Emma Lee

            Emma Lee knew she was pregnant again. Her belly was sore, she felt sick in the mornings, her breasts even seemed to grow larger before her eyes as she stared at them in the mirror for several long minutes. Tears threatened her eyes despite the good news, so she suppressed them, squeezing her eyelids tightly together until she saw bright spots in the darkness. This would be her third child. She had to start knitting, she knew. Knitting and knitting until the blood spotted her underwear, her baby was born, and her stomach gradually sank back down. Her husband, Harold, kept taking her to the doctor, who insisted her her ovaries had been infected for years­– that’s why her children were always born a small bloody mess in the toilet, instead of in a sterile hospital, gasping and crying as their little lungs finally filled with air. Harold would hold her hand and weep with her, but he could never feel the pain she felt. The physical aches that tore through her stomach and stretched up into her heart and down to her toes. Those aches were starting again and that is how she knew she was pregnant again.

            She wiped the rouge tears away that had started their trek down her cheeks as she turned away from the mirror, unable to look at herself any longer. Emma Lee was the youngest of five boys; thus, it was her duty, her mother had told her, to pass on her healthy genes. Marry a handsome man, tall, with plenty of money to support the large family they would eventually create together. Maybe, like her mother had, she would have twins first, or maybe have multiple sets of twins, and only have to be pregnant a few times then. But after the first baby died, Emma Lee had wept over the fact that she had failed her mother. Not herself, she hadn’t failed herself; she would have more children, she knew. But her mother had said she hadn’t been careful enough, had walked too far on her daily strolls around the property, or stood for too long while cooking dinner, or didn’t get enough rest since she was always picking up after her messy husband. But after the second child died before it even had a chance to grow larger than a grape, Emma Lee felt a change in her heart, a shift, a turning. She had then turned to knitting. For hours, instead of weeping like she wanted to, she would sit in silence while her husband was away at work and knit her little babies. A little boy, since that was what the first baby had been; it was her mother’s guess. He wore little blue overalls and a small red shirt. His eyes were dark black buttons that glistened as the sunlight bounced off them. She knew that would be what he would look like if he had grown to term. It only took a week, not nine months, for this little baby boy to be born from her hands. She brushed out thick pieces of yarn to make fuzzy blonde hair to match hers. Shorter, of course, since he was just born. After her son, Charles, as she had named him, was born, she asked her husband to please go to town and buy a cradle and toys for him. After hesitating for a moment, Harold nodded, seeing the desperation in his wife’s eyes. He couldn’t tell if she actually understood this boy was just a doll or not. That was also when he called the doctor for the second time who claimed she was simply suffering from womanly hysterics and should stay home and stop knitting.

            So, for weeks she babied Charles. She would ask Harold to buy apple sauce, his favorite, at the store. Oh, and a booster seat, she would cry, so he can sit at the table with us! Harold did as instructed, knowing his wife was fragile after losing not one, but two children, and not wanting her to snap, as he could see she was on the edge of a wave of strong emotions that if triggered, would come spilling out and soil the home, their marriage, her sanity.

            The second child, Emma Lee decided, would be a little girl. Elizabeth, she settled upon, would be her name, and she would have long, brown, curly locks after her father. She learned a new technique to craft these curls, telling Harold to buy her a crochet hook next time he went into town, as they lived in the country and didn’t leave the house often except for work. A few days later, her little Elizabeth had a thick head of curly hair, coming down past her little shoulders. She was just a baby, Emma knew, but she wanted Elizabeth to match her father. She would grow into her hair anyways.

