The Martians Are Here
"What do you think of Jean?", Danielle asked.
"I don't like names of one syllable," I answered.
"I suppose you wouldn't like Marc either, then?"
"That's right."
"How about something like Jean-Marc?"
"Nope. I don't like names made up of more than one name either. How about Gilbert?"
"Oh no. Gilbert is all right for someone else, but not for our baby."
Having to name a fourth boy was no longer a spontaneous affair. Of course, we weren't sure we would have a boy. In fact, a girl would be better to even up the score. But we had to be ready for anyone. And we preferred that he or she have his or her name straight off. Finally François won. There was something Frankish (French) in it and something royal. But mainly we just liked the name. As for Hél ne, she was covered by dust from having been too long on the shelves. We wanted to dream of someone newer. Maybe Hél ne would have her day some other time. For the moment Marie won, with Isabelle as second best. We always liked Marie. But for starters the name had seemed too common. There were Maries everywhere. No doubt it was common because of its quality. Still, we had preferred Christine and then Johanne to Marie. Now we thought Marie could come into a society that had other girl names and would thus be distinctive.
It was settled: it would be François or Marie.
In June, Danielle's imagination for lengthy and complicated delicacies of the palate was fast faltering. Some deserts were deserted in order to keep up with the demand for bread. Her strength was plainly giving way. Danielle took to going to bed earlier than she had managed these last months. And the other symptoms crept in one by one. François or Marie must have arrived and was getting ready for his or her public debut in February. We were still behind Fred and Hélène who were expecting their sixth child for December. It was brilliant of them, I told Danielle: "They'll get this year's tax deduction while we'll have to wait till next year. We tried our best but were too late."
The test was positive. François or Marie was on the way. We had enjoyed the fifteen-month break in between pregnancies and were now happy that someone new was seducing our hearts. Christine and Michel each had a bedroom in the basement; Claude slept over Philippe as they bunked in one of the upper floor bedrooms with Johanne alone in the other. All the children's beds were bunk beds that were either attached or separated. Johanne slept under an empty bed that awaited a newcomer in the family. François or Marie was certainly expected. When we told the children he or she was on the way, their joy was unrestrained.
Our friends, having heard this kind of new before, offered congratulations. What others may have thought meant nothing to us.
We found great pleasure in adding another couple of godparents to our family's inner sanctum. As we grew in numbers, we realised we were becoming more rooted and grounded. Our last trip to Manitoba had left three of the five children behind. With six children, we could not expect to go very far. On the other hand, the proximity of Ronald and Jeannine had proved how much godparents could participate actively in our family life. Johanne dearly loved her godparents. While Maurice and Anita's own budding family allowed them less leeway than Ronald and Jeannine, they had already left their mark in Claude's heart. And though Philippe was still young, he undeniably knew he was a favourite of Denis and Pauline, who lived in La Pocatière. We hoped to give as much to our new child. In Quebec City, Gerry and Penny were a responsible adult couple. We told them we should be honoured if they accepted to be our child's godparents. They were delighted.
After a fine summer, as September rolled in, Christine began grade one and Michel went to kindergarten. For him, this was a leap into a vast unknown, a horrible experience. He began having anxiety headaches and even occasional nausea. His first drawings were timidly small hidden in a corner of a large empty page. But with encouragement from home and affectionate attention from his teacher, he would later in the year learn to open himself up enough to easily fill in his whole page of drawing paper. He proved the value of a year of integration to the group before the grade years of work and study.
Christine was in the top group of her class from the start and, come Christmas, could already read by herself. At home, Johanne got a better share of the adult attention due to the partial absence of her elders. Claude, though a worthy brother of his sister, Christine, was tempered in his tendencies to command by the fact that his elders had the upper hand and were too numerous to be challenged. He was mainly sweet, affectionate and determined. Philippe was a Michel growing straight: reserved but gradually climbing up the steps of life without those terrible anxieties Michel had suffered. Danielle had learned from experience and it was paying off.
We had waited impatiently for September as Danielle would then get a three month reprieve from her sleeping sickness. Yet September passed by, October was here and Danielle was still weak, tired out and becoming a ghastly ghost form. Inevitably the mountain of reproach which was regularly piled upon us began to be felt. Could it be that cumulative pregnancies had finally worn Danielle out? Shouldn't we really call it quits after this baby? Danielle's doctor had always brushed away such prattle. But facts were facts: Danielle was worse off than she had ever been. No sickness, but a terrible weakness and inefficiency. We considered ourselves to be experienced by now, but nothing in our past experience could explain such a drop in energy. As her strength declined, she was easily dispirited, which affected all the other members of the family for whom she was the sunshine or clouded sky.
