Twisted.2014.12.16.2014 FOR REVIEW Read online

  Even her hospital gown was a mess. Unsnapped on top, sweat stains darkening the fabric, monitor wires trailing from arm and neck holes. She looked like a poorly-dressed cyborg.

  And he didn't want to think about what was going on below. She had torn during the labor, and the doctor was now stitching up her flesh, his bloody gloves appearing from time to time in the brightness of the directed light above him.

  She was, all in all, a vision of destruction.

  And so, so beautiful.

  If angels fell to earth, he supposed, they might get a bit dusty when they landed. But they would still glow. And the glow would always be what set them apart.

  Alyssa took the baby. She smiled at the tiny girl, feeling feet, hands, cheeks. And Blake knew how soft the baby was, how unbelievably smooth and delicate. So fragile. But so much strength buried inside, waiting to grow.

  Alyssa looked back at Blake. "What do you think?"

  He nodded. "I think we were right." He looked back at the baby. Put a hand on her head, and suddenly remembered the times his father had touched him on the head. The memory was unwelcome, an intrusion that had no place here. He banished it as best he could, but it rested in the back of this moment like a thunderhead on the horizon during a lovers picnic.

  "I think we were right," he said again. "She's definitely a Ruth." He leaned down and kissed his baby girl's cheek. "Hello, Ruthie." Then he kissed his wife's cheek. "Hello, Mommy. For the second time."

  She smiled wearily and began fumbling with the few snaps that still held up the shoulder of her hospital gown, drawing Ruthie into position for her first feeding.

  Alyssa's hands shook so badly that Blake didn't know if she was going to be able to get the snaps undone, so he moved to help.

  That was when he finally noticed he had blood on his hands.

  Birthing was a bloody process. No surprise that some got on him. Still, it was a discomfiting sight. His daughter's blood on his hands, and staining his wife's gown.

  Like father, like son.

  THINGS BIG BROTHERS DO

  Mal Douglas was only eight, but being only eight didn't mean he was stupid. He knew things. Knew there were certain rules a boy must live by.

  Do not get into a game of "Mercy" with Tina Wipperfurth. She is double-jointed and will never lose.

  Do treat girls nice, because they smell good and there is something strangely interesting about them and Daddy and Mommy both say to. Except Tina Wipperfurth, because she is basically a cheater.

  Do not raise your hand every time in class, even if you know all the answers. Life gets weird if you do that.

  Do work your hardest on tests.

  Do not tell other people what grade you got. Life gets even weirder then.

  And, above all: do love your family. Mommy and Daddy. And now a little sister named Ruthie.

  When Mommy and Daddy told him there was going to be a new baby, he thought he was going to be irritated. And he was. He would have to share space, share toys, share Mommy and Daddy.

  But the irritation lasted only a few seconds.

  Then: excitement. He couldn't wait. Like Christmas and Easter and his birthday and every visit he'd ever had from the Tooth Fairy (eight, just like how old he was) all rolled up in one.

  Later Mommy and Daddy clarified that it was going to be a baby sister. He understood the reason for the time lag: Mommy showed him videos on the internet, and he knew that until then the baby was just a Blob or a Tadpole. But eventually the Tadpole grew girl or boy parts and blam! – baby brother or baby sister.

  Again, when the Blob decided it would pee sitting down, he was irritated for a few seconds. "Baby sister" meant no cool brother to teach about Star Wars, about Fight War Attack Club (which he had recently invented), or about why cowboys would lose in a fight with ninjas.

  Then, again: excitement. He would be big brother to a little sister. Sure, she would play with dolls, she would be interested in dresses. But he would get to watch over her, and protect her. Be an example and a mentor, like Yoda.

  He decided to be the Best Big Brother of All Time.

  And with that decision came love. He wondered if the love came first, or if it came because of that decision. He asked Mommy, but she didn't answer. She just got a strange look on her face. "You're an old soul," she said. Then she kissed him and gave him a cookie and twenty extra minutes of video game time.

