Anna Quinn - The Night Child

“I … I didn’t know. I—”

“Shame’s in our veins, that’s why,” he says.

She knows these words. They’re hers. Years ago, when he was sixteen, she’d seen him and an older boy kissing out behind the garage. After dinner, she’d gone into James’ bedroom and asked him about it. He’d sat on the bed, put his head in his hands and said, “ Shit, shit, shit .” She’d promised she wouldn’t tell. No one would understand, she’d known that. Still, she’d said, “Hold your head high, James. Don’t let shame poison your veins. You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect, and I love you.”

“James, I think the weight, the weight that’s pushed me down for the last thirty years is lifting. I know I’ve got a long way to go. Every time I think of him, I … I hurt, hurt in places I didn’t know existed, in ways I—but still … I can’t—”

He pulls her tighter into him. “Fuck him. You don’t owe him a thing. You never have to see him again. This isn’t about him anymore, do you understand? This is about you getting better. This is about us doing whatever it takes to bring you home.”

They sit for a while, her head against the tremble of his chest. The inflating and deflating of his lungs coaxing a delicate part of her to life.

“Nora, I—”

“What?”

“No, never mind. It’s nothing. Sorry.”

“What? Tell me. I can handle it. Really.”

“Paul … he isn’t at the house very often. He’s home for dinner, tucks Fiona into bed. We’ve hardly said two words. I think he’s … staying with—”

“Elisa. Yes, I know.” She is surprised how remarkably calm she feels saying this. “He was here yesterday. Paul and I are done.”

His arm squeezes her shoulders. “Well, I’m staying. For as long as you need me.”

“Mommy,” Fiona calls from across the room. “Can you help me tear off this picture?”

Nora rises, makes herself walk steadily to her daughter. Fiona has drawn a purple hummingbird, its long beak deep into the sweetness of a yellow daffodil.

“Sweetie, this is beautiful.”

“My teacher says the daffodil is a symbol of new life, and the hummingbird is a symbol of happiness.”

Nora ruffles her hair. “Well you are a very smart little girl—and a wonderful artist.”

“A symbol is something that gives you a clue of something,” Fiona says proudly. “Like red is a clue for love. That’s why valentines are red.”

Nora’s stomach constricts.

“And you can make symbols from everything! Did you know that Mommy? And you can think of the symbol whenever you want. That’s what the teacher told me. She said I can think of a hummingbird, and I will feel better.”

“And do you think of the hummingbird?”

“Yes!” Fiona says. “All the time! And I make symbols out of lots of things. Ask me to make a symbol from something, Mommy.”

“Well,” Nora says, her stomach relaxing a bit, “what’s James a symbol of?”

They both look at him. He smiles and waves.

Fiona puts her hands on her hips. “That’s too easy! James is a symbol of love! Give me something harder.”

“Well, how about a TV?”

Fiona is quiet for a moment. Looks at the TV and then at the girl.

“Hmmm,” she says. “That … that is a symbol for a friend. Maybe also, lonely.” She adds a bit more purple to each hummingbird wing, and stands back to inspect it. “It’s perfect. Mommy, can you get me the picture down?”

Nora carefully tears the drawing from the binding, gives it to Fiona. Fiona runs to the girl in front of the TV and offers her the picture.

The girl sets her Styrofoam cup on a side table and raises her hands slowly to take the gift.

Nora walks back to sit with James, keeps her eyes on her daughter, sees the young woman hold the picture up and study it carefully and then set it on her lap. Fiona gives the girl a big smile and runs back to her mother.

“She liked it, Mommy!”

“That was lovely of you, honey.”

Fiona clambers up on Nora’s lap and nestles her head under her mother’s chin. “But Mommy, that girl didn’t talk at all. And her eyes were really sad.” She wraps an arm across Nora. “But I could tell she liked it because of the way she touched the hummingbird’s wings.” Fiona reaches up and strokes Nora’s cheek. “Like this.”

Nora squeezes her. “Hey! I’ve been waiting for days to hear about your Valentine’s party!” Fiona’s body tightens. James clears his throat. “It’s all right,” Nora says. “We can talk about it.” She isn’t sure at all if it is all right, but she feels very hopeful.

She tilts Fiona’s face up so she can look her in the eyes. “Honey, I’m really sorry for scaring you when you were sorting your candy. Really.” Fiona’s eyes well up. “And when I get home, we can talk more about why that happened, okay? But for now, let’s just be happy, like hummingbirds!” Fiona blinks away tears, giggles, relaxes. “So please,” Nora says, “tell me about your party. Did you get all your cards made?”

And Fiona tells her about each paper heart she’d made, each note she’d written, how she carefully taped a candy heart to each red envelope. And, at first, in between Fiona’s words, Nora remembers to breathe, she’s fine. But now, a slight quickening of her heart, and when Fiona begins to recite the words on each heart, “I like you!” and “You’re fun!” and “Kiss me!”

Nora begins to slip

the sweetened words

undressing her

the weightlessness before

her father heavy on

her stillness

and she raises her hips

the floating up,

stay here, stay here,

Fiona’s voice deep underwater,

she begs Margaret in the most fierce way—

“Nora!” Carol’s voice. Carol shaking, shaking, shaking her.

Eyes open. Fiona there, red cheeks wet, her little hand over her mouth, James’ eyes wet too, and the girl with the crocheted blanket holding the hummingbird picture staring, everyone blinking alarm.

“Mr. Bauer,” Carol says, “How about taking the little one out?”

“Mommy,” Fiona says then, in a tiny forlorn voice, but all Margaret can do is shut her eyes tight.

Nora lies in bed listening to Carol whisper, “—and she kept screaming, ‘ Let me go home. Let me go home ,’ in a child’s voice , so out of control—a code gray—five aides to subdue her, scared the hell out of her little one. And ever since then, oh God, the screaming. You’d think she was coming off heroin or something, even broke one of the aides’ fingers!”

And then, another woman’s voice: “Her husband’s getting the court involved—wants her moved to Woodhaven.”

Nora waits until they are gone before she rises from the bed. It takes her a few minutes—the medication makes it hard to think straight. She takes her red wool coat from its hanger and her sweater and jeans from the chest of drawers and lays them on the bed. She pulls off her nightgown and gets dressed, pulls on her socks and running shoes. The missing laces make her cringe, make her burn. Her heart thumping shame. She’d let Fiona talk about the hearts, believed she could handle it, but she couldn’t. Why had she felt so much better earlier, only to have Margaret fracture her again? Her brain is ruined, and now she knows this. Broken. Irreparable.

She rips a piece of paper out of her notebook, but they’ve taken the pen, so she writes clumsily with lipstick, writes with an aching shame, Fiona, I love you. Tears the paper into the shape of a heart and leaves it by the yellow roses, puts on her coat, and tiptoes to the doorway. Looks both ways. No one. She slips out and closes the door behind her and whisper-walks down the aqua-tiled corridor to the public phone booth near the exit. She hears voices and presses herself into the booth, holds her breath, and waits. Finally, here is the janitor with his rattling cart and jangly keys, unlocking the metal bar across the door. He pushes it open, and once he’s clanked through, she rushes over and jams her foot into the opening. His sounds fade and she runs down the hall and out the double doors.