Part 1, Chapter 9 // Though I Make My Bed In Sheol

He jammed the gallon of milk into the bottom of his backpack, added the rotisserie chicken beside it, then stacked the frozen garlic bread and cheese crackers on top.  He shouldered the load and got on his bike, then stared dumbly at the twelve-pack of ginger ale still sitting on the pavement.  He cursed and picked it up, attempting to balance it on his knee as he rode the ten blocks from the grocery store to her house.  

     He eased into the bike lane and used one hand to stabilize the cans and the other on the handlebars.  He was decent at steering one-handed, or even going hands-free for a moment, but he had never done it while jostling nine pounds of soda on his thigh. 

     She was nearly ten weeks along, and was struggling to keep anything down except pizza and Vitucci’s Texas Toast. He knew he’d need to bring her more ginger ale later in the week.  He used to bring her a two-liter bottle, but had learned that wasn’t going to cut it.  At work, she sipped at least two cans a day and otherwise subsisted on cheese crackers.    

     He gripped the cans tighter as he navigated around a pothole.  His phone vibrated in his pocket.  It was Mom.  She’d been trying to talk to him for weeks.  She had an infernally well-tuned sense for distress in the lives of her family members, and there had to be some kind of maternal alarm blaring within her, albeit subconsciously.  

     He knew he’d need to tell them soon.  He had already been longing to talk to his brother about it.  He wished he could hurdle that one obstacle, that single difficult conversation, and skip to the part where he was pitied and consoled.  Still, they would be relieved that he was doing the right thing.  They’d be satisfied that he had retained some of the rhetoric he’d been taught, though his decision hadn’t had anything to do with pro-life apologetics.  It hadn’t been a decision at all.  

     It was pure instinct.  Self-preservation.  Anything he did for her was for the baby, and anything done for the baby was for himself.  And it would still not be enough to rid himself of the loathsome organ within him, the mass of calcified rot at the center of his being.  

     Let me do this first.  Let me get rid of the mess.  Then there might be a chance.

     A chance he could be saved.    

     He hauled his bike up the porch steps, panting in the late summer heat.  Even in the evening, the air was stunted and close, hot and humid.  He gave a quick rap on the door to announce his arrival, then entered.  The window unit in the living room was on full blast, and Miss Stacy yapped and danced around his legs.  He gave the dog a polite smile and quietly stepped toward the kitchen.  He chanced a quick glance and noticed with relief that the futon was empty.  

     As he began to stack the groceries on the cluttered countertop, Charlotte appeared next to him.  

     “Hey,” he said, throwing up an awkward wave.  She stared at him.  “I brought some milk.  Do you want some milk?”  She ran away.  He reached for the chicken and realized that it had leaked golden, greasy juice all over the bottom of his backpack.  He cursed and searched the messy counters for a roll of paper towels, before finally yanking a damp kitchen towel off the oven door and using it to sop up the liquid.  He wanted nothing more than to leave and take a shower, but he always waited for her to acknowledge he had come, and also to receive any further instruction.  He waited frozen in the kitchen, not wanting to take any chances of running into anyone else but Reagan.  

     “Where’s that itsy-bitsy spider?” A voice called from the stairs. Charlotte laughed from the other room.  The steps creaked.  A quick series of rapid, hacking coughs. 

     “Grandpa, you put on show for me?” 

     “What?  A show?  I don’t know.  On the spot like this, I don’t have anything prepared.  What should I do…shall I put on a magic show?”  Casper heard the tank administering oxygen to Mark’s weak lungs.   

     “No, not that!” Charlotte giggled.

     “Not that…hmm…” He cleared his throat.  “I dreamed a dream of time gone by,” he trilled in an affected soprano.  His voice cracked for Charlotte’s benefit, then broke into a cough, which prompted more laughter.  “Sorry, Lottie.  That’s all I’ve got,” he panted.  “Would you mind if I turned on the brainless box for you?” Charlotte clapped her hands.  