We did not for a single moment regret the presence of baby. Baby was non negotiable. Baby was an absolute and not a merchandise. We only wondered if François or Marie would not have to be our last little absolute. Danielle had always said: "We will know it is time to stop when God gives us a sign as large as a barn door."
Well the barn door seemed to be present.
* * *
Ronald had left philosophy for a first love: music. In his younger days, he had been a piano virtuoso. Now he deftly worked on classical guitar as a university student. Meanwhile Jeannine had a government office job. The medical diagnosis had been that she seemed hopelessly sterile. One doctor had told them they could try fertility pills, which might help, but which carried the danger of multiple babies who could be unable to survive. Ronald had refused to take such horrible chances with life.
One evening, I phoned Ronald in the hope Jeannine and he could come over the next weekend. The conversation began with the usual: "How are you? Anything new coming your way?"
"Jeannine and I broke up", he answered.
I was thunderstruck. My universe was shattered. There was something impossible in it, something that didn't register, that didn't compute. This was a square circle, an upside downside, a "ssxzkqrdwwj". Nonsense? Exactly!
"What?", I bellowed incredulously.
"Jeannine and I have separated," he said in a toneless voice.
"What do you mean by separated? How can that be? What happened? What is going on? It's impossible."
"We decided we didn't want to stay together anymore. We've lost interest in each other."
"That's absurd," I cried.
"It's a fact. Jeannine has moved to another apartment, and I'm staying here."
I was speechless. There was nothing in my head that could move, get to my lips and into the phone. We cut the conversation short. Then I told Danielle. The universe was caving in upon us. Jeannine was Ronald. Ronald was Jeannine. We had witnessed their commitment to one another, their united life, their love, then their indivisible affection for Johanne. It couldn't all have been a tasteless prank. This couldn't be happening. Jeannine and Ronald were part of us. They were not social statistics, things that happen in the faceless world of journalism and social sciences. This was life. The real thing. The living do not tear apart like that. Only the anonymous are allowed to do it. Of course, television has made marital ruptures seem a common thing. But television cheats. It gives us a musical background to deaden any judgement and gives forth chosen scenes of the fantasised life of its heroes in order to give the "right impression". Television contrives hell to look like paradise. Television is a fake. The fact before us was hell.
Danielle and I felt our chests burning, our heads pounding, we were going mad. I uttered abuse against my friend. What a fool, an idiot, a monster he was. I swore out against him. I felt like beating him to a pulp. He had no right to do this. His faith was Jeannine, as Jeannine's was himself. Danielle agreed less violently. She was too deeply wounded to be enraged. She retired to bed and wept. I stormed out of the house and walked into the dark of night in a feverish turmoil. I too began crying, pouring out streams of tears, tasting salt, bawling more insults against Ronald, blowing my nose.
Next day, the tempest had past. Only a dull bitterness remained. And we would have to tell Johanne. We had to tell her gently, soothingly, truthfully that she could no longer see her godparents together. They were now a ruptured universe, her ruptured universe. Johanne was four years old.
Johanne too did not understand. She too was heartbroken. But she bravely bore the agony her godparents had created for themselves and for her. She (and we) swore unfailing loyalty to Ronald and Jeannine, come what may. They had adopted her, so to speak; by that same fact we had adopted them. We told Johanne how she could use her pain in prayer for the healing of her godparents' insensitivity. This gave meaning to pain and loyalty. We do not live in a world where death prevails over life but in one where life challenges and unendingly wins over the horrible deaths that at times wrench our souls. If this was not true, than the world would finally be a hell from which death would be the road to the paradise of nothingness. Or else, we should have to banish all love from our hearts because love makes us vulnerable. Then the world of the living would itself be, before death, a paradise of nothingness.
What had happened to Ronald and Jeannine? Jeannine worked as a desk clerk all day. Ronald was an artist all day. Then, Jeannine told us, there appeared a beautiful blonde student of music who occupied parts of Ronald's day. They shared a mutual delight in music and then in each other. Jeannine had come to seem a pale image of womanhood as she lived in the cold world outside. Ronald decided to grasp at passion as it passed his way. As he was gone, Jeannine let him go, but kept her door open in case he one day wished to return.
We had no power over Ronald's mind and heart. But we tried to be true to ours as they were given to him. We invited him to our home, to see his goddaughter who smothered him with a child's affection. I went out with him in Québec City. There I once got a glimpse of the mistress he never spoke about. One night I had slept at Ronald's apartment, and in the morning a blonde student in music happened to drop in. Ronald presented her as such. She left him some cookies and rapidly departed.
