Page 38 of Stealing Tink

Again, my husband hesitates, looking as if he’s searching for the right words.

My heart sinks. “I didn’t mean that. Of course I wouldn’t wish away either of them.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” he says, sitting down on the bed next to me. “And neither would I. Although, what I would wish is that we could have both of them, just the way they are… But two years apart.”

I smile, the guilt in my chest lightening. “How are you so good at that?”

“Good at what?”

“Taking my awful thoughts and spinning them so they don’t make me feel quite as bad.”

“Well, I did it for myself for quite some time, for things exceedingly more awful,” he says quietly.

We sit in that for a moment, but I run my hand across the bed and touch his, staring not at him, but at our two girls, their perfect little faces, cupid lips.

And I whisper into the room. “Do you ever fear the Fates will take them away from us?”

When my husband doesn’t answer, I turn to look at him. He’s staring at our daughters, lost in thought—no, not lost in thought—lost in another world. He delays so long in his response, I begin to wonder if he even heard me, when he turns toward me, the bed shifting underneath him.

“Every moment of every day.” He says it without blinking. Without breaking my stare, and though I trust my husband implicitly, it’s in moments like this that I get the sense there’s something he’s not telling me.

Where I expected comfort from knowing I’m not the only one to have these thoughts, instead, the fear strikes deeper.

“Well, no use in dwelling on that.” I take my teacup from the tray and bring it to my lips, reveling in the warmth as it hits my tongue. It’s my favorite, especially with the lemon my husband always adds, but there’s a hint of something else too. Rosehip, perhaps?

When I ask my husband what he added, he smiles softly. “Just a spice I picked up from the market.”

Adele lets out a wail, and I go to push myself off the bed. As I do, I sway, lightheadedness overcoming me. I don’t fall, but I do have to support myself on the bed.

“Here, let me help you,” says my husband, lancing his arm underneath my knees, his other behind my back as he pulls me up the head of the bed.

“That was strange,” I say as he goes to pull a throw blanket off our desk chair and toss it over me. “I would have thought if I were going to get lightheaded, it would have been during birth.”

That’s not true, of course. I’ve been having spells of dizziness ever since the girls were born. The town physician is concerned, but I don’t want to worry my husband unnecessarily.

“Well, you know, they say it can come on any time,” says my husband.

I close my eyes and breathe, still smelling the strange scent of the tea. At least Adele has settled back down on her own.

“What was that spice?” I ask. “I don’t think it’s sitting well with me.”

My husband doesn’t answer, and for a moment, I think he must have left the room without me hearing. But when I open my eyes, my vision now blurred, I see his silhouette at the foot of the bed, staring over me. My vision winding as it is, I can’t make out his facial expression.

Something turns over in my gut.

“You didn’t ask what was wrong,” I whisper.

“What do you mean?”

“When I almost fainted just now. You didn’t ask, ‘What’s wrong?’ or ‘Are you all right?’ or any number of things that would be normal to ask if your wife almost fainted.”

“I helped you into bed, did I not?”

“Yes, but…” I can’t quite put it into words, how to explain how strange it was, or why it was strange. Like trying to describe a color.

Another wave of dizziness passes over me. Black spots dot across the center of my vision.

“Dear, please. What was in the tea?”