     Casper heard the TV click on.  Probably Goobaloo Gully again.  Moments later, Reagan’s dad appeared in the doorway.  Casper’s stomach shrank but he smiled bravely and tossed up his hand. 

     “Hey, Mark.” Mark adjusted a baseball cap on his brow.  The oxygen tube was fitted under his nose, and the portable tank was in his hand.  He was still as thin as ever, yet in his battered sneakers, jeans, and University of Wisconsin t-shirt, his gauntness was transformed into an oddly youthful wiriness.  He almost seemed to twitch with nervous energy.  He might have been a pleasant guy to hang out with if they had met on different terms. 

     “I’m taking Reagan’s car to run some errands.”  The oxygen hose hissed.  

     “I brought a chicken.” Casper held it out for proof, or maybe as appeasement. “Should I put it in the fridge?” No, Stupid.  Leave it out on the countertop next to the dirty cereal bowls.  Mark eyed it briefly.  

     “Tell Reagan when she comes down that I’ll be back in an hour.”  Before Casper could respond, Mark darted away.  “Hello, Lottie!” he growled into the living room, before his voice broke into a cough.  Charlotte giggled.  “Goodbye, Lottie,” he said with a chuckle, accompanied by the skittering of Miss Stacy’s paws, then the front door closed behind him.  

     He heard the shower still running upstairs, and the inane strains of the rainbow-colored tripe on the television.  Where do the Goobies laugh and play? Where do the Lollies pop all day? 

     He turned to the sink and began to load the dishwasher.  It was one of the chores he had taken charge of in the past few weeks, as well as folding the laundry and reassembling the daily newspapers before placing them neatly in a stack on the porch.  

     On a good day, Mark tore through them all: The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, The Chicago Sun-Times, and The Madison Standard.  He mercilessly slashed at them with a red pen, drawing boxes around entire blocks of text and crossing them out.  He wrote hasty notes in the margins, as well as symbols Casper couldn’t decode, and occasionally scrawled a four-letter critique across an entire column.  Reagan said it raised Mark’s spirits, to see how abysmal print journalism had become without his keen expertise.  Casper was forbidden from throwing out any of the old editions, though Reagan had confided to him once that she routinely tossed an armload in the recycling bin.         

     He hummed as he scrubbed at a pan stuck all over with dried macaroni and cheese.  

     “Friendship and giggles light the way to Goobaloo Gully.”  Admittedly, there were worse theme songs.  He heard Reagan coming down the stairs.  She appeared in the kitchen doorway with Miss Stacy in her arms.  “Hey! How are you feeling?” he asked, relieved to see a neutral party.  Or at the very least, someone who didn’t overtly hate his guts.  She shrugged and offered a half-smile.  Her hair was wet and he could pick up the familiar scent of her lavender shampoo.  “I got you more ginger ale.  And the garlic bread.  Oh, and your dad stepped out for a bit.  Errands, he said.  I got a chicken for him.” 

     “That was nice of you,” she said, opening the fridge and popping a can of ginger ale.  “He won’t eat it.  It looks good, though.”  She took out the chicken and opened the lid, wincing and turning away, her lips suddenly clamped shut.  She put a hand to her mouth and closed the lid again.  “Nope,” she pronounced, “can’t do it.”

      “Sorry,” he said, shaking water off his hands and taking the chicken from her.  “Will Charlotte eat it?” She shook her head tightly.  Yet another food that made her sick.  

      “No, just take it home,” she said with effort, as if she were trying not to inhale the lingering odor.  “Somebody should enjoy it.” 

      “Sorry,” he repeated, stricken.  “Sorry.  I didn’t know.”  She waved off the apology and took a seat at the cramped dining room table.  She shoved aside the scattered newspaper pages with her elbow and leaned her head on her hand.  

     “He was in a good mood today,” she observed.  “He only wrote ‘TLDR’ over Maisie Morley’s column instead of ‘toilet-tissue.’” 

     “Let me do that.” Casper scrambled to the table and began gathering the papers and sorting them.  First by specific periodical, then by section.  She picked up The Sun-Times lifestyle section and placed it in the corresponding pile, carefully slipping it between the sports and arts.  “Does your dad realize that he can subscribe to these online?  It’ll cost a lot less, too.  I could set it up for him if he wants.”