I guess Ronald was not too proud of his actions. He was weak, but strong enough not to try to construe his weakness as a form of bravado and "liberation". He kept his conscience, though he was troubled by it.
Jeannine also came to see us regularly. She and Danielle were then very close to each other, as they both lived this drama in a spirit of divine and human passion and mercy.
Johanne loved both her godparents, fully conscious that all was amiss. She loved them all the more, for that is when love is most needed.
* * *
As weeks went by, Danielle was becoming bulky more rapidly than usual. At least, that is what I felt. I even wondered whether our first count might not be off by one month. It happens rarely, but does happen, that a mother has her menstruation the first month after pregnancy. This might be the case. Danielle did not think so.
Pauline, who had so generously helped us after Philippe's birth, was now teaching full time. We couldn't ask her to help us again. So we called the government employment office. From their register came a middle-aged woman who appeared a bit scared by the idea of caring for five children, two adults and one house. Still she tried to peddle off some slippers she had made herself. I would have bought the lot just to be sure she accepted the job. Danielle was more practical. She looked the merchandise over, calculated we would need one pair for Claude and bought it. The lady accepted to work for us. We asked her to come one day the next week to house-clean and make the meals and learn the ways of the house. That day, she did not show up.
The employee at the government employment office regretted it hadn't worked out. She thought that maybe a certain Mrs Pelletier could help us. She was known to have done that kind of work and might be available.
Mrs Pelletier was a hefty sixty year old woman, mother of eleven children, some of whom were still teenagers at home. After some coaxing, she agreed to work for us.
* * *
The winter term was here. I finally got to teach my favourite subject: Ethics.
I started off by shocking my students with a short assignment: "a friend is bereaved by the death of someone he loved dearly; write him a letter of condolence". There was a bit of macabre joking in the class but the students did what they were asked. During one week, I read nearly one hundred letters of condolence. I also had my macabre jokes to weather the task, but I did my own. Inevitably, there was the insensitive boy who wrote to someone having lost his wife suggesting that "you shouldn't take it too hard. There are still many other good women around." On the whole, the experience went deeper. Some suggested distractions to the grieving friend till the pain subsided. Others offered their own friendship to help out. A few spoke of God and eternal life. One happened to have lost her father the previous year and, for the first time, wrote a letter about this to her mother.
The next short assignment was: "You have just seen the doctor. He has told you that you have only seven days left to live. Write down two pages about your reactions."
The whole idea was to get the students to face up to absolutes. After all, ethics is about absolutes. If death is the end all, our most passionate beliefs, adventures, ideals and commitments are senseless and even counterproductive: each bond we wholeheartedly accept will be our undoing when we find that it must dissolve into nothingness. On the other hand, if life is stronger than death, maybe there can be some sense in responsibility, respect for others and for self, friendship, commitment, sex, love, politics, economy and, evidently, religion. Then we could go on to examining human values and their relative importance to one another. Certainly, we had to realise that the science of measure could give no opinion on the matter of values. Statistics may tell us what people believe and do; not whether they should believe and do it. Technique and art, for their part, may tell us what man invents or creates, but not what he must first respect. That left us with the philosophical insight into a special being called man made for permanence, respect, responsibility and committed friendship and love... if he was something deeper than perennial mountains and oceans and if he lived beyond the destruction of the matter he used.
When the term ended, a student would tell me, "This is the best of the four courses of philosophy I have had."
He was sincere, and I knew his thought reflected that of other students. Not all shared those feelings, as it is impossible to please everyone, especially in a age of pluralism. But I knew now that I was getting the upper hand in my profession here and a better sense of students' expectations. I would live up to these in so far as I could, for I was also more able to take into account both my abilities and my limits.
* * *
At home, sickness was making the rounds of the children who coughed, wheezed, sneezed and had impressive fevers. Then tragedy struck: Danielle was hit badly by the virus. Because classes had begun, she couldn't fall back upon me. Danielle — bulky, feverish and suffering from bronchitis — was burdened with the ominous care of Christine, Michel, Johanne, Claude, Philippe and, inasmuch as I still ate and eventually needed clean clothing, me. We called Mrs Pelletier to the rescue. Could she, would she, come and stay with us for a week so that Danielle could overcome her illness and recuperate? Mrs Pelletier felt the urgency of the situation and responded positively, even though she had just gone through the Christmas-New Year's Day season when her house had been full of family and guests. She proved to be an indefatigable worker. Our house had never shined so bright, meals were on time and plentiful. Danielle's only concern was to sleep off her illness and chat with the children when she was awake.
