Across Eternity

by O'Roark, Elizabeth

  Marie takes his place on the couch. I expect to be chastised—I shouldn’t have left for Paris tonight, and Henri and I shouldn’t have been sitting the way we were. But instead, she squeezes my hand. “Don’t you see?” she asks. “Something must occur in the next two weeks that changes your relationship with Cecelia. Something that changes the course of your life and hers.”

  “How is that possible?” I ask. “In two weeks she still won’t be talking. I’ll look out for her, Marie. You know I will. But from a distance. There’s nothing I’ll be willing to do for her in two weeks that I won’t be willing to do now.”

  “Obviously there is, because two weeks somehow turns her into a person you know. A person you tell your stories to, who knows you loved her father and he loved you. And she’s not that to you yet.”

  Marie has no idea what she’s asking. That staying here means feeling like an outsider while waiting on Yvette hand and foot, means watching as Henri becomes a family with someone other than me. “I can live without telling these stories, believe me.”

  “You might live, but will she?” Marie asks. “Tell me something: if you return to your time, and there is no more Cecelia Boudon…if she is poor, or broken, or worse? If she’s dead, you can’t fix it. What then?”

  I can’t imagine what difference two weeks could make. It’s not as if Cecelia and I will be having any life-changing heart-to-hearts during that time. But can I guarantee it won’t change things? No.

  I sigh. “Fine. I’ll stay.”

  She squeezes my hand once more. “Thank you. For everything. You saved my life, and now perhaps you’ll save my niece’s life too. I think there was a reason God brought you to us. Maybe this is it.”

  God didn’t bring me, I think. I brought myself. And I’d be better off if I hadn’t.

  21

  SARAH

  Cecelia is a sweet baby. Taking care of her is lovely and painful at the same time. No matter what Marie believes, I’m not going to be a permanent part of this child’s life. She’s another thing I will love and let go of, like the infants in 1918, like my sister, like Henri.

  She eats and sleeps and does little else her first day of life, but she wants to be held. Always. The second we lay her in the crib Henri built she wails, and none of us—not Henri, not Marie, not myself—has the stomach for it. Yvette, similarly, also sleeps all day, and when she’s awake and not being showered with attention, she too wails. She wants praise and coddling. She wants food and wet washcloths. She does not seem to want much to do with her daughter, as far as I can tell, but who am I to judge? I’m not the one who just shoved an entire human out of a small hole.

  The next afternoon I get the apple and cheese Yvette has requested, and force myself to say the polite words that feel like grit in my mouth as they exit. “Congratulations. She’s beautiful.”

  She smiles at me with eyes that remain cruel and distant. “That’s kind of you to say. It must be so hard for you.”

  I plant my feet to the floor, bracing myself. “What must be hard for me?”

  “Seeing how Henri has moved on.”

  My stomach sours. I grab the door frame for dear life. I could end you in moments, I think. Just give me a reason.

  But then I think of Cecelia. Of how she looks at me and how I feel when I hold her, as if all that is good and right exists in her, and also in me. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you do. It’s obvious you were in love with him. Do you think I missed those calf eyes you make each time he walks through the room? And your visit here was all for nothing, wasn’t it? Because he chose his child over you.”

  “What you’re saying,” I reply, my voice deceptively soft, like the hiss of a snake, “is that you aren’t even a part of the equation. He didn’t choose me. But he didn’t choose you either.”

  Her smug smile grows more strained. “Well, he’s mine either way, and you’re alone and pathetic.”

  I laugh. “That may be true, but when a man marries me, it won’t be out of pity and obligation. So don’t assume you’re any less pathetic than I am.”

  I turn and walk out the door, certain my words hurt. We both know they’re true.

  “I won’t wait on her again,” I tell Marie as I walk through the kitchen and return to Cecelia’s crib.

  22

  SARAH

  Every day with Cece makes it harder to leave. I change her diaper, thinking I’d be so much better off if I’d left before she was born—before I realized what it was like to care for Henri’s child—when I’m suddenly pulled from my selfish thoughts. Cece’s chest rises and falls in a way I don’t think it did before. Is she breathing faster than she was? Why am I noticing it so much more now?