     “He’d kill you first.” 

     “I’ll pay for it.  I’ll get him the Pyongyang Bugle if he wants it.” Reagan gave him that faintest laugh of hers that was scarcely more than a breath. 

     “Dad blames the internet for the decline of print journalism.  Plus, he wouldn’t be able to scrawl potty language all over the page.  He will never surrender.” 

     “But he must know you’re throwing them out.  That porch cannot possibly support the weight or square footage of sixteen years of newsprint.”

      “If he knows, he doesn’t say anything.  Anyway, I do throw out the papers he doesn’t read when he’s having an episode.  That’s nearly twenty papers right into the bin.”  She said so as if it were a triumph.  He sat at the table and looked at her.  “What,” she said, taking a sip of ginger ale.  

     I don’t know how you’ve done it.  I don’t know how you’re doing it.  

     Charlotte appeared and put her arms around Reagan’s neck.  She announced that she was hungry.

     “Okay, Lottie,” she said.  

     “No, let me.” He leapt to his feet so quickly he startled both of them.  “What do you want to eat, Charlotte?  Peanut butter and jelly?” 

     “Yes, that’s perfect,” Reagan answered.  Charlotte informed her that it was not perfect.  “No, it’ll be fine,” she insisted.  Charlotte stomped her foot and began to whine.  Reagan closed her eyes and sighed. “Lottie—,”

     “What do you want instead, Charlotte?”

     “Casper, you don’t have to—,”

     “I brought chicken,” he offered with ironic enthusiasm.  Reagan suddenly smiled and rewarded him again with that small laugh.  “Or…” he began, emboldened, “your mom once told me you like pancakes.  I can make pancakes.” Reagan eyed him quizzically.  

     “You can?  Since when?” 

     “Reagan, I’m a human being with working hands.  I think I’ll figure it out.” Charlotte agreed heartily.  

     In the end, Reagan did most of the heavy lifting.  She directed him to a recipe in a worn-out cookbook, produced a bowl and a whisk from the cluttered kitchen, and procured for him all of the necessary ingredients.

     “Don’t over-mix once you add the flour,” she consulted from the dining room.  “And turn the heat down.  The pan shouldn’t be smoking like that.”  He waved her off.  

     “I’ve got it.  Drink your pop and let me work.” 

     “Can he put chocolate chips inside?” Charlotte asked Reagan. 

     “Sure, I can.” With that, he won his first smile from Charlotte.  All along, it was as simple as giving her chocolate for dinner. 

     The pancakes were coming out quite blackened and wet, so Reagan took over.  When all was finished, they yielded six golden pancakes, and Charlotte was ecstatic.  

     “I better get going,” he said, as he nested the mixing bowl in the crammed dishwasher and added detergent.  “Your dad probably doesn’t want to see me here when he gets back.” Reagan didn’t deny it.  She walked with him to the front door.

     “Say bye-bye, Lottie,” she prompted.  Charlotte beamed a sticky smile at him from cheeks smeared with chocolate.  

     “Bye-bye,” she parroted back before stabbing another bit of pancake with her pink plastic fork.  

     “She likes you now.  Forever.”  

     “One less person who thinks I’m the devil, then.  Now I only need to convince your dad.”  Reagan smiled grimly.  “Is that a lost cause?”

     “I wouldn’t worry about getting him to like you.  I know it’s weird right now, but eventually it won’t matter.  Only thirty weeks to go, right?” She gestured to her belly, which didn’t appear any different.  

      “Only thirty weeks,” he repeated.  

      On his bicycle, he turned to look at her one more time before the house was out of sight, but she had already gone inside.  

—

     Though she had asked him to come with her to the first anatomical scan, in the end, he was asked to stay with Charlotte, who woke up with a sore throat the morning of the appointment.  

     He sheepishly knocked at the door just as Reagan was slipping into her shoes.  

