And You’re there, sitting beside me, watching me feed our babies.
“I love you so much, Logan.” It’s all I know how to say, right now. I don’t even know how to verbalize or even understand myself the emotions regarding Jakob’s genetic heritage. “I just—I love you.”
You have tear tracks on Your face, and You are proud of them, I think. To weep at the birth of Your children is the mark of a man in touch with his emotions, I think; a sign of strength and confidence rather than a mark of weakness. You have brought a life into the world. A new life, and it is beautiful. It is enormous. Momentous, and life-changing.
You lean in, kiss me, kiss Jakob, kiss Camila—
So this is what completion feels like.
* * *
What we’re looking at,” the doctor says, a day after the birth, “is heteropaternal superfecundation.”
The doctor pauses, taps the heel of a shoe with the tip of a pen. Glances at me, and I can feel the silent, unspoken, but very real judgment.
“In layman’s terms, it’s when a woman releases more than one egg in the same cycle, and those two eggs are both fertilized by sperm from separate acts of sexual intercourse with different males.” Another pause, a glance to me, to You, back to the shoes. “It is extremely rare, but there have been a few other documented cases. I’ve been delivering babies for thirty-two years, and I’ve never seen it before. What it means, practically speaking, is that the two children are fraternal twins, genetic half siblings, despite being developed and carried in the same womb.”
You speak up for me. “So how are they?”
“Camila and Jakob are doing beautifully. Healthy, scored high on all the postbirth tests, they’re eating well from Mom, great lung development. Absolutely no issues whatsoever.”
“So aside from genetics . . . ?”
“Genetics aside? They’re beautiful, healthy twins. You can go home in the morning.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” You dismiss the doctor, standing up, extending your hand. Making it clear the time to exit is now. When the doctor is gone, You turn to me, take my hand. “What a dick.”
“He didn’t say anything unprofessional,” I point out, even though I feel the same way.
“He didn’t say anything, no, but the looks he was giving you, the way he explained it . . .” You shrug. “Whatever. He’s gone. But I didn’t like him.”
“I felt it too. But it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know me, or my life, or my situation. All I care about is you, and our babies.”
“Me too.”
And so we do.
We buckle the tiny little sleeping bundles into the car seats, murmuring at how tiny they look in the big seats. You carry them both, one seat in each hand, while a nurse pushes me in a wheelchair. You settle them on either side of me while You fetch the car, and then You click the seats into the bases, check that each one is secure, and then You help me into the SUV, practically lifting me up and in. I am weak, sore, tired, and exhilarated to be going home.
Emotionally, I haven’t really sorted through the reality of Jakob, yet. Maybe I never will.
He’s mine. He’s Yours, Logan. But . . . he already looks so much like you, Caleb. When he blinks those big brown eyes, he’s you. He cries when he’s hungry, and there’s a demanding note to his cry that, to me, sounds like you. It is eerie. His jawline is you, his nose is you. The bridge of his nose is you. God, he’s you, Caleb.
I ruminate on it as You drive us home, Logan, driving slowly, carefully, defensively. Braking gently, accelerating gently. Music low, tuned to classical.
I am still deep in thought when we get home. You carry them in, instructing me to stay put, and then You come back for me. They are sleeping, so we leave them in their seats. We collapse together on the couch, and You pull me against Your chest, so I can hear Your heartbeat. I begin to doze. Sink, drift—thumpthump, thumpthump, thumpthump—sun warm from the windows soaking into my skin, bathing my closed eyes.
And then a cry. Small and quiet at first, a hesitant quavering.
Just one.
You get up, unbuckle the crying child—Jakob. Hand him to me, and I cradle him against my chest. God, so tiny. So warm, so soft. So sweet. I lift up my shirt, expose my breast, and tickle his quivering lips with my nipple. He works his mouth, snuffles and snorts, shakes his head side to side, and then latches on with ferocious hunger and alert determination. He’s so tiny still I can support him with one hand, and stroke his thick black hair with the other.
