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i.
It took the baby three minutes to start breathing. In the moment, it felt like hours.
When the midwife pulled the baby out of her, Florence saw her face wrinkle in concern before she realized the baby was not crying. Or, at least, Florence assumed it was the baby, but the sight of it was so grotesque, covered in blood and some thick slippery substance as the midwife laid it on the bed, that she couldn't be completely sure. Not then.
The midwife rubbed its chest, its sides, jostled it with firm pats. It wriggled and seized, making grunting noises that were so strange, so abnormal, that Florence thought for a hysterical moment that she had given birth to an animal, not a child.
Martin was speaking in low, quick tones to the midwife, but Florence could not hear it, so focused was she on watching this strange wriggling thing struggling to live. Its face seemed to be growing paler by the minute, but the midwife worked her hands on it expertly and patiently as the baby continued to make low grunts and wheezes.
It occurred to Florence then, as she lay panting in the bed, that it was about to die. That after months of caring for it and nurturing her body to keep it alive, it was about to die.
But just as the minutes stretched and a strange kind of stillness started to come over the occupants of the room, the baby's lungs opened. Somehow, miraculously, it drew a big breath in, greedy and urgent.
And then it started crying. Its face filled with blood, its body followed, and it cried and cried and kept crying. But everyone in the room was smiling again and Martin was sweaty with relief as he grinned down at Florence.
It occured to Florence then that she should feel relieved, too. The baby was alive and all that pain and hardship had not resulted in failure. That was a relief.
She took the baby into her arms when the midwife had finished guiding Martin through snipping the cord. She managed a tired smile, nodding at what the midwife was telling her, the congratulations, the praise.
But she could not shake the feeling that something was wrong.
She looked down at the baby's crying face and felt strange. She could not recognize this bundle of flesh and hair and skin, this unknown thing that had apparently come out of her. She could see a shape around him, like a halo, but it was dark and made of shadows, and wanted to cry out.
This was not her child.
In the time the small body struggled for breath, her child had died, and something else had blown breath into its small lungs. Some powerful dark thing had seen a baby vulnerable and close to death and had swooped in. Claimed the body for itself.
So what was she holding in her arms now?
Louis, according to Martin. That was to be the baby's name.
Florence hurriedly passed the baby back to the midwife, a terrifying chill taking over her, the confusion and daze of giving birth muddling her mind. She thought she was going blind before she realized that she had swooned back into the bed.
ii.
Florence's mama loved Louis. She didn't say it; she was not the kind of woman who cooed at babies or coddled children and yet there was unmistakeable pride on her face whenever Florence visited with Louis.
Louis's big eyes always seemed focused on one thing or another. Florence rarely saw him sleep, and yet he did not cry much either. When she got up in the morning, Louis would already be awake in his crib, staring at the ceiling, seeing things that weren't there with his eyes flitting.
"Angels come to visit babies, that's how it is." Martin told her with a teasing sort of smile when she told him this. Louis never seemed to have trouble crying and reaching for Martin, acting like a baby should when Florence wasn't around.
(Her husband was overjoyed at having a son; she herself had risen in his esteem since giving birth like she had finally proved her worth as a wife to the great Martin du Lac. She was both grateful and resentful for this.)
Even on his grandmother's lap, he seemed taken with her hands, studying their creases like he could was committing them to memory.
Florence's mother was not the kind of woman to believe that angels visited babies, but she seemed taken by Louis all the same. "Strong and smart." She said proudly, laying a hand on Louis's forehead like she could tell the future by the size of it. "Reminds me of my father, God rest his soul."
Florence stared at Louis. How could she be the only one to see how strange he was? She had imagined being a mother so differently; had fantasized about quiet afternoons teaching her child how to walk and imagined the early mornings with her baby cradled against her chest.
"Do you think something might be wrong with him?" Florence asked, because she was desperate to know if anyone else could see what she did.
Her mother gave her a grave look and held Louis closer and her mouth pursed as she seemed to debate something within herself. "It takes a minute sometimes. Love doesn't always come natural." She said, giving Florence a look as heavy as the weight in the heart.
Louis's big eyes bored into Florence's and she realized belatedly that those were her own eyes looking back at her.
iii.
Distrust and unease gave way to a grim sort of acceptance for Florence. Motherhood was not what she thought it would be, but Louis brought a peace to their marriage and their home that she could appreciate.
She could have lived with that.
iv.
Grace came out crying, screaming really, and love filled Florence's heart so quickly it seemed to stop right there in her chest.
The pain in her body disappeared at the sight of Grace, and she smiled helplessly at Martin as they joined heads together to look at their daughter.
She felt, finally, like a mother.
Louis was two then, and he was as excited to be a brother as any child could be, constantly asking Martin how many days were left until the baby was there. He knew better than to ask Florence if he could touch her belly, but she caught him watching her stomach sometimes, some painful yearning on his face. She hated the shudder that went through her whenever it happened. He's just a boy, she told herself. He's just a boy.
And yet when Louis came up to Martin's side and tried to touch Grace's small hand, biting his lip, something came over Florence, dark and urgent. "Don't touch her." She was almost trembling.
Louis froze, his face crumpling in hurt as he pulled his hand back. Florence stared at his expression, biting her tongue to stop herself from saying more.
"It's okay, Louis." Martin said, glaring down at Florence. "You're her big brother."
Louis looked between Florence and his father. Back to Florence. His hands stayed by his sides.
v.
None of Florence's pregnancies were easy, but her last was difficult in a different way: emotional, so painful she sometimes thought her spine might snap in two, and it drained the energy from her in steady increments until she was all completely bed-bound at seven months.