Pauline felt Danielle was too weak to go to her doctor's appointment for the eight-month check-up that weekday evening. Danielle insisted she would go. Pauline then offered to taxi her. She waited in the anteroom as Danielle went in.
The doctor seemed to be searching for the baby's heartbeat with his stethoscope. He put it on the top of Danielle's protuberance; then under. Over; under. Again. Danielle wondered what a pity it was that after so many years of practice our doctor still found it difficult to locate the heart of a baby nearing his term.
The doctor paused, looked up a bit dazzled and, with a grave voice, told Danielle: "I believe I'm hearing two hearts."
At first Danielle did not react. She had to absorb what those words meant... Then she erupted into a joyous laughter, loud enough for Pauline, outside, to wonder what was going on. Twins! Yes, the doctor meant twins. Everything made sense now. The reason for her extraordinary fatigue, her loss of energy, the empty shell she had become, her weight, her bulkiness, it was all there. She was not simply making one baby; she was making two babies. They squeezed every drop of energy out of her. She had not been worn out by consecutive pregnancies. She only had a whopper of a pregnancy. That was it. No barn-doors from the Lord after all.
The doctor said he was not completely certain yet. An X-Ray was needed. After eight months of growth a baby had nothing to fear from a single X-ray, he said (A baby? Rather two babies.) Then we should know for sure. For the time being, the twins were only a strong probability. If there were twins, the doctor added, Danielle would have to give birth in Quebec City where specialists could make sure everything went well even if there were complications.
As a beaming Danielle came out of the office, Pauline rushed towards her: "What happened in there?" she eagerly asked.
"We're having twins," Danielle exclaimed.
"No! You don't mean it! Twins?"
"Yes, twins."
They laughed at the incredible news and quickly returned to our home.
Mrs Pelletier was still at work, washing the living-room walls as they entered the front door. I went for news and caught sight of the excited gleam in Danielle's eyes.
"Guess what," she said.
"You are already nine-months pregnant," I answered with certainty; that bulge had simply grown to fast.
"No," she answered. "There's not one baby, there's two!"
"Two!?!"
I broke into laughter. Incredible. Two babies. Wonderful. Flashes went through my mind. All was well now: the twins explained everything. A few months ago, I had teased a college teacher whose wife had started out with twins. The joke would now be on me. We had defeated Fred and Hélène moving up to seven children while they had only six. We would be getting a double hike in family allowances beginning the month after the birth: that was better than having last year's tax deduction. We now had to chose morenames and another couple of godparents.
We talked about this unexpected and delightful turn of events. We would need a second crib, and then another bunk bed as God's work altered our planning. We delighted in welcoming this new adventure that was coming our way.
Meanwhile Mrs Pelletier heard the news. She dropped into a chair and kept repeating: "Twins! Poor Madame Allaire. Poor Madame Allaire. Poor Madame Allaire..."
While we were so delighted, she could see the reality of the task ahead and what it would mean for Danielle. At the moment, this was irrelevant for us. What mattered was that our twins would be taking centre stage in a month's time.
In her excitement, Danielle had lost all feeling of tiredness. She was riding high. We went with Pauline to share our news with Denis and enjoy another good laugh.
On Sunday morning after Mass, a few older ladies asked Danielle how her very evident pregnancy was coming along. Danielle proudly told them she was expecting twins. Instantly the people around her broke into heartfelt congratulations. One lady said: "You'll need another high-chair. I have one that needs repainting. I'll gladly do that and lend it to you if you wish."
"You'll need another crib," said a second lady. "I have one. It too needs a new paint job, but I'll do it and lend it to you if you want."
Danielle was surprised and deeply touched. She accepted both offers.
We suddenly found the outside world had changed. The hostility and contempt had vanished, at least out of sight. An onrush of affection, attention, interest and help added to our joy. Everyone seemed to want to know how Danielle and her double pregnancy was coming along. It was coming along fine.
We discussed names once more. Isabelle had been a tight runner with Marie before. This time she became her twin. Boys' names were still our difficult point. We finally settled for Denis. Therefore we waited for François and Denis, or Marie and Isabelle, or François and Marie. The new godparents? Anne-Marie, my colleague in philosophy, had landed her man. "Michel" had been with her in our study group before Philippe's birth. He taught physics and made a good match for a realist metaphysics' philosopher. Why not them for godparents? Our natural and supernatural insights were identical, they were good friends and they even lived in La Pocatière, which should be a great for the second twin. We told them we would be honoured if they would accept. They readily agreed to our usual moral pact by which we considered godparents as those who would be responsible for our child if ever we died or were incapacitated.
