It had been six months already, but Mary still struggled to make sense of it all: How Joe had miraculously appeared after she had almost forgotten him; forgotten to care, forgotten to hope. How he had arrived at the last possible second to save them. She plied him with questions, but he avoided giving details. He always managed to change the subject.
Mary and Joe lived under a non-declared sexual truce. Each had their own, too-well known histories. They survived on food stamps and a string of part-time jobs; anything Joe could find. By mutual agreement, Mary stayed home with her babies. Day care was too expensive; even if Mary could have found a job, it would scarcely pay. And the twins needed special care after their near-death experience.
The twins, Joey and Jerry, recovered from their ordeal faster than Mary. They seemed to be unburdened by memories of their narrow escape from death. They were already developing starkly different personalities. One was a typical infant: grabbing, demanding, insatiable; screaming if he did not get his way immediately. The other was peaceful, giving, generous; always smiling and laughing. Mary loved them both with a kind of wild desperation.
When Jerry grabbed a toy away from Joey, Joey just smiled and picked up another toy. When Jerry hit Joey in the face, Joey laughed. At feeding time, Jerry screamed to be satisfied first; Joey patiently waited. When Mary tried to suckle both at the same time, Jerry screamed and kicked Joey. Mary tried to be firm, but in the end Jerry got his way. Mary was too tired to fight him. And Joey didn't seem to mind. Changing two sets of diapers on four squirming legs and four flailing arms was a like a military campaign. Bath time was an adventure all its own.
Joey often awoke with bruises on his face and arms. Jerry frequently jolted his mother out of bed screaming to be fed, or just screaming for no apparent reason. Joey slept peacefully and soundly.
Not for the first time, Mary thought about separating the twins. "You can see they don't get along," Joe agreed. "Jerry might really hurt Joey one day."
But discussions with the doctor were not encouraging. The twins shared a liver, he said. Although more complicated cases had been separated successfully, Mary had to be aware that the odds were less than 50 percent.
It was the worst dilemma she had faced in her young life. It was as if a gaping hole had opened at her feet. She stared into the vast depth, teetering dizzily on the edge. Her mind raced like a gerbil in a squirrel cage. One minute she was seeing the twins successfully separated, the next she was seeing them lying in a small casket.
If the operation was a success, what then? Would the injured twin be jealous of the unharmed one? She could not sleep. She tossed and turned, her mind unable to find rest. She got out of bed and paced until she was exhausted. She sat down and watched television, not paying attention to what she was watching. The flickering light became mesmerizing. Her eyelids were leaden. She wanted so badly to sleep, but she could not.
She felt a touch on her right shoulder and jumped. "Don't scare me like that!" She yelled at Joe. She turned to look, but the tall, broad-shouldered, middle-age man in a worn work jacket and faded blue jeans standing at her shoulder was not Joe. Mary was terrified. "Who -- how did you get in here?"
"I'm sorry, honey," the man said. "I just couldn't stay. Your mom and I -- well we just couldn't...didn't. I just wanted to say...don't make the mistake I did. Keep your family together. Don't let anything pull you apart."
"D-dad?" Mary asked, incredulous. The man said nothing more. He smiled wistfully, and then he wasn't there anymore.
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