You watch, a little awed, a lot moved. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Your voice is low, rough.
I keep stroking little Jakob’s hair but my eyes are for You. “I have to say it, out loud, at least once.” I glance down at Jakob, then back up. “Caleb is Jakob’s biological father, and you are Camila’s.”
“But they’re both mine.”
“I know. And I—I don’t doubt that for a moment,” I say.
“It might be a little tricky to explain, if he ever starts asking questions when he’s older.”
“We’ll figure that out when it happens.” I smile. “I just had to say it, because . . . inside, it doesn’t feel as if it matters.”
“It doesn’t. Not really.” You offer me a smile, a quintessential Logan Ryder smile, the one that warms me from the inside out. “It’s nature versus nurture, Isabel. If you were to separate identical twins, and one was raised in a hellhole of rage and violence, and the other in a loving home full of affection, you’d very likely have two wildly different people emerge as adults. Because the environment in which a person is raised makes all the difference. Caleb could have been . . . someone totally different had his parents lived. Had his cousin not turned him out on the street. Had any number of events in his life been different.”
“You came out of some very difficult circumstances yourself, and look at the kind of man you are.”
A shrug. “We each can only do the best with what we’re given. That’s all I’ve done. Yet, too, we each make our own choices in life. I chose to change. To try to improve myself. To be better. I think at some point, Caleb just . . . gave in to the kind of man his environment was conspiring to create, rather than trying to rise above it. It’s not up to me to judge him, to either absolve him or vilify him. I didn’t know him well enough, and it’s not my place even if I did. I know how I feel about him, based on my interaction with him, and based on the way he treated you, but that’s it.”
“So what you’re saying, then, is that despite being Caleb’s, genetically, how we raise him will determine the kind of man he’ll become.”
“Right. He’ll have the admittedly impressive genetic potential of Caleb, but you and I will raise him to not have the . . . questionable ethics Caleb showed as an adult.”
“I like that idea,” I say with a smile.
“So do I.”
Camila starts crying just then, right as Jakob unlatches, a little milk dribbling down his chin. You unbuckle Camila, hand her to me and in exchange for Jakob, cradle him to Your chest, settle onto the couch beside me. You hold a sleepy, milk-drunk Jakob, I feed Camila, and we relax together.
A family.
That’s when it dawns on me, hitting me like a ton of bricks, like a freight train:
I have a family.
The realization brings tears of happiness to my eyes. I let them roll, because it is a beautiful thing, this understanding. I was orphaned, not just of my parents, but of my entire self, of my life. I’ve come to find myself, but now, with You and Camila and Jakob, I have a family of my own.
And now, with these two little lives dependent on me, with Your love to sustain me, my past doesn’t matter quite as much.
Perhaps not at all, honestly. Madame X is no more, except in being part of the formation of the woman I am now, Isabel de la Vega.
A wife, someday.
A mother now.
And, in time, a philanthropist.
NINETEEN
Camila and Jakob are three months old now. Big, beautiful, healthy, perfect.
And we have not gotten one single moment alone. I don’t mind. Not really. But I would like some time with You.
You, of course, recognize this. Beth is called in, because apparently babysitting is in the job description when one is Logan Ryder’s assistant. Plus, Beth has experience, as an older sister had twins, and Beth often babysits them.
So, the twins in good hands, Logan tells me to put on a fancy gown, some killer heels, and a little makeup; time to go out.
Once again, he takes me to Gourmand, the restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen he owns. We are regulars there now, a booth near the kitchen permanently reserved for Logan, Camila, Jakob, and me.
But this time, something is different.
The entire restaurant is empty, not a single soul in sight.
Odd indeed for a Thursday evening.
The lights are low, a single table near the center of the dining room lit with a candle, set for two.
My heart pitter-patters a little; You’ve shown me enough movies to know a setting like this indicates a proposal to follow.