     “Come in, come in,” she said, shoving aside a pile of Charlotte’s pastel-colored sneakers.  “Lottie, Casper’s going to stay with you today,” she announced as she led him past the living room.  Charlotte was propped up on the futon under a blanket with a sippy cup.  He was relieved not to see Mark.  

     “Mister Rogers is the best,” he observed, as he glanced at the TV.  Nobody answered him.  Reagan cleared a spot on the table.  

     “You should be able to work right here. I don’t think Charlotte will be feeling good enough to do any coloring, so you should have it all to yourself.  My dad took his meds, so he won’t need anything from you. He’ll be upstairs all day.”  

     “Is he,” Casper lowered his voice, “having an episode now?”  Reagan shook her head.  

     “He just can’t risk infection.  It’s bad for his lungs.  The wifi password is nerfHerder, with threes instead of Es and an ampersand at the end.”

     “Dash or no dash?” She cocked her head.  “Between nerf and herder.”  She smiled.  

     “No dash, no space.  Camel case.”

     “Good password.  I haven’t seen those movies in forever.”

     “Neither have I.”

     “Maybe we should watch them again.”  She looked at him, her lips parted.  “Sometime.  Or not.”  

     “I should go,” she said, looking at her watch.  “Thank you again.  You’re so nice to do this.”

     “Not at all,” he said, meaning it.  

     It took him an hour to manage any focus at all.  Jin had agreed to allow him to work remotely for the day as long as he checked in frequently and submitted his assignments punctually.  But every unfamiliar rattle and groan of the old house disturbed his concentration, not to mention the roiling discomfort in his stomach.  It also didn’t help that the neighbors on the other side of the duplex seemed to be  holding a spirited contest to determine who could fit more profanity into a sentence.  His head jerked up whenever he thought he heard a foot coming down the stairs, or a cough.  He came to appreciate the soulful, serene companionship of Miss Stacy, who lay curled by his feet, and hopped up eagerly whenever he got up to check on Charlotte, who appeared contented, if a bit dazed, in front of the TV.  

     He was finishing up a message to Jin when Charlotte appeared at his elbow. 

     “I’m hungry.  Can you make pancakes again?” 

     He muttered a response as he peered at the screen and selected a typo he’d made.  Here’s the data.  It should have read, Here are the data.  That would have been embarrassing.  

     “Sure,” he answered distantly.  Charlotte rejoiced and said something else that he didn’t hear.  “I will check over the sets,” he mumbled as he typed, “before I submit them, and—,”

     There was a great crash on the kitchen floor.  He whipped around to see Charlotte standing, her hands apart like shocked parentheses.  A solid ceramic bowl was sitting on her toe.  Her mouth was opened wide in a noiseless scream of pain.  He recognized the terrible portent behind the silence.

     “No, no, shh!” he said as he leapt up and picked up the bowl.  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he pleaded, as he examined her foot.  There was no blood, of course.  But it had to hurt.  He could hear her drawing in a breath. “Let me find some ice for you.” He scrambled to his feet.  His hand was on the freezer door.  A long, loud wail erupted, bouncing off the close walls and sailing to the ceiling.  Loud enough to wake the dead, and certainly Mark.  Even the neighbors next door had paused their tirade.  Casper grabbed an ice tray and cracked it, clumsily dropping ice cubes on the floor and the counter.  He gathered them in his hands and bundled them in a dish towel he’d yanked off the oven door.  “Come here, Charlotte.  Let me see.”  She didn’t hear him.  He pressed the useless thing on her foot and held it.  

     “What is going on down there!” For a man weakened by years of illness, Mark had some pipes.  The sound of his hoarse voice carried right down the stairs and throttled Casper’s nerves.   

     “It’s okay,” Casper called back, his voice cracking.  “It’s fine, Mark.  Just a little injury.  No blood!” he added.  

     He heard the feet on the stairs and his stomach dropped another thousand feet.

     “Lottie, you okay?” Mark asked, stepping into the kitchen and crouching in front of her.  Casper obsequiously moved aside.  Mark was huffing, and the oxygen tank at his side was cold as it knocked against Casper’s hand.     