  He didn't know if that was an answer or not, so he thought about it during the video games, got no answer, and decided he would never really understand grown-ups because they were coo-coo-pants.

  The thing he did understand, though: he was going to be a big brother. The best.

  And now he was going to meet her. His little sister. Ruthie. This was probably the biggest moment of his life.

  He had thought ahead: when Mommy yelled "It's time!" and Daddy started running around and Mr. Thayer came to take him to their house for the night, Mal grabbed not only his overnight bag, but an extra comb and some of Daddy's cologne he had… not stolen – he was going to give it back – but borrowed.

  When he went into the hospital room he had slicked-back Sunday hair and smelled vaguely of Date Night. He hoped Ruthie would like it.

  Daddy's arm was around his shoulder, pushing him gently through the door. Mal realized he was scared.

  What if she's weird?

  What if she doesn't like me?

  What if she looks like Tina Wipperfurth?

  "Come on, bud," whispered Daddy. "Let's go in."

  Mal stepped through the doorway. He felt like he'd gone through a magic portal in one of his games. On one side was a stinky, bustly hospital with nurses who wore shirts covered in teddy bears and rainbows but who looked like they were about to kick someone.

  On the other: peace.

  There was a TV in the corner, playing softly. Mal didn't know what show was on. Something with a judge yelling at a man in a blue shirt.

  There was a big window. The bedroom was on the first floor, and the window was pulled open a crack to show a screen. Some heavy curtains hung over most of the window, shading the room. They hung straight down, and the trees outside stood straight up, so Mal knew there was no breeze.

  In fact, everything was motionless. Other than the judge on TV. And even he seemed to be stuck in Pointy Finger Mode.

  It was like the whole world was waiting. Stuck on "Pause," waiting for Mal to finally look at what he was supposed to look at.

  Two beds. One was empty.

  The other held his mommy. She was sleeping, with her blond hair curled over her forehead, her mouth open just a little bit. She looked really tired, but also kind of happy in a way she hadn't looked in a long time.

  Mal looked down. The blanket at Mommy's chest moved. A pink face peeked out. It was wrinkly and so tiny it seemed fake. It could have been a doll, but then the baby yawned.

  Ruthie yawned.

  A tiny pink tongue poked out. Something bounced around in Mal's chest and in that moment he understood what he had only been playing at before. He understood, because it wasn't just a thing of tomorrow. It was a thing of now. It was real.

  "I'm a big brother," he whispered. He didn't mean to say the words, but they had to be said. And he didn't mean to whisper them, but some words simply had to be whispered. The way you whispered your most important prayers at night, or your secretest secrets to a best friend….

  Or the fact that you were now a teacher, an example, a protector.

  A big brother.

  He felt Daddy shake with low laughter beside him. "Pretty neat, huh?"

  "What do I do?" Again the words came without thought. He didn't want to seem dumb – not in front of anyone, but especially not in front of Daddy – but he wanted to do everything right. Everything.

  He looked at Daddy. Daddy always seemed so big, so high-up. He was smiling down at Mal from that high-up place now. Still shaking a bit, a chuckle in his throat.

  "You be a good example," said Daddy. "You take care of h
er. That's what big brothers – and daddies – do."

  Mal nodded seriously. He turned his gaze back to Ruthie. "Can I touch her?"

  Daddy nodded. "Just don't wake Mommy. She had a rough night."

  Mal took the few steps to his new sister. They seemed to lengthen out, to become not three but three hundred. He didn't know if that was because God was telling him to stay away or just giving him time to enjoy the moment. He decided it would be the second one. Because the first one was stinky and he didn't like it.

  Finally, after the one-second/forever walk, he was there.

  The baby slept.

  He reached for her. Wondering what he was going to do, where he would touch her. Cheeks? Nose? Should he push her nose and say, "Beep!"

  No. Head. He would touch her –

  The curtains fluttered. Almost flapped in a breeze so sudden and severe it was like a hurricane had erupted for a single second in the room.

