We’ve talked about it, of course. Our child. We’ve stayed up late into the night discussing names, playfully arguing over silly ones.
“I think we should call her Brunhilda,” Will suggested.
“Barnabus Rex, if it’s a boy,” I said.
“That’s a perfectly respectable name,” Will said. “I had an Uncle Barnabus.”
“You did not!”
“You’re right. Sadly, no Uncle Barnabus.”
We’ve talked about which of us our child would look like, what color we would paint the nursery, who they might grow up to be (a doctor like Daddy, a seamstress and cook like Mommy, the president of the United States, perhaps). We’d lie awake in bed at night imagining our child; this human being that he and I would make together, would love so perfectly.
But there is no child yet, and I am beginning to wonder if something is wrong with me. I haven’t confessed this fear to Will, but I think he sees it in my eyes. I am thirty-seven years old. Soon it will be too late. I have secretly tried things, desperate things, recommended by my sisters and other well-meaning women: bitter tinctures, lying with hips elevated for hours after intercourse. And the sparrow egg tucked against my breast, of course.
Mrs. Tuttle, who plays the organ at church, told me of the folk remedy. She said that a woman who wishes to be with child should steal a tiny egg from a sparrow’s nest and keep it tucked against her body for three days, then bury it in the ground. I spent weeks following sparrows, searching for a nest. How silly I felt climbing the tree, stealing that egg, carefully wrapping it in a silk handkerchief, carrying it around tucked into my clothes! I have not told Will about the egg.
Tomorrow, I shall bury it in our yard.
Will finishes his sandwich, leans back on the picnic blanket, and looks up at the clouds.
“I see a bear,” he says. “I think his name is Oscar.”
“Oh yes, I see him, too. Definitely an Oscar. It looks like he’s walking to that castle.”
“Castle? It looks more like a boat.”
“Perhaps it is,” I say. “Perhaps he’s a pirate bear? Oscar, King of the Pirate Bears! He’ll sail over to that island in the west, bury all his bear treasure.”
We laugh. Will takes my hand, kisses my nose. I feel giddy and light. I tell myself that our love is enough. That it is selfish to want more.
“I have a surprise for you, darling wife,” he says, grinning in his boyish way. “Have you heard of the Brandenburg Springs?”
“No,” I say.
“Well, people have been traveling to them for years. There are four underground springs that bubble up to fill a pool. The minerals are supposed to be quite healing. I have patients who swear that a soak in the springs will cure anything from gout to consumption. They say it’s very restorative. And,” he adds, raising one eyebrow in a wonderfully devilish way, “there are spooky stories about the place.”
Will knows I love an odd, spooky story. He speaks in a low, creepy voice. “Some say the springs are cursed. Haunted, even. Some people go and never return.”
“Oh?” I say, suppressing a little shiver, imagining what it might be like to disappear forever.
“Absolute bunk, of course,” he says. “The truth is, the most beautiful hotel in Vermont has opened there. It’s supposed to be very grand, indeed.” He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a folded brochure, which he opens and holds out to me.
There is a picture of a lovely white hotel with two green hills beyond it. It looks quite large, three and a half stories, with an enormous porch around the whole bottom floor and little balconies in front. Sumptuous gardens surround a large fountain.
“Oh! It looks lovely,” I say. “Positively swanky!” I lean in and read the words beneath the picture:
We invite you to the Brandenburg Springs Hotel and Resort—Vermont’s newest elite destination for the most discerning clientele tucked away in the idyllic Green Mountains. Come take the waters and experience the legendary restorative healing powers of our natural springs! Vermont’s own Fountain of Youth and Vitality! Our luxury hotel features 35 private rooms, each piped with water from the famous Brandenburg Springs. Dining room with world-class chef, sunroom, tennis courts, immaculate gardens. Open May through November. Do not delay! Book your room today!
“It looks like something from a storybook,” I say.
Behind us, the children laugh and race in circles. Catherine is announcing “Last call!” for the raffle tickets. “Last chance, folks! You do not want to miss out on this opportunity!” The band has started to play “Bye Bye Blackbird.” The air is sweet with the scent of apple blossoms and freshly cut grass.
“What would you say to going next weekend?” Will asks, voice slightly raised so I can hear him above the music. “Are you keen?”
“Of course! But what’s the occasion?”
“Does there need to be an occasion to take my wife for a romantic weekend out in the country?”
“I don’t suppose there does,” I tell him, kissing his cheek. He smells of hair tonic and shaving cream. “It sounds like an absolute dream,” I say, lying back on the blanket, my fingers brushing the fabric of my dress just above where the egg lies, waiting.
chapter three
June 16, 2019
My flight was leaving Seattle at seven thirty.
I’d asked my neighbor Lucy to come water my plants and bring in my mail. I’d called all my clients for the week and canceled, referring them to Karen Hurst, the therapist I shared office space with, who was happy to cover for me if anything came up that couldn’t wait. I’d even steeled up the courage to call my father, whom I hadn’t spoken to in weeks, but he didn’t pick up. “Ted,” I said to his voice mail. “It’s Jackie. Call me, okay? Call me as soon as you get this.”
And I’d called Barbara and told her what had happened.
“I didn’t pick up the phone,” I said, feeling another sob building in my chest.
“You can’t blame yourself, Jackie.”
“I know,” I said. “Logically, I know that.”
Barbara told me to call anytime if I needed her, to take things slow and give myself permission to feel whatever feelings came up. “Grief is a monster,” she said. It sounded exactly like something my sister would say.
* * *
Now, I sat with all the lights on, drinking the last of the pot of coffee I’d brewed a couple of hours ago. My bags were waiting by the door. I was showered and in clean clothes. I was thinking of Lexie, of the silly rhyming songs she’d make up when we were kids. “Jax, Jax, you are so lax, please do not fall into the cracks, or else you might just meet the Zax.”
“What’s a Zax?” I asked, interrupting. “Is it like… a monster or something?”
“The worst sort, Jax,” she nodded, grinning. “The absolute worst. You meet one and you’re never the same. There’s no going back.” Then she’d start to sing again, at the top of her lungs. “Zax, Zax, you’ve met the Zax, nothing can save you, not a gun or an ax, you better run, better make tracks! Jax, Jax, he’s breathing tacks, can’t you feel him? He’s behind our backs!”