     “She’ll be okay, Mark. She just—,” 

     “Shut up.” He jabbed a finger at the bowl.  “What’s this doing on the floor?”

     “She wanted pancakes, and I was going to make them, but she just—,”

     “Why weren’t you watching her?” 

    “I was, I was just,” he stammered,  “I was only finishing up a message to my supervisor.  I swear, Mark.  It was only a second, I’m sorry.  It won’t—,”

     “Are you okay, Lottie?” Mark asked, gently sweeping her hair out of her face.  Charlotte nodded, her dark eyes round and gleaming with tears.  “Do you want Grandpa to get you something to eat?” Casper cleared his throat. 

     “I can—,”  

     “He was going to make me pancakes,” Charlotte said, pointing at Casper and wiping her face with a pudgy hand.  

     “Can you do that,” Mark demanded without looking at him.

     “Yeah, I —,”

     “I mean, can you do that?” Mark enunciated each word pointedly. “Are you capable of that?”  Without waiting for a response, Mark muttered a curse and hobbled to his feet.  “I’m going back upstairs.  Please let me know if you can’t handle it down here,” Mark said, as if he didn’t expect Casper to understand irony.     

     “Thanks,” Casper answered lamely. Mark kissed Lottie on the forehead and walked away.  Casper heard him lumbering up the stairs.  

     He made the pancakes, albeit slightly chewy, and Charlotte was duly satisfied, but didn’t fail to comment that her mommy’s were better.  He was washing the dishes in the sink when his phone buzzed.  A notification from Jin, asking when he was planning to follow up. 

    “Can I have some more milk?” Charlotte asked.  

    “Yeah,” he muttered, rapidly tapping out a response on his phone.  He didn’t check it for spelling errors before sending it.  Whatever.  Forget it.  

     He got Charlotte her milk and had just seated himself at the table again, when she asked for some paper and crayons.  He sighed and looked at her helplessly.  

     “Charlotte, I don’t even know where that stuff is.”

     “On the fridge,” she said, pointing behind him.  He followed her poised finger and hauled a messy stack of papers, pipe cleaners, and a torn box of crayons from the top of the refrigerator.  A jar of glitter he hadn’t seen tipped over, showering his face with a hail of shimmering green dust.  He swore, then coughed and tried to brush the glitter out of his eyes with one hand, allowing a jumble of colored pencils to clatter to the floor.  Squinting, he dumped it all on the table, then staggered upstairs to the only bathroom.  He borrowed a generous amount of Reagan’s contact solution to rinse out his lenses.

     When he returned to the dining room table, Charlotte was absorbed in her work.  He sat down again at his computer and opened the table he had been working on.  He checked his watch.  Reagan would be leaving the office for the doctor in a few minutes.  Maybe he should text her to make sure she didn’t forget. 

    >> Everything is good here.  Let me know how it goes at the doctor.  

    >> How is Charlotte’s throat?  There should still be some freeze pops in the freezer.  Would you mind taking her temperature?  She can have more ibu at 1:00. 

     He could only stare at the phone, his mouth hanging open.  He glanced around at the piles of clutter, still blinking at an errant speck of glitter in his right eye.  He hadn’t noticed a thermometer or infant Motrin sitting conveniently on the bathroom counter, and doubted it was placed anywhere logical.  He didn’t want to ask her.  He didn’t want her to be late for the appointment.  Asking Mark was out of the question.  Charlotte might know.  But somehow it was more humiliating to ask a five-year old because he was afraid of her mean grandpa.

    He went upstairs to the bathroom and gaped stupidly at the crammed medicine cabinet.  He gingerly pushed aside various drugs, remedies, loose bandaids, and sundry first aid ointments, then recklessly shoved all of it to the floor till the cabinet was empty.  No dice.  He moved the junk with his foot and opened the small linen closet.  A deluge of miscellany, including a curling iron, wads of towels, bath toys, an emergency radio, and a Winnie-the-Pooh flashlight, poured noisily to the floor.  He rubbed his face and stared at the mess. 

