random, gathered clutter whose meaning Knox had to question: Once Charlotte had tacked up another postcard, did she forget its origin? Did it retain its significance, or just become part of the wallpaper? Everything looked temporary. On the mantel, which was carved from a black, veined marble and would look handsome in an apartment where it was afforded the dignity of a clock, maybe a pair of urns, sat a few candle stubs ensnared in a mess of petrified wax drippings. Snapshots fluttered from the edges of the mirror frame, a garland of paper flowers was hung asymmetrically over the door that led into the kitchen. Knox knew that the cabin was barer than it needed to be because she agonized over the right of any object to its own display, but the profusion of stuff that filled any room Charlotte had ever called a home made her dizzy.
“I still can’t believe it,” Bruce said. Knox looked at him. His face was contorting; he covered it with his hands. Knox sat there wondering: Should she go to him? Put her arms around him? What were they meant to expect from each other, now? She held her breath, thinking of the platitudes she’d rehearsed, unable to speak them. The moments during which she sat, deciding, felt charged, and endless. Her teeth were clenched together in her mouth, and she held her body so still, ready to spring up at the slightest suggestion that comfort was what Bruce required. But he could just as well be needing her to freeze, like a statue, blind, deaf, dumb, as good as gone while he dispensed with this latest shudder of mourning. There was an etiquette, surely; they would have to fashion it together.
After a minute, the question answered itself; Bruce sighed and rose to his feet.
“We should go over some things, I guess,” he said. “While we still have a chance to talk.”
Knox’s nod was emphatic.
Bruce reached for a pad of paper from Charlotte’s desk. He shuffled around for a pen and finally found one after rattling open the desk drawer.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll just start at the beginning of the day.”
He sat down again, paper in hand. Knox got up and peered over his shoulder as he wrote, a good soldier, relieved to have somewhere to look. Bruce’s handwriting was cramped, and his letters leaned markedly to the left, as if shying away from the right margin of the paper. Knox was used to looking at a child’s grip when she tutored children; dyslexic kids often grasped their pencils like three-years-olds did, with every finger wrapped around. Bruce’s grip was an adult one, but it was awkward, not fully resolved, and he bore down too hard as a result.
5:00 a.m.—wake and bottle. Four ounces boiled, cooled water, two level scoops formula.
Back down.
7:00 a.m.—wake up, dress
8:00 a.m.—another bottle
9:00 a.m.—nap
11:00 a.m.—bottles
1:00 p.m.—nap
3:00 p.m.—bottles
5:00 p.m.—nap
7:00 p.m.—bath, feed, rock, try to get to sleep until 10:00 p.m.
1:00 a.m.—night feeding
3:00 a.m.—night feeding
Bruce glanced up at her. “This is partly wishful thinking,” he said. “It usually turns into a big blur at some point instead of a schedule. But I’m trying to get them on the same routine.”
“Wow,” Knox said.
Bruce’s smile was strained. “Is this overwhelming you? I could keep the monitor in my room at night.”
“No, no! I really want to help. I’m just—I’m still amazed you’ve been doing this alone.”
“It’s only been a week since I got them home,” Bruce said. His jaw worked. “A couple of nights, I’ve stayed here on the couch. Or had at least one of them in with me.”
“Do you—” Knox stared at the list. She felt that no matter how hard she looked at it, she wouldn’t be able to hold its information in her head. The babies ate and slept; that was all she understood. She would have to follow Bruce’s lead and rely on him to tell her hour by hour what she was supposed to be doing, it seemed. “Do you want to take turns at night?”
“I think we should do those feedings together, if you don’t mind. It’s just easier. Trust me; you’d want the extra pair of hands if you were doing those by yourself.”
“Well … when will you sleep? Don’t you want at least one night off, after a week of this?”
“I don’t want to sleep,” Bruce said.
THEY WOKE THE BOYS for their evening bottles, and Knox held each twin in turn while Bruce gave them their baths in a baby tub he’d placed in