The fluorescent lights in Delivery Room Three hummed like an old refrigerator, vibrating right through the thin soles of my slippers.<\/p>\n
Arthur squeezed my fingers, his thumb dragging across the silver wedding band I had moved to my right pinky when my hands began to swell in the second trimester.<\/p>\n
\u201cFirst batch is almost ready,\u201d I said, trying to find a rhythm in the breathing exercises.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou always did know how to time an oven,\u201d Arthur said.<\/p>\n
His voice was low and raspy, the sound of gravel turning in a bucket. He checked his silver watch, the heavy one with the scratched clasp his father had given him for graduation.<\/p>\n
Dr. George Vance adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, his surgical mask puffing out with every breath.<\/p>\n
At exactly twelve minutes past two, the first baby arrived into the sterile warmth of the room, a boy with a loud, wet cry that filled the corners of the ceiling.<\/p>\n
Arthur smiled, his eyes bright in the harsh light, and pressed his forehead against my temple.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe has your nose, Diane,\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe have four more to go,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
By three in the morning, the air in the room felt heavy and sweet, like a kitchen after a long day of baking.<\/p>\n
The nurse, a quiet woman named Sarah, lined up the bassinet carts along the tiled wall.<\/p>\n
The second baby was a girl, followed quickly by two more boys and another girl, each one smaller than the last.<\/p>\n
Arthur stood near the warming table, his hand reaching into his pocket to twist his leather key fob.<\/p>\n
Dr. Vance frowned slightly as he wiped the third baby, looking closely at the dark curls on the infant\u2019s scalp and the deep, warm shade of the boy\u2019s skin.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe pigmentation is quite pronounced,\u201d Dr. Vance said, polishing his glasses with the edge of his blue scrub top before putting them back on.<\/p>\n
Arthur stepped back from the table, his face turning the color of unbaked flour.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is that?\u201d Arthur asked, his voice dropping an octave.<\/p>\n
Arthur did not answer, his eyes darting from the babies to my face, then back to the bassinets.<\/p>\n
By eight o\u2019clock, the morning sun was cutting through the plastic blinds, casting yellow stripes across the worn linoleum.<\/p>\n
My sister Clara was already there, her fingernails tapping a rapid, nervous beat against her collarbone as she propped three pillows behind my back.<\/p>\n
I held two of the babies, their tiny chests rising and falling against my gown, while Clara adjusted the flannel blankets.<\/p>\n
Arthur stood at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the five small bundles in silence.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey need a lot of formula, Arthur,\u201d Clara said, her voice fast and light to fill the quiet. \u201cA gallon of milk is three dollars and twenty cents now, so imagine what five of these will cost.\u201d<\/p>\n
Arthur did not look at her, his gaze fixed on the dark skin of the baby boy in my left arm.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey look like my mother\u2019s side of the family,\u201d I said, touching the baby\u2019s soft cheek. \u201cWe have that deep Mediterranean skin down the line.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI have never seen anyone in your family look like this,\u201d Arthur said.<\/p>\n
At ten o\u2019clock, Clara went down to the cafeteria to find some orange juice, leaving the room quiet except for the rattling window air conditioner.<\/p>\n
Arthur walked over to the bedside table and unclasped his silver watch, laying it down next to the plastic pitcher of water.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe need to talk about this,\u201d he said, his raspy voice rising enough to make the baby in the first bassinet stir.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey are sleeping, Arthur,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am not blind, Diane,\u201d he said, stepping closer to the bed, his eyes dark. \u201cThis does not look like my family, Diane.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is a genetic variation,\u201d I said, though I did not know the science of it yet, only what my grandmother had told me about our bloodline. \u201cDr. Vance said it happens.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou think I am going to pay for five kids that do not even share my blood?\u201d he asked, his voice carrying out into the hallway.<\/p>\n
\u201cArthur, please,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
He did not look back at the bassinets, nor did he look at me as he turned toward the door, leaving the silver watch on the yellow wood of the table.<\/p>\n
The sound of his heavy footsteps faded down the sterile hospital hallway.<\/p>\n