     Great.  Charlotte was going to die of a sore throat at his feckless hands.  

     He stooped and picked up a towel, folded it and set it in the empty linen closet.  It looked nice.  He picked up another, folded it, and stacked it on top.  If he was going to prison for the rest of his life for criminal incompetence, he may as well clean up the crime scene a bit.  The humidifier wouldn’t be needed till the winter, so he moved it to the back, behind the towels.  He found a discarded plastic caddy, and used it to collect the bath toys.  He picked up a tangled ball of her hair from the floor and tossed it in the trash. It felt good to fix something for once.  

    As he slowly ordered the mess, he nearly forgot he was in his ex-girlfriend’s house, babysitting her sick dad and sick child while she went alone to an appointment for his baby.  But he hoped she wouldn’t notice he had done anything.  The last thing he wanted was for her to tell him again how nice he was.  

     Before long, everything was put away.  The dingy tile, rusted bathtub, and cracked sink appeared a bit less dire.  Mom would be proud.  Maybe.  Without context.  At the moment, Charlotte was still without hope of ever receiving another dose of medicine.  

     He remembered walking into his parents’ bedroom one night during a particularly bad cold, which had kept him out of school for two days.  I can’t sniff, he’d said.  Mom had wearily sat up and reached for the decongestant spray she was keeping on the nightstand, next to a box of tissues and some ibuprofen.  

    He stepped into the hallway and paused in front of Reagan’s room.  The door was a ajar. There was a poster on the wall depicting the native flora and fauna of Wisconsin.  Garlands of tiny origami butterflies, misted with dust, dangled from the head of her dingy window.  On her dresser was a framed photo of her and baby Charlotte, both beaming identical smiles.  He hadn’t noticed any of that the last time he was there.  He carefully pushed the door open and glanced at her nightstand.  Her phone charger, a worn copy of Dune, a tube of her pomegranate lip balm, and next to the lamp, he saw the medicine and an infrared thermometer. 

     “Cool,” he said, picking up the thermometer.  He tested it on his hand.  “Cool,” he said again.  He took the supplies, but left her room undisturbed, taking one more look before heading back down the stairs.

— 

     Charlotte sucked contentedly on her green freeze pop while she watched him work.  He sighed, exasperated, and erased again.  It wasn’t right.  He couldn’t get it right.  He had never had so much trouble before.  The blank page stared at him.  Charlotte pointed a pudgy finger.  

     “Why come there’s still no picture?”

     “I don’t know,” he said, taking a puzzled sip from his melting red freeze pop.  “I haven’t done anything like this in a while. It doesn’t look right.”  

     “But you drawed this one so good!” she cried hoarsely, holding up the portrait she had just commissioned from him.  He had worked directly under her orders until the finished drawing resembled something out of Narnia.  He had discovered it was easy to convert Reagan into a mermaid, though he reverently gave her more substantial coverage than the standard shell bra.  Even depicting Mark as a unicorn wasn’t too difficult.  He simply drew a grumpy centaur wearing a University of Wisconsin t-shirt, with an imposing spike jutting through his ball cap.  Miss Stacy was enthroned on a pearl-encrusted dais, wearing a bejeweled crown and a dazzling collar set with diamonds in order to fit the role of “queen of gems,” and Charlotte had asked to be a “princess doggie,” so he drew a fluffy white mutt with a speech bubble above her head.  “It’s so boodiful,” Charlotte murmured huskily.  “Mommy will see it and she will love it.”

     “Mommy doesn’t need to see it.”

     “Why come this is so hard for you to draw a spider castle?”

     “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully.  He had already tried the most obvious route.  A decrepit castle covered with menacing webs, but Charlotte had rejected that attempt.  Then he tried an imposing fortress teeming with black and yellow spiders, but that had also failed to please her.  “I don’t know how else to make an evil spider castle without scaring you.” 

     “No! The spider is not bad!” Charlotte’s blue eyes were wide and insistent.  “The spider is good! She is a good spider queen.  Her castle is good.  It’s in the air like a web.”  Casper scratched his head.