She was unable to attend to the children, unable to attend to her husband, and unable to care about either of those things. It was unbecoming of her, Florence knew that, but she struggled to care about that either.
She would lay in their bed with the curtains drawn tightly closed, and sometimes even that darkness wasn't enough so she'd close her eyes tightly, too, until she had convinced herself that the world did not exist, that the pain in her back, in her hips, in her stomach were not real.
She was so deep in this meditation of hers that she did not hear the door creak open or the sound of soft footsteps, but she felt the small cool hands on her temples and knew who it was.
She didn't know where Louis learned it, but he always went for the temples first anytime someone felt ill, pressing his fingers into both sides of her forehead, rubbing in small circles and pulling grateful tears from her eyes. She'd seen him do the same when Grace cried too much.
"There's water, Mama." Always speaking in that soft undertone around her, although she knew he was capable of being boisterous and loud. "And some food."
"Thank you." She said politely back, as though tears weren't streaming down her face and clogging her throat. The touch felt good after being alone for so long; it pulled her out of her thoughts, reminded her how the body could be soothed.
"Yes, Mama."
He hovered, then, waiting. This was not the first time he'd done this. Florence did not know where Martin was half the time anymore, and there were many nights in the last few months when he did not come home at all. Louis did his best to fill out the space his father left, although it was a comically large space for a four-year-old boy to fill.
Most of the time, she would dismiss him with a soft order to go check on his sister, or a sharp reminder that he had things to do, but on this day she surprised herself. "Is there enough for both of us?"
"Yes, Mama." He said, surprise and wonder coloring his voice.
She sat up and Louis helped her as much as he could, thin arms doing their best to help her heavy unwieldy body sit up against the headboard. She patted the place next to her on the bed and, after a pause, he hurried to sit next to her.
He ate carefully, watching her, his shoulders relaxing with each bite she took. Sharp tears pricked at her eyes, though she could not pinpoint why.
"I'm tired." She said, pushing the plate away carelessly and sinking back into the too-warm bed, her eyes closing immediately.
She fell asleep to Louis pressing a soft kiss to her hand, and was too far gone to pull it away.
vi.
Paul was the perfect baby, adored by everyone in the family, but from the very beginning he always preferred Louis's company. It was Louis who could soothe Paul when he cried, Louis who Paul reached for when a cat scratched him or he skinned his knee, Louis whose shoulder Paul dozed on during church.
Florence allowed it, because she could not bear to deny Paul anything he wanted.
When Paul would begin having visions later on, convinced that the Lord was speaking to him, telling him things, Florence's first thought was the way Louis and Paul would fall asleep as boys with their hands clasped together. She couldn't help it — she wondered if it was Louis at work, that darkness inside him that she always saw just at the edges of his person.
vii.
Martin died in the middle of the night. She was sitting in a chair next to the bed, staring at his face, counting his breaths when he blew out a fractured exhale and never drew in air again.
Louis wasn't in his room, but she knew without thinking that he would be in Paul's and that is where she found him, sitting by Paul's bedside on the floor.
"Call Father Matthias, Louis."
Louis's expression seemed to collapse in front of her, his face falling into his hands, his shoulders shaking.
It annoyed her, this barefaced emotion from him. What could he possibly be so sad about? It was her husband who had died, her life that was changed by this. Grace, too, had lost her father, which Florence knew was the most difficult thing for a girl to go through. And Paul still needed his father. Louis was too old to have that strong of a reaction. But maybe that was to be expected.
In a way, Louis was lucky. His father died without knowing what he was; Florence alone carried the burden of the truth.
She knew what Martin had seen when he looked at his first-born son: smart, capable, dependable Louis. A good son, a better brother. Louis would do better than I ever could, he would tell Florence near the end. Florence wondered if it was hard to do better than Martin, who had squandered their money so quickly it was a wonder there weren't holes where his palms should've been.
She saw different: Louis's cheeks going ruddy red around older boys, his hands folded tightly in his lap whenever sermons talked of sin, and then, just last year, his eyes squeezed closed as the Macron boy pressed clumsy kisses to his cheeks at the back of the house.
viii.
Florence had three children. Her heart had two.
ix.
Florence was right in the end, wasn't she? She knew it. From the very moment air filled his lungs, she knew it.
Not that it mattered anymore; no one was left to care, no one left to vindicate her. And nothing would bring Paul back.
Not Louis's apologies, not his explanations, not his tears. Paul was gone, and only Grace was left.
x.
No one had to tell her what Louis was doing; they spoke in loud enough whispers behind her back for her to gather the pieces.
He was doing well. No one had to tell her that, either. Despite the fact that he no longer ran his club, money appeared in her account on a weekly basis, the same amount each time. She wished she didn't need it.
He was still living with that man.
There was a child, but no one seemed to know where she came from. Maybe it was Louis's bastard child, people wondered out loud, or perhaps the white man had a baby on someone and the smart girl abandoned the baby on the rich man's doorstep. It was a disturbance of nature either way, two grown men and a young girl living with them.
She did not know what the truth was and it did not matter. She saw it for what it was immediately: Louis putting together an image of a family to replace the one he had turned his back on.
xi.
She looked for her children at the end.
Paul was standing next to her bed, but his face was still, none of the softness or the hint of a smile she loved so much.
"Paul."
"No, Mama, it's Grace."
Yes, Grace. Older than Florence ever saw her but still so beautiful.
Florence looked between them, Paul and Grace. "The baby." She croaked, trying to lift a hand to point.
Tears rolled down Grace's face. "Mama."
Paul kept staring at her, eyes deep and fathomless.
Why couldn't they see it? There was a baby on the bed, struggling to breathe, grunting and wheezing. One of its hands was extended towards her, seeking her touch.