  I continue to change the diaper, distracted now. My thumb stings as the safety pin jabs into my skin, but better me than her. And the more I watch, the more certain I am that something is wrong. I call for Marie and she comes, looking as exhausted as I feel. Neither of has had more than a few hours of sleep in days.

  “Look at her,” I say, my jaw set hard.

  Marie glances at Cecelia, then me. She is gray with fatigue and her face doesn’t change. “I don’t understand,” says Marie. “She looks fine.”

  “No,” I breathe. In the span of five seconds I’ve gone from uncertain to convinced. “Her chest is sinking in when she breathes. It’s concave. It wasn’t concave before.”

  Marie bites her lip. “Perhaps it’s just that she’s taking bigger breaths as she gets stronger?”

  The hair on my arms goes on end. No. It’s not right. I know nothing about babies but this isn’t right. “Think of the strongest person you know. Henri, for instance. Does his chest sink in when he breathes?”

  She looks at me, her green eyes pale and frightened. “I’ll get the pump.”

  She runs from the room and returns seconds later, but it seems to make no difference. Cecelia still struggles. “We’ll need to take her to Reims. One of us should go with Henri…” She hesitates. “It should probably be you. Yvette…”

  Hates me and won’t want me here to help. She also won’t want me with Henri, but her preferences matter little to me.

  I leave Marie and run into the field, where Henri is cutting back vines. He takes one look at my face and then stands straight, bracing himself. “What is it?”

  “We need to take Cecelia to a hospital,” I tell him. “I think she’s struggling.”

  His mouth opens. “Doctor Nadeau…”

  “Acted ambivalent as hell about whether or not she survives, and probably should have known this was a possibility. And he’s the same man who lied to us about penicillin for you. Is that really who you want to trust with your daughter’s life?”

  He looks lost for a moment, then gives me a small nod. “Get the baby. I’ll start the car.”

  Five minutes later I sit in the back seat holding Cece in my arms, using the useless little pump to no avail.

  His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “How is she?” he asks.

  My stomach tightens. “Alive. But pale. Drive faster.”

  He flinches. “I’m already driving as fast as the car will go.”

  Her eyelids have a bluish cast now, reminding me of Kit, when they pulled her from the lake. “You’re going to be okay,” I whisper, my pinky sliding into her tiny, clenched fist. It sounds more like a plea than a promise.

  I don’t know if I’ve done enough. Yes, Cecelia was alive in 1989 just a short time ago. But that doesn’t mean I’ve done everything I was supposed to do. Perhaps I should have been more adamant. Perhaps I should have jumped back to earlier in the morning or even the day before to warn them.

  And now it’s too late. If I time travel from this car, I won’t land back at the farm. I’ll land naked and alone on the side of the road.

  The fact that Cecelia was alive the last time I saw her as an adult doesn’t reassure me at all. It just means that if she isn’t alive the next time I go, the fault for that
will rest on my shoulders alone.

  * * *

  Cecelia is taken from us at the hospital, and Henri and I stand there in the hallway, shell-shocked, watching her go.

  It feels wrong, handing her off to a complete stranger. Henri’s hand slides through mine and I don’t pull away. I need the grip of his fingers every bit as much as he needs mine.

  We wait, sitting side by side, for hours. It’s a chaotic place, a mixture of mothers scolding children over something minor, and mothers weeping as if they’ll never recover.

  Every time a nurse enters the waiting room, we both hold ourselves still, bracing for bad news. After what feels like a very long time, a doctor walks out and asks us to come with him.

  Henri’s hand is so tight in mine that it hurts.

  We are led to his office and take seats across from him.

  “You must be very worried, Madame Durand,” he begins.

  “I’m not Cecelia’s mother—she’s still too ill from the birth to travel.”

  His eyes flicker to our hands again. Despite that, Henri’s grip does not loosen.