  Mal's hand hung in the air an inch from Ruthie's head. From the few hairs that held to her head and looked like spun gold.

  The breeze died.

  Mal looked back at his sister.

  Her eyes were open. Mommy and Daddy had warned him that the baby wouldn't be able to look at him – or them – for days after being born. But right at this instant she sure seemed to be looking at him.

  Mal smiled.

  And Ruthie opened her mouth and screamed.

  The sound was high. And it was loud! A screeching noise that cut its way through Mal's ears and bones and straight into his brain. His hands flew to his ears and he stepped back as Mommy opened her eyes.

  When he stepped back he hit something behind him – maybe the tray with Mommy's food? Whatever it was, it sent him falling back. He would have fallen all the way down, but strong arms caught him.

  Still shaking with laughter, Daddy lifted him back up. "Don't worry, bud," he said. "Babies cry. You'll get… used… to…."

  Daddy's face changed and his voice fell off a cliff.

  Ruthie wasn't just screaming. She was… was…. Mal looked for the right word.

  Howling.

  That was it. She sounded like a dog caught in some awful trap. The kind of thing not made just to capture it, but to hurt it, too.

  The howls got louder and louder, higher and higher. Daddy looked at Mommy, and Mal looked as well.

  Mommy was hitting a button on the rails of her bed. Hitting it over and over with her thumb, then nearly punching it. Her look terrified Mal more than his new sister's screams. Because Ruthie was a new baby, and didn't know any better. Maybe she would get upset over little hurts.

  But Mommy… Mommy was plenty old. She knew stuff. She knew what a bad sound was, and she looked scared.

  A nurse came into the room. Not one of the teddy-bear-wearing-death-face ones, but a younger one. Pink shirt, and a face that looked like she didn't love the idea of punching rainbows.

  She took one look at Ruthie, and did the scariest thing yet. She flipped back a clear plastic cover near the door. Under it was a red button.

  Red buttons, Mal knew, are never good news.

  The nurse hit the button. An alarm went off somewhere else in the hospital.

  At the same time, the nurse leaned out the door and yelled, "I need some help in here!"

  It seemed like less than a second later and the room was so full of doctors and nurses that there was barely space for Mal to breathe. They started saying hospital-y words. Things he didn't understand.

  "Heart rate spiking…."

  "Seizure…."

  "Call the nickle-you…"

  Then everyone ran out. And they were holding Ruthie.

  Mommy was screaming. She was nearly howling, too. "Where are you going? Where are you taking her? Where are you taking my baby?"

  Big hands landed on Mal's back. Daddy shoved him toward Mommy. "Stay here," he said. "Take care of Mommy." Then, to Mommy, Daddy said, "I'll find out. I'll be back."

  Daddy ran after the doctors and nurses and Ruthie.

  Mal started to tremble. Because he thought he was going to be a very good big brother. But Daddy had just put him in charge of protecting Mommy. And that was a Daddy job.

  I can't do that.

  I'm not a Daddy.

  I'm a big brother.

  What if she dies?

  What if I'm not a big brother anymore?

  BIRTHPAINS

  Alyssa Douglas was in pain.

  Of course there were the obvious spots. The doctors gave her pain meds, they gave her ice packs, they gave her a little can of Dermoplast to spray on her stitches where her perineum had torn. But none of it really worked. It was the equivalent of putting a Band-Aid on the bits and pieces that fell back to earth after someone stepped on a land mine.

  Her bones ached terribly. Her muscles shrieked at her whenever she moved the slightest little bit. Her face was a field of pain and she had no wish to see what she looked like in the mirror. Going to the bathroom felt like a fire-breathing dragon had taken up residence where the baby had recently been.

  Her hair hurt.

  Most of all, though, her heart ached.

  It only took a few hours. Just a few hours between the time that they took Ruthie away and a doctor could be persuaded to take time off the ninth hole to come actually talk to them. A few hours, but in that time she felt like entire civilizations probably rose and fell.