I am ready.
More than ready, indeed.
A trio of musicians sets the mood: a guitar, a mandolin, and a violin, playing soft, beautiful music off to our right. We have wine, salads, soup, entrées, more wine, dessert. No ring, no proposal.
I am beginning to doubt my assumption, and to feel some level of disappointment now.
When we are done, you rise to your feet. Extend Your hand. “Did you know there’s a little garden on the roof of this building?”
I didn’t, and accompany You up an elevator and then a flight of stairs, out through a dented, rusted metal door and into a rooftop garden. It is tiny, intimate. Trellises form a maze, roses and lavender and wisteria and honeysuckle climbing and blooming, filling the air with a heavy, heady scent. Strings of soft white lights are woven through the trellises as well, shedding a golden glow on the magical scene. I hear the door open, but it is far away, somehow, and out of sight. I hear mandolin strings quaver, and then the violin joins in, and the guitar follows; the musicians have followed us.
You lead me through the maze of trellises to a hidden corner of the rooftop, where the trellises form an arch over a wrought-iron bench. Nearby is a little fountain, water spilling and chuckling over rocks, the pool lit from within.
The city seems an impossibility from here, sitting on the bench, in this garden, surrounded by flowers and lights and a fountain, music in the background.
“How have we never been up here, Logan?”
You grin at me. “Because it didn’t exist a month ago.” A modest shrug of a shoulder. “I had it built, just for us, for today.”
“It is . . . a fantasy, Logan. Beyond beautiful.”
You point at something on the other side of the little clearing in the garden, a small wrought-iron table, over which is draped a red velvet cloth. “Go look.”
I rise, pull the cloth away.
Gasp, breath stolen, tears immediately stinging my eyes. “Oh, Logan.”
“I’m not a master carver, but I’m pretty good with my hands.”
“You made this yourself?”
A shrug. “Of course.”
It is a wooden box. Two feet square, one foot deep. And despite his claim to the contrary, it clearly was carved by a master. It is . . . lovely isn’t a good enough word. Breathtaking. The wood is a rich deep brown, polished to a shiny gleam, shot through with reddish streaks and whorls. The hinges are brass, as is the simple catch mechanism.
I tug on the lid; it is locked.
I laugh through my tears. “You’re stealing from my father, Logan.”
“Shamelessly. I figured if I couldn’t improve upon perfection, why try? Why not just borrow?”
“So where is the key?”
A nonchalant shrug. “I’ve got it. You’ll have to come find it, though.”
I cross the garden, pull You close. Run my hands down your hips, feel in your hip pockets; You’ve left Your phone at home, as have I, since Beth knows to call Gourmand if she needs us. Nothing. I pat Your back pockets, and You use my proximity to steal a kiss. And then another. And then the kiss is spiraling out of control, and I cannot help myself. I’m tugging at Your tie, at the coat, at the buttons of Your shirt.
But when I’ve got the shirt open, I see it:
A brass key on a red ribbon.
It isn’t an exact match for the diamond-crusted one dangling between my breasts at this very moment, however. No, the bow of this key is shaped like a heart, forged out of a solid, flat, two-sided piece of brass. Three letters have been carved or punched out of the solid brass: LWR—Logan Wesley Ryder.
The key to Your heart.
I tug the ribbon off Your head, clutch the key in my fist. And I kiss You until neither of us can breathe, until my dress has found its way up around my hips and we’re pressed up against each other, making love on the bench, right there on the rooftop, still partially clothed, desperate, wild.
“You have to open the box, babe,” You tell me.
I disentangle myself from You, reluctantly, I must admit. Settle my dress back down where it belongs, cross once more to the table, to the box. Slide the brass key into the lock, twist the heart. The catch snicks, and I lift the lid.
Midnight-blue velvet lines the inside, and at the very center, a ring. Platinum, a huge, glinting, fiery diamond in the center, smaller ones on either side.
