My grandfather grabbed the babies and, glad to have something to do, an answer to the misery in that room, an order to follow, rushed through the house. He stumbled two steps at a time down the stairs. He strode through the living room, where Kelly, Pat, Meggy, and Theresa sat on the couch and on the floor where Willie had told them to Keep Quiet and Pray. The children watched, frozen in their places as their father moved past them, blood covering his crisp white work shirt, two purple babies held against his shoulder. He was in their sight for only a few seconds, but that was long enough.
Then my grandfather was in the kitchen, where Willie had gone to hide after the doctor arrived. He yanked open the door to the garage and rounded the corner to where the huge metal garbage cans were kept. He lifted off one of the metal lids, and dropped the babies inside. They fell one after the other onto a cushion of broken eggshells and milk gone bad and a few potatoes that had sprouted knobs and spuds too unsightly to just cut off and ignore.
THE STORY of the twins’ birth is a strange comfort to me. I recognize myself in the story; I recognize the people I come from and am surrounded by. It proves that even when the worst thing imaginable happens, the individuals involved still survive. The McLaughlins were able to limp away from the death of those babies. They remained a family. Daily routines, petty arguments, and relationships continued. I run this story over and over in my head because I need the convincing right now. I need to know that my world is not about to explode, in spite of any surprise or botched plan I throw at it.
The twins’ stillbirth is just one of the refracted images that have made their way down through the communal memory of my family, breaking over each of us like a wave. My mother witnessed that day with her own eyes, and then twenty years later those same eyes saw my birth. She never spoke of the twins—because my mother, like her own mother, never speaks of anything important. But still, I was aware of what she had seen from her seat on my grandparents’ living-room floor long before I was able to put words to it.
That has become my obsession, and sometimes livelihood, putting words to sensations, inklings, feelings. Looking for the back-story. I write a weekly advice column for the Bergen Record. I used to date the editor of the paper, and Grayson both came up with the perfect job for me and let me keep it after we broke up. He is probably my favorite ex-boyfriend. I love to come up with the right phrase, and to pinpoint the stories that have made people who they are. I enjoy working out other people’s problems. I like to come up with the final word, the right answer, and to see that printed indelibly in black and white.
No one in my mother’s family ever talks about anything that can be categorized as unpleasant or having to do with emotions, and, as a result, they no longer have anything to say. My mother has no idea how to carry on a normal conversation; my aunt Meggy never stops talking and yet never says anything constructive; and getting more than four words out of my uncle Pat is a major feat. For them it’s not a matter of keeping secrets; it’s a matter of being polite, mannerly, and tough. The McLaughlins couldn’t spill their woes or ask for help even if they wanted to, because they don’t have the vocabulary. They are stranded within themselves, convinced that the only way is to silently persevere.
My last name is Leary, but I have a lot of McLaughlin in me. It’s like looking at a reflection in a broken mirror; I can see the sharp corners and growing cracks of my family. I see pride fix my thin lips shut. I see the irony of my profession, where I ask everyone to come to me with their heart on their sleeves, while not allowing anyone a good look at who I am. I spend my nights at the Green Trolley, laughing, drinking, making eye contact with some man I’ve never met before and feeling that lightness spread through me, but I know this is not—was not ever—a step toward revealing myself. I