After the stimulating news, the grim reality of tiredness came back as Danielle trudged ahead towards her day of liberation and exaltation. She occasionally felt twinges of panic before the task that lay ahead. Then she would take solace in remembering that twins were still only a probability and that there was no reason for panic. To this day she is grateful that her doctor so gently eased her into her new situation.
By the time the X-ray had been taken and Danielle had another appointment, all fears had subsided. She would have been dearly disappointed if the result had been negative. It wasn't. Danielle tried to argue that there was no real need to give birth in Quebec City. She tried flattering the doctor by expressing confidence in his competence; she added that she was sorely needed at home, especially as the birth day was indefinite. The doctor wavered slightly, but came back with the same decision. It was not a matter of taste or of usefulness for the family: it was a matter of the twins' life or death, health or disability. Danielle would have to go to Quebec, preferably a week and a half before term. Danielle insisted on one week ahead, which the doctor grudgingly accepted. Yet he warned her to take no chances and leave as soon as she felt the slightest beginning of a contraction.
Then he asked: "Do you intend to breast-feed these babies?"
"Of course," Danielle immediately answered. "You don't expect me to prepare milk bottles for two babies, do you?"
The doctor laughed.
* * *
We had won a few days' respite before loosing our spouse and mother. So we thought. Monday February 8 was the day the doctor would have preferred for Danielle's exile. That morning, the babies weighed down terribly. She began feeling pinches near the exit. Were these small contractions? Was this the beginning? We were nervous. We did not want the babies born on the way to Quebec. The trip should take an hour and a half. This would be Danielle's sixth delivery. Once the process got seriously under way, who knew how fast the babies could arrive? They were so heavy.
Denis had offered to drive us to Quebec. If these pinches were what we feared they might be, we had better start packing. And we did. After lunch, the pinches were still there. We decided to get going. Mrs Pelletier came over and, after supper, Denis picked us up and we drove on to Quebec City.
Danielle felt every bump and crack in the road as the babies down pressed down with each. We were nervous and excited. We would soon be seeing our twins.
Danielle was checked in As this was a unique moment in our lives, I decided we could afford the extra billing for a private room for Danielle. There she would be able to care for the twins and quietly give them all the attention they would need to get the milk flowing from her breasts.
The nurse measured the uterus' opening: three centimetres. It process was started. But it went no further. As Danielle lay on her bed, the pinching stopped, the contractions did not start. It was over. Danielle joked that we should have taken a bumpier road or a longer one. A false alarm. We left the hospital, half-hoping we would have to re-enter at any moment. Until then, Danielle should have a place to stay in Quebec. Normally she would have taken over her old bedroom in her parents' home but her mother had a bad case of laryngitis and was on antibiotics. This was no time for Danielle to catch anything. Penny, who was one of the godmothers-to-be, took Danielle in.
There was not the slightest contraction. Denis and I returned to La Pocatière late that night. Needless to say, I was disappointed and hoped the phone would soon be ringing. But it remained silent all night. I got up in the morning and began organizing an indeterminately long siege without Mum at home.
During the following days, while Danielle rested eighty miles away, we were going through a painful adjustment at home. Mrs Pelletier was neither a relative, an intimate friend nor an inexperienced adolescent babysitter. I took it for granted that she was in charge of the house and children during Danielle's absence, whereas she believed I was in charge of the children when I came back from the college. This misunderstanding, brewed in a state of mutual lack of communication, left the children rudderless and the atmosphere at home topsy-turvy whenever I was around. Added to this, I was nervous because Mrs Pelletier had the habit of leaving the radio on loud all the time while we never turned it on except for an occasional news bulletin. Mrs Pelletier felt her labours were being wasted on an ungrateful dour man and an increasingly unruly mob of children. We both silently tolerated each other while the children were very vocal with their discontent.
Come Friday afternoon, the college week was over and I hopped ono the bus, heading towards my understanding queen. Danielle greeted me with open arms but no babes-a-coming. She still lugged them about solidly affixed within her. I told her how we were all becoming desperate back home; how inefficient our helper was in child care; how Danielle, should come back home if her contractions weren't starting. I promised we would rush her back to Quebec when the real time came. As far as we knew, she could still be lingering around Quebec in a week's time. After all, the official date for delivery was February 19, six days away, and Danielle could easily go beyond.
Danielle gently calmed me down, soothingly promised to phone Mrs Pelletier and give her precise instructions and suggested that on Saturday we go shopping to get me a new pair of trousers, as there was a lot more choice in Quebec than in our little town of La Pocatière.