I picked up the black plastic receiver of the bedside phone and dialed Arthur\u2019s number.<\/p>\n
The line did not ring, replaced instead by a flat, recorded voice that told me the number was no longer in service.<\/p>\n
I hung up and reached across the sheets to the bedside table where his silver watch still lay, its metal cold against my palm as I slipped it into my purse.<\/p>\n
Beside where the watch had been sat the small wooden toy horse he had bought at the craft fair in July.<\/p>\n
Its pine surface was rough under my thumb, the carved tail slightly crooked, smelling of fresh lacquer and dust.<\/p>\n
Clara walked back into the room holding a paper cup of orange juice.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid he answer?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe line is dead,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Clara tapped her fingernails against her collarbone. \u201cHe is just panicked.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe took his boots from the closet before he came to the hospital,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe left his watch,\u201d Clara said, pointing to my purse.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe left everything,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
She sat on the edge of the mattress, the paper cup trembling in her hand. \u201cThe doctor said they can go home on Thursday if the jaundice clears.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe only have three car seats at the house,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI bought two more from the neighbor,\u201d Clara said. \u201cThey are in the trunk of the Buick.\u201d<\/p>\n
Four days later, the nurse wheeled me to the double glass doors of the lobby.<\/p>\n
Clara had her rusty Buick idling by the yellow curb, the tailpipe blowing thin grey smoke into the humid air.<\/p>\n
On the pavement sat five infant car seats, bright blue plastic against the grey concrete.<\/p>\n
They had cost four hundred and fifty dollars, a sum that had taken us three months of saving to pull together.<\/p>\n
The nurse helped me lift the first carrier into the back seat while Clara struggled with the second.<\/p>\n
The nylon straps on the third seat were twisted, the buckle jammed with dried dirt.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere is your husband today?\u201d the nurse asked, looking down the driveway toward the road.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe had to travel for work,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Clara slammed the heavy door of the Buick, her face red from the humidity. \u201cWe have to put two of them in the front seat, Diane.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIs that safe?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe do not have another choice,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
We strapped the final two carriers into the front passenger side, their small heads wobbling against the flannel inserts.<\/p>\n
The car smelled of old vinyl and gasoline as we pulled onto the highway.<\/p>\n
By Tuesday, we were back in the rental house on Elm Street, where the window air conditioner rattled against the frame in the living room.<\/p>\n
Five plastic bottles stood in a neat row on the worn yellow linoleum counter.<\/p>\n
Clara stood by the stove, stirring a pot of tea.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe milk is almost gone,\u201d she said, looking into the small refrigerator. \u201cIt is three dollars and twenty cents a gallon now at the corner store.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI have eighty dollars left in the blue jar,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe will make it stretch,\u201d Clara said, but her hand was shaking slightly as she set the spoon down.<\/p>\n
The five bassinets lined the living room wall like little baskets in a bakery.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe is not coming back, is he?\u201d Clara asked, her voice low.<\/p>\n
\u201cI do not think so,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
I touched my silver wedding band, which was too loose now on my finger, and slid it onto my right pinky.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe landlord called about the rent,\u201d Clara said.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat did you tell him?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI told him we needed until the fifteenth,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
I looked at the five bottles on the counter, each one filled with identical pale liquid.<\/p>\n
We had to feed them in pairs, prop them up on pillows, and keep a log of every ounce they took.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe need more diapers by Friday,\u201d Clara said, writing on a yellow pad.<\/p>\n
The double stroller was too wide for the aisles at the grocery store, so I had to leave three of the babies in their carriers in the shopping cart while I pushed the other two ahead.<\/p>\n