            But now there was this third child. Emma Lee left the bathroom and went to the baby’s room. There, she had left Charles and Elizabeth to nap in their wooden cradles, little mobiles swinging silently above them. Her children were so good, so quiet, so well behaved. She never had to scold them, only shower them with kisses and their favorite foods. She went to the closet and dug out the bag filled with yarn and needles. She needed to settle on a name before she began knitting. As she walked to the living room, her arms overflowing with yarns, scraps of fabric, and a variety of button eyes, Emma Lee realized this time it would be twins. Twin girls, unlike her mother– she had had twin boys. Emma Lee spread the yarn over the coffee table, deciding to knit one girl with a flowing purple dress. Her name would be Victoria. The other would have an identical dress, except in blue, and be named Olivia. They would both have long, curly blonde hair, a perfect mix between Emma Lee and Harold’s own hair. She knitted furiously, ignoring that the sun began to dip beneath the windows and the light slowly faded. Emma Lee didn’t need a light, she had memorized the movements of her fingers, twisting the yarn over the needles, clicking them together, creating a loop, a knot, a stich. Only when Harold came home, slamming the door, did Emma Lee look up out of her trance.

            “Dear,” Harold cooed, coming into the living room. He stopped short when he noticed the yarn littering the living room. His face grew grim, and the fading light cast dark shadows under his eyes. He walked over to her and gently took the needles out of her hands. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

            “Yes, there is, actually.” Emma Lee smiled up at her husband, her eyes glinting, possibly because of the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. Tears, she was not sure, of happiness or depression. “We are having twins.” At this, Harold sat down with a loud sigh.

            “I will call the doctor tomorrow morning.”

            “No need, Harold. I know. It’s just like the last times. But twin girls. Victoria and Olivia, I have decided. They will have…” Harold shook his head and buried his face in his hands. Emma Lee trailed off, mumbling about the color of their dresses, the curls in their hair, if she should knit them matching booties.

            “Stop, please stop. You’re sick, dear. I will call the doctor.” Harold made to stand, but Emma Lee cried out, yelling that no, she wasn’t sick; her children were all healthy, as was she. She had never felt better, in fact, now that she knew she was finally fulfilling her dream to have twins. Her mother would be so proud, she knew. Harold plugged his ears and left the room, locking the bedroom door behind himself. Emma Lee sat in the living room, surrounded by the beginnings of her children. For a few moments she sat there, thinking, not understanding why Harold wasn’t as happy as she was at this news. She should write to her mother tomorrow morning, get the letter in the mail by noon, so she would get the news in a few days. Yes, what a good idea. Her mother would be so excited.

            Emma Lee left her knitting on the table, carefully arranging it to make sure she didn’t get her twins mixed up. They looked so similar, after all, without their dresses made and on yet. Tomorrow their hair would sprout from their heads, and she would tie it up, since it would be so long it would get in the way when they started crawling. Quietly, Emma Lee walked to her bedroom and pressed her ear to the door. Harold was pacing inside, grumbling to himself, sniffling. She could see him twisting his mustache around his two fingers, wiping his nose with his handkerchief that normally was stuffed in his coat pocket. Even more stealthily, Emma Lee placed her hand on the doorknob and tried to turn it, but it was locked. With a silent sigh, she went to the children’s room, took little Elizabeth out of her cradle, and crawled into the first cradle Harold had bought when little Charles was born. Together, the three of them slept deeply the whole night, the tears that dripped from her cheeks taking her energy with them.

            The next morning, a rapping at the front door startled Emma awake. Her children lay peacefully on her chest, moving with her breath, up and down, her motherly love flowing into them with every exhale. Emma listened carefully, hearing two male voices in the house. One was Harold, she knew, but the other? Familiar, yet set her on edge. She buried herself deeper into the cradle, pulling the baby blankets she had sewed over her eyes. The voices approached, and her heart started beating quickly. She didn’t want to worry her children; they could feel her anxieties, she knew, so she calmed her breathing, sat up, and tucked the babies back into bed together, before climbing out herself and throwing open the door. Outside stood Harold, her lovely husband, but beside him was the doctor. The one who had said her ovaries were infected; the one who claimed she was unable to bear children. How could he still say that now, now that she had two beautiful children, and two more on their way?

            “Harold tells me you think you are pregnant again.” The doctor, Emma Lee had chosen to forget his name, began.