During the whole shopping trip, Danielle felt the terrible weight of these babies who were getting bigger by the day. She sat down whenever she could, but courageously followed me around all afternoon. Of course I had no inkling of how she felt. Then it was time for me to take the bus back home. Danielle had insisted that it was best for the babies that she stayed in Quebec. She was right, of course, and I grudgingly gave in. As I rode back, Danielle was on the phone consoling a discouraged Mrs Pelletier, assuring her that I did appreciate her work and her meals — which was true — giving her pointers on how to survive the following days with a dour father-in-waiting.
Next morning, Sunday February 15, at about ten, I received a phone call from Gerry. Danielle had entered the hospital earlier in the morning. The amniotic liquid had streamed out. Evidently, our walk the previous day had helped by putting pressure on the tissue of the amniotic sac. Danielle had woken at about four thirty in the morning and headed back to the hospital.
Since that had all begun a few hours ago, I figured I would be late if I took the next bus for Quebec. I stayed with the children. I spoke a bit with Mrs Pelletier, as Danielle had taught me to, and found her to be a sensible and receptive person.
In Quebec, Danielle's mother, also told of her daughter's new quarters, called the hospital for news. Danielle told her that everything was still quiet. There were no contractions yet. As her mother had finally won the fight against her laryngitis, her parents decided to visit her that afternoon. At two o'clock, they arrived at Danielle's room and found their daughter in labour. It had begun shortly after the telephone call. The contractions were now strong and regular. In order to keep her father busy — men are such weak things — Danielle had him measure the duration of each contraction and the intervals in between. Her mother could hardly believe her eyes. Danielle had always claimed that giving birth was a breeze. And, indeed, there she was smiling and healthy in between contractions, relaxed and limp while doing her rhythmic respirations during contractions. The impossible was true.
When the nurse measured the babies' passageway at eight centimetres, Danielle was taken to the delivery room. She would had preferred a "natural" birth all the way. But the specialist insisted that she accept a local anaesthetic: "I do not want to take any chances with twins. If ever there was a complication, we'd have to be ready for a fast intervention."
Needless to say, the babies had priority and Danielle accepted. At least she should be awake.
At three o'clock, aided by the dexterity of the doctor (which reminded Danielle that of our Swiss Dr Nordman), a first head appeared followed by the long skinny body of a girl, Marie.
The second baby was still high up in his mother secure inside his own unruptured sac. The doctor went in with his hand the length of his forearm (so it seemed to Danielle) and broke the waters. As the amniotic liquid burst out, the complication set in. Part of the umbilical cord also came out, immediately cutting the air flow to the child as it hardened in contact with the air. There were only ten minutes to get the baby out before anything irreparable, even death, occured. Danielle felt inside her the doctor's hand tremble nervously for a second, then proficiency take over. One spoon of the forceps in one hand, the other hand deep inside Danielle, he gradually eased the baby down, then out. A matter of five minutes. But Isabelle was white and motionless.
"She's not breathing," Danielle cried fearfully.
The doctor slightly raised the baby by her feet. Isabelle uttered a cry and turned a lovely crimson. Danielle's anxiety vanished: she was ecstatic. Ecstatic and light as a feather. Ecstatic with her twin girls: Marie (Queen of Heaven?) was 5 lbs, 11 ounces, over 19 and a half inches long; Isabelle (queen of Castile and Aragon?) was a heavier 7 lbs, 3 ounces and twenty inches long. Danielle felt light, with nearly thirteen pounds of babies, their placentas and liquids were now out of her body.
The girls were put into incubators. Danielle thanked the doctor profusely for his help in delivering them, especially Isabelle. In her mind, she also thanked our general practitioner who had unwaveringly sent her to this specialist. That had been Isabelle's path to life.
Before leaving the hospital, grandpapa Quéloz was allowed the privilege, pride and pleasure of pushing his two little granddaughters in their incubators from the door of the delivery room to the nursery.
At four o'clock, Danielle was back in her room and well. She telephoned us to tell the wonderful news. Everyone leaped up in joy. I believe even Mrs Pelletier relaxed.
"When will you all be home," I asked, which was the question we all had uppermost on our minds.
"As soon as possible."
The doctor told Danielle that they could leave as soon as Marie started gaining weight. Until then, he wanted her kept under observation, though, he added, she was in perfect health and there seemed to be nothing to fear. It was just a precaution considering how skinny she was. And so Danielle stayed in the hospital with her girls another six days.
Marie and Isabelle were not identical twins, and yet they looked very much alike. So much so that as soon as they had their hospital identification bracelets removed, Danielle made it a habit to pin on Marie's clothing a little gold medal of Marie, Mother of God, in order not to risk mixing the girls up. Upon scrutiny, we could find that even the shapes of their faces were different, and yet everyone, ourselves included, kept taking one for the other.
