“Not too original,” she said. She glanced at their father, but only for half a beat, before her eyes found Knox’s face again. “But I thought they were good.”
“Food names are trendy now, I think,” Knox said. She felt the room divide like a sea, leaving only her, only Charlotte, in the deep seam between the waters. “I see it at the reading center. We have a Sage. But Ethan and Ben are perfect.”
“Food names,” Charlotte said, thinking. Sweat stippled her upper lip. The skin on her neck was pink, blotched.
“It’s a choice,” Knox said.
Charlotte snickered. “Oh,” she said. “Don’t—it hurts.” She looked at Dr. Boyd and said, “Can I keep my sister with me?”
Knox thought then that she would have to be extracted from the room with an oversized cane, like a vaudeville entertainer who had worn out her welcome onstage. She wouldn’t be able to stop performing tricks for Charlotte, half-demented as she suddenly felt with relief, with love.
“My heart,” Charlotte said, and Knox, with her own so giddy and full, thought, I know.
“It’s like I’m on too much speed,” Charlotte said, looking up again at Bruce.
Not that the lady’s ever been on speed, folks. Bah-dum pum.
“Let’s give her some privacy now,” Dr. Boyd said, in such a way that Knox expected him to follow them out of the room. Her father nodded and guided her mother through the door. Knox watched them go, then turned back toward Charlotte.
“Bye,” she said, inflecting it like a question.
Charlotte blinked, smiled, closed her eyes.
“She’s tired,” Bruce said.
Yes. Knox covered her disappointment with an expression that she hoped conveyed good humor, understanding. She took a breath, made her feet move. Dr. Boyd stayed where he was, as did Bruce. She closed the door behind her.
In the hall, her parents were waiting. Her father rubbed circles into her mother’s back.
“You have to remember this is major surgery,” her father said.
“That’s right,” her mother said.
“We’ll have more time with her in a minute,” her father said.
Knox ran her fingers through her hair. She either wanted to have her back rubbed, too, or she wanted to walk, walk anywhere, until it was time to be let back into Charlotte’s room. She allowed herself to experience one moment of bittersweet shame that her parents still felt the need to comfort her, at her age, when she found herself on the wrong side of a closed door, with Charlotte inside.
“We’ll go see the twins now,” her mother said. “Let’s go ahead and do that.”
“Yes!” her father said, and Knox smiled and nodded. Her father leaned back into Charlotte’s room to ask whether this was a good time to look in on the babies.
A nurse was dispatched to lead them to the neonatal intensive-care unit, one floor up. She was older than the squash-playing Dorothy Hamill, less wholesome looking; in the elevator she examined her fingernails. Knox could tell that the nurse fought for a moment to remember where she was when her parents breached the silence and began to ask their questions; it was clear from her face that she had been thinking of her lover, of the hamburger-noodle casserole in her freezer, of her own sister or her own babies. Well, Knox thought, she has a life.
“How long will each of them have to be in this unit?” her mother asked. “What does that depend on?”
“Mostly weight,” the nurse said, not unkindly. She raised her eyes from her fingers and watched the tinted panel above the elevator door, waiting for the number of their floor to flash. “And whatever special problems or needs they might have.”
“But they’re fine,” her mother said. “We were told that they’re perfect, just premature.”
“That’s great,” the nurse said. She crossed her arms over her stomach, wrapped her hands around her elbows, which were left exposed by the short-sleeved tunic that she wore. Knox could see her fingers exploring the rough skin of her elbows, her upper arms; she was probably reminding herself to exfoliate during her next shower. “Preemies always have to be watched. They’re still developing, but I’m sure yours are fine at this point, neurologically. This wasn’t one of mine, so I don’t know the details.”
Knox’s mother looked up at her father. Her jaw looked set; the skin on her neck seemed to tighten.
“Mina,” her father said.
“If you don’t know any details,” her mother said, inserting a breathy laugh between phrases, “then it’s probably best not to scare