  “She is very ill,” he says. “Her lungs aren’t fully developed yet and she’s caught a virus of some kind.”

  I flinch. I could have brought her in sooner and maybe I still should. We could call Marie and tell her to jump back a few days to warn us all. Except that might be the wrong decision as well.

  “I imagine her country doctor didn’t know any better,” he continues, “but a child of her gestation…has little chance of survival under the circumstances, without assistance.”

  “Is she going to be okay?” Henri asks.

  The doctor leans forward. “The next twenty-four hours will tell us much. If we can keep her alive for the next week then she is likely to survive.”

  “What do we do now?” Henri asks.

  “Go home to your wife,” he says, a gentle admonishment. “I’ll call you if anything changes.”

  Henri goes pale. I understand why…I can’t imagine leaving this tiny infant here among a hundred others with only a hope that she will be okay. Knowing she might not even live through the night.

  We drive home, the two of us too panicked about Cecelia to think of any other topic we could possibly discuss. When we arrive, Henri goes straight to the barn, and Marie is in the garden, which leaves me alone with Yvette when I walk in.

  “Did you enjoy that?” she asks with a miserable little smirk. “Creating some drama about my daughter to get time alone with my spouse?”

  “You know what’s interesting?” I ask. “Your daughter nearly died today, and she may not live through the night, and the only person who doesn’t seem to care about that is you.”

  * * *

  I’m unable to sleep that night. I lie awake and eventually dress and go downstairs, where Henri sits, staring at the fire. I take the seat beside him on the couch.

  “Is she going to be alright?” he asks.

  I squeeze his hand, briefly. “Yes,” I say firmly, because it’s what he needs to hear. And what I need to hear.

  He gives me a small smile. “If that’s so, then why are you awake?”

  “I just miss her,” I tell him, and it’s true.

  “Me too,” he replies.

  Behind us, the bedroom door opens, and we both turn guiltily though we’ve done nothing wrong.

  Yvette stands at the threshold, her eyes narrowed on me. “Isn’t this cozy?” she asks. “I hate to disturb you, but I need my husband’s assistance.”

  He rises and leaves, while I remain behind. Is it wrong that we were sitting together? Is it wrong that I squeezed his hand, that I wanted to comfort him? No. But that doesn’t mean it was innocent either. Nothing about the two of us is.

  I wake early, on little sleep, and dress to go to the hospital, only to find Yvette waiting downstairs when I arrive. “Your help won’t be necessary today,” she says.

  Henri looks at me with apology in his eyes. “Get some rest, Amelie,” he says softly. “I’ll call the minute there’s news.”

  Marie and I wait near the phone but it does not ring. Instead, not three hours after they took the one-hour journey to Reims, they return. My hand goes to my throat. “Cecelia, is she…”

  Henri shakes his head. “She’s alive. Still on a ventilator.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Henri looks straight ahead, and I realize for the first time that he’s holding himself apart from Yvette, painfully stiff.

  She shrugs. “It was so dull there and I did just have a baby,” she says. “I suppose you’ll never understand since you can’t have children, but sitting for long periods like that is hell after childbirth.”

  I stiffen, shocked that Marie told them. Has Henri been pitying me this whole time? Has he been thinking he’s lucky things turned out the way they did?

  Henri is staring at Yvette as if he finally sees her for the monster she is. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” he asks her.

  Her eyes go wide. “What? All I said was that—”

  “Everyone in this room heard what you said,” he replies, opening the door to walk away. “Please have the decency not to repeat it.”

  I walk out to the hay bale, sick over the whole thing. I know I’m a bad person and maybe I deserve my losses. But Yvette’s no better. Why should she get everything I want? Henri, Cecelia, his future children?

  Footsteps approach and I recognize that heavy tread before I’ve even looked up. “I’m sorry,” Henri says. “It was thoughtless of her to have brought it up.”

  It was far worse than thoughtless. It was intentionally cruel. I wonder if Henri sees how bad she really is.

  “Marie shouldn’t have told you,” I reply.