The days following the birth of the babies, Danielle was famished especially as she had begun breast-feeding both of them. Penny and Anita and her mother brought her fruit, pastries and chocolates to eat in between hospital meals. And the gifts began pouring in steadily. Always twin gifts. Identical or matching suits, dresses, pyjamas, and whatever. We got gifts from about everyone we knew from near and far. It seemed as if the twins were opening for us the hearts of everyone with an intensity we had never experienced before.
There was an amusing exception. Amusing might not have been the proper word at the time. Danielle was under the care of a group of doctors. By luck, chance or providence, the day of the birth of Marie and Isabelle, the best of the lot had been there. Then, on Tuesday morning, it fell upon Danielle to have the visit of an altogether different member of the group, who was in charge that day: "Why are you still here?", he abruptly charged.
Danielle was stunned. She argued back: "The other doctor said I was to stay here till my first twin begins gaining weight. I have just given birth to twins. And there is a snow storm blowing outside right now." (Which was the case.) "And I live away in La Pocatière."
The doctor grunted with displeasure.
"Well, even if you stay, I'm not seeing you again," he said and kept his word.
Danielle was alarmed. She wondered whether she would be ejected from the hospital and have to take refuge at her mother's home and how she could feed her daughters who would remain in the hospital nursery. It was all so absurd. She quickly went to see the nurse in charge of her ward and asked her what was going on: "Don't mind what that doctor says," the nurse answered. "He's like that. Of course you are staying here until the babies are ready to leave."
Finally, on Saturday, Mr and Mrs Quéloz piled Danielle, Marie, Isabelle, Gerry and Penny into their car and drove to La Pocatière where Mrs Pelletier had prepared a feast for lunch and where all in the family were longing for Mum to come home. Even if we all wanted to have Danielle for each of us all day, what had to be done was done. As soon as lunch was over, Danielle retired to sleep for an hour. Then she got up and fed one of the girls. By that time it was three in the afternoon. We left Claude and Philippe with Mrs Pelletier and went to the cathedral church. Anne-Marie and Michel met us there. Father Gaumond, a colleague of mine, teacher of philosophy, baptised Marie Thérèse and Isabelle Élise (my mother's name). The ceremony was intimate and short. Immediately afterwards, Father Gaumond, Michel and Anne-Marie went their own ways. We would meet at a more appropriate time to revel in memory of this moment. The rest of the group came home for a short toast in the babies' honour, then the Quéloz and Marie's godparents left for Quebec. Danielle fed her other twin and went back to bed. That was the start of a pattern that would go on for the next seven months. We hardly recall any details. It was a squall and yet it was an island of peace.
* * *
The squall was the inconceivable, the impossible amount of work we did during the first seven months of the twins' presence at home. It would only be in September that we had enough time and rest to be able to stop a moment, sit down and realise we were probably the happiest people in the world.
At first, Danielle breast-fed Marie every three hours and Isabelle every four hours, twenty-four hours a day. Marie was the weaker of the two, drank less at a time and required her feeding more often. Somewhere in between these organic necessities, Danielle managed to eat, wash and sleep, and say an occasional word to each member of the family. I became especially responsible for Philippe who, luckily, was now two years old and managed some things on his own. I also became the main parental presence for Christine, Michel, Johanne and Claude. During weekdays, Mrs Pelletier was there for chores, meals and daytime care of the five elders. Saturdays and Sundays were my days as housekeeper.
Mrs Pelletier kept her five-day week a whole month after which she slowed down to a two-day week and finally a one-day week. The latter kept on for some time after that. When she was about to change from five-day a week to two days a week, I insisted that Danielle put Marie on the same every four-hour schedule as Isabelle and learn to breast-feed both simultaneously, otherwise we could not survive. Danielle felt a certain anxiety over such a change. She was afraid she would drop one of the girls as she could hold them with only one arm each. But practice made perfect. At first she called one or another person to help her stabilise one or another baby who was slipping. She learned to sit in a living room armchair with one of the girls and asked someone to give her the second baby. After a while, she managed to pick up both babies by herself and, when in need, to walk about with them in her arms. Marie had the best breast and Isabelle the more difficult one. This was partially because of their respective weights, but it became a regular practice mainly because we had already perceived that Marie was a Michel-type and Isabelle was a Christine-type. The former needed to be gradually eased into life while the latter was given a challenge to overcome.
Danielle and I had very little time for each other, even as Marie and Isabelle graduated to longer periods of sleep and fewer periods of drink. Yet, during the minute and a half we were alone together at the day's end, before Danielle tumbled into a bottomless slumber, time stopped and we were in paradise: she and I, I and she, we alone, one; all was bliss. We had no time to feel far from one another. So we were never away from one another. Each free moment of consciousness, we were together in eternity.