  Certainly her ability to be civilized was at an all-time low. When Blake came back and told her he hadn't been able to get anyone to tell him what was happening, she almost jumped out of the bed and clawed his eyes out.

  She knew that was a combination of terror, exhaustion, and the incendiary bomb that had recently gone off in her internal hormone factory. But knowing it didn't change her urge to maim him for not knowing more.

  He sat down and held her hand. She felt like kissing him for trying so hard, and then punching him for accomplishing so little.

  They sent Mal back to Robyn and Greg's house. He was crying when "Mr. Thayer" came, and that almost broke her heart again. He didn't want to leave until Ruthie was "fixed and all better."

  How did she and Blake explain to someone like Mal that some things might not get fixed or all better? Someone so young and, more important, so innocent and good?

  So they didn't. They just told him they would come get him soon. Told him it would all be fine. Lie, lie, lie.

  And then, at last, the doctor came.

  She had decided that she was going to yell for the first ten minutes of the talk. But when Doctor Malalai showed up her urge to argue disappeared. Part of it was his face, which was so kindly, so sympathetic, that she couldn't really bring herself to be angry.

  Mostly, though, it was just that she realized how crazy it would be to yell and scream and so delay the time to find out what was happening. What was wrong with their baby. With Ruthie.

  He told them. Malalai had olive skin, thin wire glasses, a thin mustache that was impeccably shaped and groomed. His voice was as soft and kind as his features, with the subtlest trace of an accent. Probably Middle Eastern. As he spoke she was almost hypnotized by the sound of his voice, the subtle rolls of his r's and lilt of his tone.

  She was hiding from something ugly in the only beauty to be found.

  Blake was speaking, she realized. Tears ran down his cheeks, into his mouth. They saturated his words, nearly drowned his voice. "So that's what we have to look forward to, what she has to look forward to? A life of transfusions, infections, strokes, organ failures, pain after pain after pain? And then after all that, she probably gets to die when she's in her forties?"

  Alyssa didn't wait for Malalai's answer. He had already told them, and she couldn't bear to hear it again. Instead, she focused on something else he had said. Like a lawyer trying to spot a weakness in the other side's case, trying to tear it down and prove it wasn’t true. "I don't understand," she said. She shook her head. "You said it was a genetic disease."

  Malalai nodded. He seemed to
approve of her noticing this fact. "It is."

  "But we don't have –"

  "No," he said. "So both you and your husband must carry the genetic trait, though not as a dominant gene. However, you were each able to provide a recessive gene to Ruthie, and together those resulted in her condition."

  Alyssa felt like all the air had been vacuumed out of her lungs. She knew what Blake would say: it wasn't her fault, it was just the way things worked. But she didn't feel like that, and wouldn't believe him. She had given this to Ruthie. Without her –

  (without me without her mother the one who's supposed to give her everything and what's the first thing I give her?)

  – the condition couldn't have reared its head at all.

  She glanced at Blake. His face was granite, a single thin line carved out for the mouth. And that made her feel doubly selfish.

  What must he be feeling? Given his past, given what his father was… can he be feeling like this is anything other than his fault? Like he came from a tainted place, and passed on only evil himself?

  She knew she was being selfish. Knew she should comfort Blake. He had to be feeling as bad as she was – maybe worse. But all she could feel was her own pain. All she could hear were the accusations she leveled at herself.

  Pain did that. It took away your ability to notice anything but the animal. Dogs in traps snapped and bit even at the people trying to rescue them, and though the nature of the traps were different, human beings often acted just the same.

  Blake spoke, and she could almost hear the weight of generations in his voice. "What now?" he said. "Is she going to…. I mean, will she…?"

  He couldn't even finish the thought. A gurgle came from his throat, and for a moment his self-control lapsed. The granite fell from his face and the raw emotion beneath it was revealed.

  Dr. Malalai leaned forward. Put a hand on Blake's shoulder. They were all in Alyssa's hospital room. She was still in her bed, and the hospital bassinet still lay empty beside her. A bare, cold reproach.