  “She was trying to help,” he says. “She wanted Yvette to be more sensitive.”

  I rise to face him. “So you’ve all been quietly pitying me this whole time. Poor, barren Amelie? And thinking you’re lucky to end up with a child after all.”

  I start to walk off and his hand lands heavily on my arm, holding me in place. “Don’t presume to know what is in my heart,” he snaps. “It’s a terrible situation, but if you think for a moment I could be capable of finding a silver lining in all this, you do not give me enough credit.”

  I blow out a breath. He’s right. My capacity for self-pity has been endless, but there’s no reason to look at everything in the worst possible light. “I’m sorry.”

  He looks at his hand, still gripping my arm. “No one could be more sorry than I am,” he replies, letting me go.

  * * *

  That’s the first night I hear Yvette and Henri fight. Mostly, it is she who fights. Her words are hissed, inaudible but for their intent.

  The next morning, I wake just after sunrise and dress for the hospital. He’s waiting downstairs, looking as if he hasn’t had much sleep.

  We ride to Reims and then wait side by side in the pediatric ward. Henri asks if we might be able to see Cecelia today, and the nurse frowns and tells him it’s unlikely, but that she’ll check.

  He grips my hand, and he’s still holding it hours later when the doctor we met three days prior finally walks into the hall. The two of us spring to our feet as he approaches. “She’s been off the ventilator for nearly twenty-four hours,” he says, his face breaking into a smile. “I think she can safely go home.”

  I burst into tears. Henri’s arms wrap around me. Neither of us care, a single bit, about the fact that we shouldn’t be holding each other so tight or so long.

  * * *

  The whole ride home I hold her in the back seat, marveling at her perfect fingers, her darling mouth, her steady breaths. Marveling at the fact that there ever could have been a time when I didn’t want her to exist.

  Yvette makes a show of being relieved that Cecelia is home, but it’s not long before she’s complained of fatigue and retires to her room. I take the baby and feed her in the parlor while Henri looks on—worried, hopeful. I place her on my shoulder and
she gives the loud, satisfied burp of a much older and larger child. Henri and I both grin at each other. When I lay her down in the crib, now deeply asleep, the two of us just stand there, watching her.

  “She’s the most beautiful thing,” I whisper.

  He turns and his eyes go from my hair to my eyes to my nose to my mouth. “She’s one of them.”

  He looks at me as if I’m the world’s only source of light, and it hurts. It hurts so much that I can’t have this. I feel my eyes sting and avert my gaze. I cannot stand here like this with him. I can’t.

  “I should—”

  He moves toward me and his palm curves along the side of my face as he leans in, pulling me closer. There’s the gust of his breath and then his mouth is on mine. Soft and hungry and desperate and careful all at once.

  I should stop him but the part of me that has waited long, long months for this, that spent one night after the next in captivity dreaming of this, does not care. That part of me says take. She hasn’t earned him and you have, so take this while you can.

  My mouth opens under his and we tangle, mouths and tongues and hands, and he moves me until I’m pressed to the wall, pinned like a butterfly under his weight. If I’d ever doubted that he might have missed me the way I missed him, I no longer do. It’s in the urgency of his mouth, the pained sounds he makes. His bones, like mine, are hollowed out waiting for this, waiting to be filled again.

  When he finally pulls back, his body still pressed to mine, I can feel the restraint it takes. I feel it in the rigidity of his arms, in the bulge that presses hard against my abdomen.

  “You can’t—” I begin.

  “I know. But I’m not sorry,” he says, stepping away. “God help me but I’m not sorry.”

  23

  SARAH

  Things are different with us in the morning. All along I’ve existed on this raw edge of pain and want and restraint and heartbreak, but now…I can feel him pressed against me. I feel his desire in my cells and hear the pain of his groan no matter what else is going on around me. And each time I look up, his eyes are on me, with a hunger like I’ve never seen in him before. Not even last fall, not even at our most reckless and desperate, did he look at me the way he does now, like he wants me so much he’s sick, mad, with it.