Helen, our neighbor from down the street, stopped her cart right in front of the bakery display.<\/p>\n
She smoothed her floral apron over her dress and leaned over the cart.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, look at them,\u201d Helen said, her voice high and sweet. \u201cThey certainly have a unique look to them, Diane.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey are healthy,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course they are,\u201d Helen said, peering closer at the sleeping baby on the left. \u201cThough people are wondering about Arthur. We haven\u2019t seen his truck in the driveway.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe is working out of town,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cSome people are saying he went back to Georgia,\u201d Helen said, her eyes shifting to mine. \u201cAre you sure there is not some other explanation for their appearance?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey are my children, Helen,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, of course they are yours,\u201d she said. \u201cBut a father is a father. It must be hard doing this without any support.\u201d<\/p>\n
I pushed the cart past her, the front wheel squeaking against the linoleum.<\/p>\n
At the register, the total came to twenty-four dollars and twelve cents.<\/p>\n
I counted out the bills, leaving exactly four dollars in my purse.<\/p>\n
When I got back to the kitchen on Elm Street, Clara was already asleep on the couch.<\/p>\n
I stood by the stove, watching the pan of water heat up to warm the first bottle.<\/p>\n
The blue flame flickered under the pot, casting small shadows across the yellow floor.<\/p>\n
I reached into my pocket and touched the small wooden horse, its painted tail rough against my palm.<\/p>\n
The heavy silence of the kitchen as the infant formula warms on the stove.<\/p>\n
Dr. George Vance set his black fountain pen down on the green desk blotter and pulled his silk tie up to polish his wire-rimmed glasses. It was the third week after the births, and his small clinic office on Eighth Street felt entirely too quiet. Outside the window, a mourning dove sat on the telephone wire, its gray feathers damp from the morning drizzle.<\/p>\n
He did not look at me immediately.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe physiological traits we observed in the delivery room are typical of a rare genetic mosaicism,\u201d Dr. Vance said, his voice flat and formal. \u201cIt is a rare genetic condition where a mother can pass down diverse physical characteristics, including distinct skin tones, to multiple infants from the single pregnancy.\u201d<\/p>\n
I shifted the canvas diaper bag on my lap, my fingers instinctively reaching down to touch the silver wedding band I had moved to my right pinky finger. It fit loosely there now, a constant reminder of how much weight I had lost since the delivery.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo they are his,\u201d I said. \u201cEvery single one of them.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course they are his, Diane,\u201d Dr. Vance said, sliding his glasses back onto his nose. \u201cBut to establish this scientifically for any legal or official record, the state will require his DNA sample.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cArthur is not answering his phone,\u201d I said. \u201cThe line was disconnected last Tuesday.\u201d<\/p>\n
Dr. Vance sighed, looking down at my medical chart where five names were written in neat, small script. \u201cWithout his sample, the state will not easily validate these results.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at the tiny plastic identification bands I had kept in my purse. \u201cI will have to find him myself then.\u201d<\/p>\n
He did not answer, but the silence in the office was heavy enough to feel like a door closing.<\/p>\n
The next week, the county records office smelled of old glue, damp basement air, and floor wax.<\/p>\n
The clerk behind the high wooden counter did not look up from her sorting when I pushed the heavy wooden gate open. I had the stroller with me, the five of them sleeping side by side in the triple-wide frame Clara had found at a yard sale.<\/p>\n
\u201cI need to check the property tax rolls for Arthur\u2019s name,\u201d I said. \u201cWe need to find where his mail is going.\u201d<\/p>\n
She pointed a manicured hand toward a row of tall gray cabinets in the corner. \u201cEverything from the last five years is on the microfiche reader, honey.\u201d<\/p>\n
I pulled out the heavy metal drawer marked with the letter M.<\/p>\n
The thin plastic sheets crinkled in my hands as I fed the first slide into the glass viewer. I spun the black rubber dial, watching the names of Ocala residents flicker past on the glowing green screen.<\/p>\n
I found our address on Elm Street, but the line next to Arthur\u2019s name was completely blank.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo forwarding address listed,\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you try the utility office?\u201d the clerk asked, her voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey won\u2019t release that without a court order,\u201d I said. \u201cOur cup of flour is running very short.\u201d<\/p>\n