            “I know I am pregnant. I don’t need you to tell me.” She placed a careful hand on her stomach, looking to Harold for help, pleading with her eyes for him to agree that yes, without a doubt, his wife was pregnant with twins, just like she told him the other night. But he stayed silent.

            “Please,” the doctor reached out his hand for Emma Lee to take it. Instead, she placed both her hands on her stomach. “Let’s go to the kitchen to discuss things. Harold, I think, has made tea.” Her husband nodded, agreeing with the doctor, but not with her. The doctor knew nothing, Emma Lee told herself. And Harold was a coward not to take her side. The three of them walked swiftly to the kitchen. Harold placed a hand on the small of Emma Lee’s back, guiding her, pushing her, to the kitchen where three teacups were already filled and steaming. Her favorite, blueberry muffins, sat beside each cup. Like a tea party, she thought, like she would have once her twins were here. They needed to buy more highchairs.

            “Please, sit,” Harold pointed to the head of the table, and she sat. A strange feeling washed over her as she watched the men sit on either side of her; a suffocating feeling that hitched the breath in her throat. Were they plotting something? Trying to get her to admit her ovaries were infected so terribly that no children would ever possibly pass through her hips?

            Both men sipped at their tea, and nibbled on their muffins, watching Emma Lee carefully. She sat, motionless, not touching the goods in front of her, rather keeping her hands glued to her stomach. They couldn’t touch her babies. She wouldn’t let them dare get close.

            “Aren’t you thirsty?” Harold pried, pushing her cup closer to her. Emma Lee hesitated. She was thirsty. The tea smelled good, her favorite, earl grey. A hint of honey wafted up her nostrils, making her crave a sip. No, she couldn’t. But yes, she was so thirsty, she hadn’t drunk anything today at all. She finally caved and brought the little cup to her lips, blowing gently and taking a few small sips. The tea washed around her mouth, slipped down her throat smoothly. Another sip, and another. It tasted odd. Maybe too much honey, she thought. She set down the cup, but her eye lids began to get heavy. She had just woken up; she couldn’t be sleepy. The men began to talk, and she struggled to follow the conversation. Their words were slurred, their movements choppy. Her head bobbed until she mumbled to her husband that she wanted to lie down with the children again. They must be fussy, they hadn’t had their breakfast yet, she uttered, but wasn’t sure if the words had left her lips. Harold scooted out of his chair and lifted Emma Lee up, and her eyes closed.

            She awoke in a quiet room, sunlight drifting in from the side window and casting a golden glow on her pale cheeks. Her mind felt groggy, her eyes moved sluggishly in her skull. Harold sat next to her, holding her hand. As she came to her sense, Harold explained she was here for a little while, at a hospital, to help her get better. She let the words flow over her, sink into her brain, until she was able to digest them and spit them back out. No! Her children!

            “Elizabeth, Charles, little Victoria and Olivia, I must get home to them,” She tried to move but quickly realized her arms were restrained, tied to the bed. Her legs too, as she tried to kick them, were stuck to the starchy white sheets she laid upon. “Harold, my children, they need me,” Harold stood over her now, stroking her sweaty forehead, then bent down to kiss her.

            “They are dolls, Emma. You know this. They will be fine. They will be there at home when you are well. I will see you every day. You need time away from home. You will get better.” Harold cooed, as if it was that simple. How was he so disillusioned? These were his children too. He couldn’t strip them from their mother! She needed them as much as they needed her.

            “No! Harold, they are my children! Our children!” She cried and thrashed in the bed, but Harold just looked sadly down at her. Grief, like she hadn’t seen before, glinted in his eyes. He would kill their children if she was left in here, alone, without them. He would kill her. But he kissed her one last time, promising to see her later that evening. As he left the room, Emma Lee screamed and tried to get out of the bed, desperate to see her children. “Harold! No! Please, my children… I can’t live without my children…”