PART II
TWO TURTLE DOVES
SKYE WARREN
Two Turtle Doves is about faithfulness over time. That's why I wanted to show Gabriel and Avery years after marriage, as they celebrate Christmas and prepare for the birth of their child.
1
The prick of a needle startles me awake. A drop of dark red pools on my fingertip.
The silver needle glistens in my hand.
"Oh no, Mommy," Helen says. "You have an owie."
I stick my finger in my mouth. It tastes of metal. "I'm fine," I tell her. "Sorry. I must have fallen asleep and poked myself."
Those amber-gold eyes study me, miniature versions of her father’s feline gaze. "It's bedtime," she says, sounding remarkably like myself when I'm trying to corral her into her room at night.
She's already wearing her jammies, but I agreed to get in one more string of popcorn before she had to go upstairs. Our house is a popcorn explosion. We started with a few strands going around the tree. When Helen loved those, we added strands to our garlands on the fireplace mantle and the door outside. She has caught the popcorn fever. Now we have garlands crossing the entire room, strung from the ceiling.
"More, more." That's what she says as soon as we finish a new strand.
I put the bowl, the needle, the thread aside."You're right, baby. Mommy does need bedtime."
"I'll take it from here," comes a low voice.
Gabriel strides into the room. He hoists a little girl on his shoulders. Helen squeals. I struggle to stand. Not an easy feat when I have twenty-five pounds of extra weight on my stomach right now.
Gabriel frowns. "I said I'll take it from here."
"I was just going to help," I say.
He lifts one eyebrow, his expression stern. "Don't."
I raise my own eyebrow in challenge, but I am pretty tired, so I let myself fall back on the couch.
Gabriel is a great father, but he doesn't do the bedtime routine on his own. Usually it's the three of us. He’ll kiss Helen on the forehead before leaving me to finish putting her down.
I like the ritual of it. I like the closeness I feel with Helen when her eyes droop.
But I’m exhausted from making popcorn garlands. I’ve been staying up late wrapping presents and prepping for Christmas lunch. A break wouldn’t hurt. I close my eyes and lose myself in the moment. The crackle of the fire in the fireplace, the smell of popcorn all around me, the soft sound of Christmas music through the speakers. I spend so much time crafting the picturesque holiday for Helen, I'm not sure I really get a chance to enjoy it myself.
Curiosity gnaws at me. I wonder how they're doing. Getting up is a ten-step process involving my palms, elbows, twists, and ultimately, a little wobble at the end. I'm due in a month, but these last thirty days are going to feel like forever.
I climb the steps carefully, not wanting Gabriel to hear me coming. I don't want to disrupt their time together, nor do I want him to think that I don't trust him to do this. I pause at the top of the landing, which is right beside Helen's room.
The door is open a crack, enough for sound to get through, and I can hear an imperious four-year-old girl ordering her billionaire father around. "Mommy leaves the closet light on for me," she says, and I can hear the low murmur of his acquiescence.
Pale yellow light spills out through the door as he turns it on.
"Mommy turns on the oil diffuser." More low murmuring. There's some fiddling with the ceramic diffuser, way too many beeps as he presses through all the options on the machine, and then finally, that's done.
"Mommy sings me Christmas songs," she says. “On the first day of Christmas my true love sent to me: a partridge in a pear tree. On the second day of Christmas…”
Gabriel clears his throat. "I'm not sure I remember the words to the whole thing.”
“Two turtle doves are next, Daddy. What’s a turtle dove?”
“A bird. Probably. How about I tell you a Christmas story instead?"
Little Helen doesn't appreciate change, but she's curious about this new idea of a story. "Maybe," she says, caution heavy in her voice.
"You may have heard the story of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. But do you know the real reason he ended up the leader of Santa's sleigh team?"
"Why?" Helen asks.
Gabriel launches into a story of a reindeer who defies the traditions of his family. He's forced out to make his own way in the cruel, frozen tundra of the North Pole. He appeals to Santa, but no, the benevolent dictator prefers to maintain the status quo. He didn't want to anger Rudolph's father and risk disrupting the peace and productivity of his current sleigh team.
What ensues is a story of intrigue, danger, and ultimately, triumph, as Rudolph fights for a place in the world. It's a much more grim story than the one in the stop-animation movie, but it's closer to Gabriel's past. This is the world we came from.
I didn't grow up believing in Santa.
Gabriel didn't either.
We want a more innocent childhood for Helen than we had, but we also feel a responsibility to warn her about the nature of the world that she will eventually have to live in.
Halfway through the story, I sit down on the topmost step, my hands cradling my large belly and the little boy inside. I close my eyes, enjoying the low timbre of his voice, occasionally smiling as he invokes contracts, property disputes, and even the toy stock market of the North Pole.
Gabriel stops abruptly, right in the middle of a description of Santa's corner office, and I know that Helen must have drifted off finally. He emerges from the room and carefully closes the door so that the latch won't wake her.
He doesn't seem surprised to see me on the top step. I realize he probably knew I was out here. He holds out his hand and I take it, allowing him to help me up.
"I should probably finish that last strand," I say.
He shakes his head, silent and faintly amused.
"What?"
His expression turns grave. "You're doing enough," he says, and I flinch. How did he know? How did he know this was my pain? Well, he is Gabriel Miller.
"I know," I say, but it's not convincing, even to my own ears.
“You’re doing more than enough. You’re a wonderful mother to Helen. And you’ll be a wonderful mother to the baby, but it has nothing to do with how many strands of popcorn garland you make. Or how many presents you wrap. Or the number of potatoes you peel in preparation for the Christmas meal. It’s your love. That’s what makes you perfect.”
Tears spring to my eyes. “It doesn’t feel perfect. It feels messy. I’m always exhausted. Always falling asleep. Always forgetting things. I’m not good enough.”
“You’re not your mother, Avery.”
A sob catches in my throat. I close my eyes. Tears stream down my cheeks.
He pulls me close. “You’re not her. She was busy, and maybe hurting, but whatever the reason, she wasn’t there for you. And then she was taken from you. You would never be her. You’re the best mother I could ever imagine for my children, and I’m honored to have you as my wife.”