She turned a page in her ledger and said nothing more.<\/p>\n
By month two, the air conditioner in our living room window had developed a steady, rhythmic rattle that made the glass shake. Clara sat on the worn yellow linoleum floor with her legs crossed, a stack of white bank envelopes spread around her.<\/p>\n
She was tapping her fingernails rapidly against her collarbone as I walked in with the laundry basket.<\/p>\n
\u201cDiane, you need to sit down and look at this statement,\u201d Clara said, her voice fast and sharp. \u201cI went through the joint savings records from the day after you came home.\u201d<\/p>\n
I set the basket of baby shirts on the table. \u201cIs the balance low?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is not low, it is gone,\u201d Clara said. \u201cHe withdrew forty-two hundred dollars from the joint account at the drive-through window on Silver Springs Boulevard.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stared at the white paper she held out.<\/p>\n
The printed numbers showed a balance of exactly eighty-six dollars remaining in our checking.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat was forty-two hundred dollars we saved for their formula and the winter utilities,\u201d I said. \u201cThat was our whole dough.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe took every penny he could reach,\u201d Clara said, her fingers tightening on the edge of the paper. \u201cHe left you with nothing but the house.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe have to find him, Clara,\u201d I said. \u201cWe cannot rise without any yeast.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow?\u201d she asked. \u201cWe do not even know if he is still in the state of Florida.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI will go back to Dr. Vance,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
The rain was coming down in thick, gray sheets when I returned to the clinic in the third month.<\/p>\n
Dr. Vance was waiting for me in the small consult room behind the receptionist\u2019s desk. He did not ask me to sit down this time, but stood near the window holding a thick, brown manila envelope.<\/p>\n
\u201cThese are the official results from the lab in Miami,\u201d Dr. Vance said, handing me the sealed envelope.<\/p>\n
The paper was stiff and dry under my thumb.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis proves my genetic condition?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt proves your maternal markers are the sole cause of the children\u2019s traits,\u201d Dr. Vance said, polishing his glasses again with his tie. \u201cBut you must understand, this envelope only solves half of your problem.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is the other half?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou still have to serve him,\u201d Dr. Vance said. \u201cThe court cannot force him to pay child support if they cannot find him to deliver the papers.\u201d<\/p>\n
I tucked the heavy envelope under my arm and walked out into the damp afternoon.<\/p>\n
When I got back to Elm Street, the kitchen was quiet and the babies were finally asleep in their cribs. I sat at the small wooden desk in the corner and turned on the single brass lamp.<\/p>\n
The yellow light of my desk lamp shining on the empty bank books.<\/p>\n
I pushed the empty bank books into the desk drawer, knowing the thirty-two dollars left in our account would not buy five winter coats.<\/p>\n
By the second year, the children had outgrown their first sets of cotton sleepers, and their small feet pressed against the tight seams of their socks.<\/p>\n
The air in the Methodist church basement was cold, smelling of damp concrete, old cardboard boxes, and the sweet, musty scent of donated wool.<\/p>\n
I stood at the end of a long folding table, sorting through a pile of donated infant shirts that had been delivered in garbage bags.<\/p>\n
Each shirt was thin from too many washings, the small plastic snaps bent or missing entirely from the collar.<\/p>\n
A few feet away, Helen, who lived three blocks down on Elm Street, smoothed her floral apron.<\/p>\n
She whispered to the pastor\u2019s wife, her head tilted toward my corner of the room while she folded a stack of small corduroy trousers.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey say she has to buy six gallons of milk every single week,\u201d Helen whispered, her high-pitched voice carrying easily across the quiet basement.<\/p>\n
I kept my head down, folding a yellow shirt with a little blue duck on the pocket.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is a perfectly healthy presentation,\u201d Dr. Vance said, his tone shifting to that formal clinical weight he used when a patient asked too many questions.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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