her, and he would have fought to stay with her.

  “Rebekka Perrault?” came a friendly voice. A nurse near the examination room doors waved to her. “You can come too, Mr. Perrault.”

  Rebekka had taken several steps in the nurse’s direction, but at those last words she paused and looked back at her brother-in-law. He was standing and looking after her with a question in his eyes.

  All at once Rebekka wanted him to come with her. She didn’t want to explain about her husband’s death or feel the nurse’s pity. She didn’t want to be the only woman there who didn’t have a man interested in her unborn child. Since she’d only seen the doctor once—after a recommendation from Josette—he didn’t know her well enough to recognize André or realize he was an imposter. He was acquainted with the family—in fact, his own father had delivered Marc and Josette—but he didn’t know them personally.

  “Do you want to come with me?” she asked. “I mean, it’s not like it’s going to be anything big. They’ll just take my blood pressure and listen to the heartbeat—stuff like that. They did all the other tests last time.”

  André nodded, apparently relieved that he wouldn’t be required to see her in an embarrassing situation, and for one irrational minute she regretted inviting him. But her regret vanished as he took her arm and led her past the nurse. She suddenly felt so unsteady on her feat that without his support, she doubted she would have made it to the examination room.

  After the nurse took her blood pressure, Dr. Samain asked Rebekka questions about how she was feeling, and then without even lifting her shirt, he felt her abdomen to assess the size of the baby. Lying on the examination table, Rebekka watched him, his face seeming too thin to support his heavy jowls that bulged at his jaw line.

  “It looks like the baby is growing—despite your own weight loss.” The doctor’s muddy brown eyes looked at her more kindly than sternly.