Grip Trilogy Box Set

“It’s just nice to see Jade happy,” Ma says. “I mean, making her music and in love and at peace with herself.”

And with me.

Ma doesn’t say it, but when our eyes meet across the table, I read the same pleasure I feel that Jade and I are closer than we’ve ever been. And happier than we’ve ever been. Now if I could just translate that to my music.

“When’s Aria coming?” Nina asks, potato salad smeared on her little chin.

“Uncle Rhyson’s finishing up some work.” Bristol passes her a napkin. “But they’ll be here in a couple of days. Maybe even tomorrow night.”

Nina claps and rolls her shoulders, some little move she and Aria made up. The cousins are thick as thieves already. Aria’s at our house as much as Nina is at Rhys and Kai’s.

“What’s that you’re drawing, Martin?” Shondra asks. We’re finished with lunch, and she and Amir volunteered to clear away and wash the few dishes.

“It’s us!” Martin grins, showing off his little square teeth.

“Lemme see.” I reach for the paper. Bristol walks up beside me and peers down at the drawing in my hand.

It’s a brown man/stick figure with something close to afro-shaped hair, obviously me in need of a haircut. A shorter woman/stick he’s colored peach and who has brown lines drawn around her shoulders for hair. Martin made Bristol’s stomach a circle and there’s two pink round things inside.

“Grapefruit,” Martin says. “You said the babies are like grapefruits now.”

“Ahhhh.” Bristol purses her lips against a smile. “You got them exactly right, baby.”

In his drawing, Bristol and I are sandwiched between the kids, Nina holding my hand and Martin holding Bristol’s. They’re both brown stick/kids with zigzags for hair.

I tilt my head, staring at what Martin’s holding in the drawing. “What’s that purple thing in your hand, son?”

“It’s Zoe!” He says, his smile wide and proud. “It’s the feather in her box.”

Zoe’s name, offered so unexpectedly, causes the adults on the patio to collectively draw and hold a startled breath. Bristol goes perfectly still beside me, and her hand goes instinctively to her stomach. She’s carried two pregnancies to term with typical deliveries since Zoe, but that fear niggles in the back of both our minds. We didn’t really talk about the relief we felt when there were no indications of anencephaly, or any other birth defect at this point. We’ll love our babies regardless. That’s not just a platitude for us. It’s been tested in fire, honed in sorrow. As much as losing Zoe hurt, we talk openly about her to our kids, making sure they know they have a big sister looking out for them all the time, even though they never met her.

“You can have it, Mommy,” Martin offers, his smile slipping, his childish intuition untried, but sharp enough to pick up on the shift of emotions. “I-I drew it for you, so we can put it in the twins’ nursery.”

“It’s so good, Martin. That’s a great idea,” I say, glancing at Bristol, who stares down at the paper. Even though she isn’t crying, her eyes have that look of shattered glass she gets sometimes when she thinks of our little glory baby. She did therapy. We both did, but therapy doesn’t always eradicate hurt. Sometimes it just helps us carry it better, teaches us how to best bear our burdens.

“This is your most beautiful drawing yet, son,” Bristol says after a deep breath, reaching down to caress the purple stick/feather. “I love it very, very much. It will look perfect in the nursery.”

She bends to kiss his hair, closes her eyes tightly and then cups Nina’s little head and kisses her forehead, too. She clears her throat and pulls back to spread an overbright smile between our children and says, “Who’s ready for shave ice?”

Bristol

Demise.

That’s how the nurse described what was happening to my baby, the significance of the purple feather hanging on Zoe’s door in the hospital. The feather that rests in her memory box now, along with all the other keepsakes from her brief time with us.

A demise.

It does hurt less than it used to. At first, I couldn’t think about Zoe without aching and tumbling into a black hole. A witless Alice in an arid Wonderland. I would flinch at the sound of Zoe’s name, not because I didn’t want to hear it, but because I wanted to hold her so badly. It’s been years, but my body perfectly recalls the sweet little weight of her in my arms. Her new baby scent still fills my nostrils if I draw a deep enough breath. I remember the dark tangle of downy curls brushing against my cheek. Some days my senses are locked in a room with those memories, and I don’t want to leave because she’s still there. As difficult as that day was, in that memory, she’s still there.

But life goes on. It has moved on, and I’m at baby three and four. I’m years into a marriage I grew up thinking wasn’t even possible.

“You okay?”

I glance up from the table, from Martin’s drawing, which I’ve found myself pulled back to all day, to see Mama James, wearing concern on her unlined face. The dining room is clear of dishes from tonight’s meal, and everyone’s gone to their respective corners. It’s just Mama James and me.

“I’m fine.” The smile I give her is genuine because after all we’ve been through, Grip’s mother is one of the people who always makes me smile. The same way I couldn’t imagine being married to someone as wonderful as Grip, I couldn’t have imagined having a mother-in-law like Mittie James.

The concern on her face stays put.