     “You never told me the spider was supposed to be good.” 

     “Spiders are good every time! Mommy says they eat the bad bugs.  I’m named after a spider, did you know?”  Casper smiled.

     “Yes, I knew that.”  Charlotte’s eyes popped again.

     “How you know that?”  Casper chuckled.  “But you don’t know my other name,” Charlotte said, crossing her arms and eying him coyly.  

     “What other name?” he asked, crouching over the paper again and beginning to lay down some faint pencil lines.

     “Joules.” He shaped a pair of gossamer turrets spun out of silken thread.

     “Oh, that’s cool,” he said, meaning it.  Of course Reagan would come up with something like that.  “Like kilojoules.”

     “Kill him?  No!” she shrieked in horror. “Jewels.” She drew out the word to emphasize its meaning.

     “Oh, Jewels.  Like gems.  Pretty.” He leaned closer to the paper and added a parapet.

     “It’s not pretty!” Charlotte giggled.  “It’s a boy name.  Boy names aren’t pretty,” she added didactically. 

     “But you said it’s your other name.”  

     “Mommy said if I was a boy.”

     “But Jewel’s not really a boy name—oh, I get it,” he said, smiling again as he heard himself say it aloud.  “Jules.  Jules Verne.”  He returned to the drawing. 

     “How you know that too?” Charlotte shrieked.  He shrugged as he shaped a delicate grid for the portcullis.  

     “Your mom loves his books.”  

     “You know my mommy a lot,” Charlotte said reverently.   

     “A little bit.”  Charlotte leaned over his arm and watched the castle taking shape.  “Is this more like it?” he asked.

     “Yes, I like it really much,” she answered softly.  He liked it too.  The castle was ethereal and fragile — as if woven out of silk — with long lines, tall windows, and elegant curves; it appeared light enough to be blown away in the wind.  “Can I draw the queen?” she asked, a bubblegum pink crayon poised in her hand.

     “Go for it.”  He sat back, sipped on his freeze pop, and watched as she added a pink spider hovering above the castle, with eight legs and a benevolent smile.  When she finished, she looked at him inquiringly. “Boodiful,” he pronounced.

—

     He awoke with a start.  Reagan was standing over him, looking amused.  Charlotte clambered over him and threw her arms around Reagan, who swept the messy brown hair out of her face and kissed her.  He sat up and checked his watch.  Ten after six. 

     “I’m sorry,” he said, catching his computer as it slid off his lap.  The screen was dark.  “Must have dozed off while she was watching TV.”   Jin was never going to let him work remotely again.  “She had pancakes around ten, but it’s been mostly freeze pops since then.  Sorry.  But she hasn’t had much of a temperature all day.  Low-grade, 99 for the most part.  I left the thermometer on your nightstand.  Oh, and you’re getting low on ibuprofen.  I can pick some up tomorrow.”  

     “Thanks,” she said, sitting next to him.  She stared blankly at the wall, her hands in her lap.

     “How was the doctor?”

     “Good,” she shrugged.  “Everything is fine.”  Her eyes were shadowed and heavy with circles.  Her skin was sallow, her lips were colorless, and her cheeks were sunken.  

     “Did they give you anything for the nausea?”  She nodded.  “Did they do an—did you get to see it?”  She took out a piece of folded photo paper from her purse and handed it to him.  

     “You can hang on to it if you want.”  He held it folded in his hand, unsure if he should open it.  “Thanks again.  This was so nice of you.”

     “Anytime,” he muttered.  Charlotte had sank back down in front of Goobaloo Gully and they sat in silence while the TV flickered with color and noise.  “Are you hungry?” he asked.  “Can I get you anything?”  She shook her head.  “I’ll get out of your way, then.” 

—

     In the bare, harsh light of his apartment, he tore open his backpack.  He carefully opened the sonogram.  

     His breath caught in his throat.  He stared at the image.

     A tiny silhouette, curled up in a dark, benevolent frame.  A forehead, a nose, and a thumb.    

     “God,” he whispered.  “God.”

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