Twisted Roots (DeBeers 3)

I nodded, forced a smile, and left. I had no idea why, but my stomach felt full of bees buzzing angrily like bees who had been misinformed as to where the nectar would be found. Soon they would head for the hive in my heart and chastise the worker who had made the error.

After dinner I returned to Mommy's bedroom and, at her insistence, held little Claude again. This time I was more relaxed, and he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

"See how easy it is?" Mommy said.

Miguel came in and stood by watching. It intrigued me as to just how fascinated he and my mother were with little Claude. It was truly as though every new move he made, every sound he uttered, was a remarkable, earth-shattering new achievement.

"Look at those lips twitching when he sleeps." Miguel said. "he must be having a real Freudian dream. Willow."

Mommy laughed.

"Right," she said. "He was promised better lodging outside the womb, and it isn't exactly as comfortable out here."

"Can't blame him for complaining." Miguel said. "Can you, Hannah?"

"I don't think he's complaining," I said "He's just nervous." They both laughed.

"Well, he is," I insisted. I returned him to Mommy's arms. "Babies don't dream anyway, do they? They can't have nightmares."

"Maybe not with as much sophistication as they will after they learn language," Mommy said. 'out there is most certainly a flood of images under the thin layer of sleep he experiences," she said gazing down at him.

"Who knows how often he relives the trauma of birth?" Miguel added. "Same psychiatrists and psychologists think we never forget it. right. Dr. Fuentes?" he asked Mommy.

"I don't want to think of anything unpleasant in relation to him. Miguel. His life is not going to have anything like the turmoil mine had." she vowed.

Did she make the same vow when I was born? I wondered, She never told me she had.

It's because of my father, I thought. It will always be because of him.

I left when I heard my phone ringing. It was Heyden calling to sing me the first stanza of his new song.

"I got the idea from visiting your uncle." he said. "It's about a painter who falls in love with his own painting."

"Pygmalion," I said.

"What?

"The Greek myth. remember? The sculptor prayed to Aphrodite to find him a wife like his statue, and she brought it to life."

"Yes," he said excited. "I remember. I'll use that. Thanks. I knew we'd make a great team. Hannah."

He was so up and excited, he boosted my morale.

"I may be late for school tomorrow," he said, "I'm going to work on this until I pass out."

"Don't get in trouble with your attendance. Heyden," I advised.

"I don't care about that. This is what I care about: my music and you," he said with conviction. In fact, I envied him for his determination and his strong sense of purpose. I felt like a ribbon in the wind, tossed from one place to another, but he didn't hear any longing, any sadness, any emptiness in my voice. He was flying too high. And he had so much more weighing him down and bringing him back to earth.

"Oh," I said before we ended our conversation and finding it remarkable that I had forgotten.

"What?"

"They brought my baby brother home from the hospital."

"Hey, great," he said. "Lot of excitement there. huh?"

"Yes." I said,