You are standing behind me; I feel You, as I can always feel You.
I turn, and You are reaching for me. Pulling me to You. Gazing down at me. Whispering against my lips. “Marry me, Isabel?”
I flatten my palm against Your chest; I’ve already put the ring on. “Yes, Logan.”
“Have my babies?”
I laugh. “I already did.”
“Oh yeah.” You kiss me, softly, gently. “Them.”
I pull out of your arms, remove my diamond Tiffany’s key, place it in the box. Remove the plain brass key from the lock, and slide the red ribbon over my head, settle the cold brass between my breasts. “Now your heart will always be with mine.”
“What was it your mother told you?” You gather me close, hold me tight. “Oh yeah. Your heart is what makes mine continue to beat every single day.”
“Now you’re stealing from my mother?” I tease him. “You need to get your own moves, Logan.”
You pull back, just a little. “Was that a joke?”
“A little one.”
“I must be rubbing off on you.”
“Rubbing off in me, you mean.”
“Another joke? And a dirty one?” An amazed laugh. “Could this get any more perfect?”
I reach down. “We could have sex again?”
“That would do it, I’d say.”
TWENTY
You have Jakob and Camila in your arms. It is sunny, bright and beautiful, a glorious Wednesday afternoon. The twins are eighteen months old. Camila is running around and shouting “NO!” to everything and about everyone, and Jakob is . . . chill. Quiet, content to sit and play, although he can and will get up and move if he wants something bad enough. He says a few words, and those clearly and distinctly, when he wants to be understood, whereas Camila is a wild bundle of nonstop energy and manic babbling, of which we only understand one or two words in ten.
Case in point: Jakob is utterly content to hang out in Daddy’s arms and watch the proceedings. Camila, on the other hand, is squirming to get down, writhing and twisting in Logan’s arms, wanting to run around and pull the plugs on the video cameras and steal the microphones and tug on dresses and cause a ruckus.
Mothers in Need is op
ening today.
It’s been a year in the works, a lot of setbacks, a lot of negotiations, an absolute shitload of work. Donors backed out at the last minute and we had to scramble for more—donors we needed, because although Indigo is providing the start-up capital and some ongoing financial support, in order to run it day to day and eventually expand to other locations, in order to make this a nationwide chain, we’ll need a lot more backing than just I can provide on my own. The location we originally chose turned out to be a poor choice, due to neighborhood concerns, architectural and structural problems, and a myriad of other issues. So we had to scrap all the prep we’d done and start over from scratch, hunting for a new physical home for MiN. We ended up in a trendy part of Brooklyn called DUMBO—Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass—in a cute, quaint apartment building. The neighborhood welcomed us with open arms, as did the borough in general. Your marketing skills have proven invaluable, as has Your elaborate network of business connections throughout the city.
Through Your connections, we found a construction company willing to donate time and materials to the building of the center. We bought the entire building, a massive initial cost—well worth it—tore down walls on the main floor and created an office space for the day-to-day running of the center. We then turned the second floor into a medical clinic, the third floor into temporary living quarters for pregnant women with nowhere to go, or new mothers in the same straits, and the fourth and final floor into a supply warehouse and donation center for diapers, wipes, formula, baby clothes, maternity clothes, toys, books, and even a small selection of groceries on an as-available basis. We also have affiliations with several daycare centers and babysitting services. All the medical staff donates their time and expertise on a pro bono basis, and most of the medical supplies are donated as well. It was a colossal undertaking, and we packed a dizzying amount of work into a single year, but we got it all done.
Everyone is here, all the donors, the construction company builders and their families, the dozens of doctors and nurses and their families, the clerical staff, everyone. The whole street is shut down from intersection to intersection, the neighboring restaurants providing food and beverages, a live band playing music on a makeshift stage . . . all of it either donated or funded by Indigo.
Exiled (A Madame X Novel) Page 24