Anna Quinn - The Night Child

Ever since, Nora had enjoyed living her own life, had enjoyed setting her own terms and conditions, but when she’d become pregnant with Fiona and felt a heart pulse within her, the tiny bones fluttering against the soft inside of her belly, lighting the closed spaces, she’d allowed “god” to become synonymous with love. Simple as that.

But she wants Fiona to believe in magic, wants to ease the tension in the household, so she wraps presents and signs them, “ Love, Santa ,” and winds strings of white lights through the limbs of the spruce tree in the living room. Fiona helps her, sings carols and throws bunches of silver icicles on the branches, stepping back every few moments to clap her hands and exclaim, “Oh Mommy, it’s magic!” Nora watches her and wants to freeze the moment, wants to remember every enchanting detail.

Paul brings them a small gift each night: one night, a pair of hand-knit orange mittens for Fiona, a lavender candle for Nora. “For the twelve days of Christmas,” he says as he hands them each a wrapped box, always tied with a pretty ribbon, each time kissing Fiona on the cheek and Nora quickly on the lips.

She tries not to think about who else he is kissing. She’s more convinced now than ever that he’s having an affair, though she really doesn’t have any good evidence, only that he’s been working later and later each night, and by the time she wakes up in the morning, he’s gone. She could ask him about it, straight out, the way he likes things, direct—she could say, “ Are you having an affair? ” but she fears that if anything else should go wrong right now, that if he answered her, “ Yes, Nora, I love someone else ,” she might lose her mind once and for all, and so she keeps silent until she feels strong enough for the truth.

“Oh, Daddy!” Fiona says one night when he gives her a book called The Mitten. The three of them sit around the sparkling Christmas tree to read it even though it’s way past her bedtime. Paul had come home late, and Nora had allowed Fiona to wait up for him.

“It’s about a little boy in Ukraine,” Paul says, as Fiona climbs onto his lap with the book. “Ukraine is close to where my grandparents lived.”

“In Poland!” Fiona says, proud to have remembered.

It surprises Nora that Paul is talking about his family. He rarely does. Fiona knows his grandparents immigrated to America—New York, had changed their name from Bronowski to Brown. She knows his father was in the Korean War, same as Nora’s father, and that his father was a pilot—that his plane was shot down and he was a hero. But Paul hasn’t told her about his mother. They’d both agreed that Fiona was too young to know what really happened—that at nineteen, he’d found his mother in the closet, hanging by his father’s best Sunday tie. That, as her only child, Paul had tried for a decade to draw her out of sadness, quit school to make money for them, but nothing had worked. They remained in poverty, and it was only much later he’d realized she’d been manic-depressive. Sometimes, to Nora, it seems like he still believes that if he makes enough money, she’ll come back to him.

“I’m sad your mommy and daddy died,” Fiona says, hugging him.

“Me too,” he says. “Me too.”

He looks so sad that for a second Nora thought he might cry, but then he says, “Let’s read the story, okay?” And he reads it to her twice, until she is asleep in his arms, and he carries her upstairs to bed. When he returns, he says, “She’s ready for her goodnight kiss.”

“Okay.” Nora is in the living room trying to write a Kafkaesque poem about a woman who woke up with a book for an arm and was overcome by the feeling that other parts of her body might grow into books and she might be reduced to paper and words and become unrecognizable to herself and to others.

“I’ve got some work to catch up on; don’t wait up, okay?” he says.

His words an arrow between her eyes. “There are pork chops in the oven,” she says. “And some cheesy broccoli.” She is disappointed he isn’t going to sit by the tree with her.

“I grabbed a tuna sandwich from the deli,” he says. “But again, thanks.” He’s lying about the sandwich, and she can see it in his eyes. Her chest begins a slow ache.

“The Redmond deal’s almost cinched,” he says then, as if reading her mind and wanting to change the subject so they don’t have a fight that goes on and on. “It’s almost in the bag, Nora. I’ll get a promotion. More money.”

“Do we need more money?”

“That’s not the point. Why can’t you say, ‘Good luck!’ or, ‘I know you can do it!’”

“Well, I know you can do it,” she says. “Good luck.” But he has already walked away and doesn’t hear her sarcasm. This is what happens when two people begin to separate.

Her brother, James, is coming from Chicago for Christmas and bringing his new partner, Stephen, who is a doctor. “A pediatrician with a talent for intuitive assessment and a reputation for not over-prescribing medications,” James told her months ago during their Sunday phone call. “I can’t wait for you to meet him!”

Nora buys fragrant white roses and places them in modern rectangular glass vases on each nightstand in the guest room where James and Stephen will sleep. While she arranges things, she hears in her head, unexpectedly, her father singing “The Christmas Rose,” like he did when she was small, as he tucked her into bed. The flower so small, whose sweet fragrance fills the air, dispels with glorious splendor the darkness everywhere. Remembering this, she feels a tightening in her stomach. Perhaps she misses her father after all, that maybe even after all this time, there’s a bit of love left, a weed pushing through a sidewalk crack. But now her hand is flying, and now the vase of flowers is on the floor, rose petals pierced with splinters of glass, and water, a mess at her feet.

The doorbell rings and Fiona runs to open it. She is wearing her bluebird pajamas and the plastic rhinestone tiara Paul had given her last year for her birthday.

“Uncle James,” she squeals.

“Hey, pipsqueak!” James says, laughing as he sets his suitcase down, sweeping her up into his arms. Stephen stands by his side, grinning. He is tall and slender and appears slightly older than James, who is now thirty-three. His fine brown hair falls across his forehead, and his face is clean-shaven, a sharp contrast to James’ unruly red curls and scruff of beard that’s at least a week old.

“Fiona, this is Stephen.”

“Hi, Fiona,” Stephen says, his voice soft, his green eyes filled with warmth.

“Come on in and see our tree!” Fiona says, squirming down, taking each of their hands and pulling them toward the living room, gusts of winter air blowing in behind them.

“Wait, wait, love,” James says, closing the door behind him. “I need to hug my big sister!” James hugs Nora then, lifting her off the ground. “Merry Christmas Eve, Sis! Sorry we missed dinner.”

“It’s so good to see you. I can’t believe it’s been a year,” Nora says once he’s set her back down.

Stephen embraces her too, kissing her on both cheeks. She likes him already.

“James, Stephen,” Paul says, offering a strained smile and a handshake to each of them. Nora hears the tightness in his voice, a constriction that finds its way to her, making her nervous. This is the first time James has brought a boyfriend to their home overnight, and Paul isn’t happy about it. He still thinks being gay is a choice, a bad one.

“It’s not a choice; it’s biological,” she’d argued each time, his statements making her furious. She’d even thrown a plate at him once, but he’d ducked, and it had shattered against the wall.