As soon as Danielle could and Marie and Isabelle allowed us to, every two weeks, on a day Mrs Pelletier was there, Danielle and I fled together to a restaurant for lunch, as evenings were beyond Danielle's physical tolerance. There we communed in our family miracle: that peace within the squall. This does not mean that we lost any time. We confirmed our twins' policy. There were to be no "twins" in the home: by which I mean a twin phenomenon. There were Marie and Isabelle and each, as far as possible, should be able to lead her own personal life. The word "twins" was not banished but it was used as little as possible. Each girl had a name to be respected and used. Marie would sleep in Johanne's room and eventually bunk under Johanne. Isabelle would sleep in Claude and Philippe's room eventually bunking under Philippe, Claude moving downstairs with Michel. In the morning we could enter a room and say "Hello Marie" or "Hello Isabelle" and never "Hello twins". Even though we had many suits the were matching or identical, Marie and Isabelle would wear their match only exceptionally. Ordinarily they each had a distinct suit or dress. This, we found, also helped everyone to name outright the correct twin when addressing her. When they happened to have identical dress, we regularly got them mixed up unless we made a special effort not to. And even then we often stumbled. Starting a year from now, Marie and Isabelle's birthdays would be on different weekends in order that each be allowed her own day of personal importance. When they would one day go to school, thank God our schools were large enough to have different teachers for each twin, so they should escape the inevitable comparison of one with the other, but mainly so that each could love her own teacher. That was the policy we drafted and adhered to as best we could. And everyone in the family followed.
* * *
Ronald and Jeannine came separately to visit us and see the new additions to our family. They were both sincere and gentle towards us, towards Johanne and towards every child; this made us suffer all the more over their drama.
All our friends, in fact, kept a better contact with us in our frantic adventure in high seas. Then the friends of ours friends and even strangers began getting into the act.
"A friend of mine," someone would say, "has a child who has outgrown some clothing. He wondered whether you might be interested in having these in case some might be useful for some of your children. I hope this offer doesn't offend you."
"We accept with great pleasure," Danielle and I answered. "We have nothing against Santa Clauses," I would add.
It began as a bundle and grew to a huge pile of clothing. As seasons ended, as children grew, we got bags of clothing for our children of all ages. Rarely did someone send worn out clothing. Nearly all of the time they were neat and keen. Our children were proud to wear them and it even happened that one or another made some neighbouring child jealous by the style and quality. These generosities did not prevent grand-parents and godparents and ourselves from also buying some new clothing for our children when we felt it was useful, or just for their pleasure. Danielle marvelled that when she had accepted to have ten children, she had imagined we should necessarily live a life of deprivation. But we just kept being given what we needed, when we needed it, and sometimes more. I reminded her of my fathers point: "Do God’s work and he’ll do yours; and we always win out as God is the best worker."
I added: "We'll soon be needing a new house as there is place for only one more child in this one. Their rooms are really made for only two per room and they are presently seven children for four rooms. We cannot afford a new house now nor do we need it now. When the need comes, the house will be there."
I wasn't in the least a hero or a saint in uttering these words. Simply fatalistic. Or course, God has no obligation to make our life materially easy when so many people have a rough time. Only I got the feeling that he had chosen to show through us that things can work when you obey his divine plan for family life, whereas he uses saints to show how people can rough it when things go tough. At the same time, we both accepted that the day might certainly come when we should carry our part of the rough cross. But why not take a liking to the going when things are fine? There is no sense in being miserable over a kind of future that may never be.
Many people gave us a place in their hearts. But how about the outside world, the one that didn't come into our inner society? We realised that for them we had finally become Martians. With five children, we had been Earth people gone mad. The other Earth people had felt us to be of their kind but also felt how horrible it must be to live like us. Now, leaping from five to seven children, we had burst through the barrier of the imaginable. We had become inconceivable, therefore members of an entirely different species. We were out of this world, yet had landed on this one. We became a matter of curiosity. People took pleasure in saying: "I know a fellow (or a woman) who has seven children! They even just had twins."
Or else: "Do you see this guy there: he is the father of seven. Their eldest is only eight years old!"
Such a news item invariably provoked an astonished reaction from the listener and the speaker flushed with pleasure at having said something so interesting. I must confess that I regularly used this fact as an opener for my courses at college. After having explained that we had chosen to have ten children because we wanted to go metric, I now added another mathematical consideration. Indeed, we were finding that we were reaching our goal quite fast and were still relatively young. I was thirty-two and Danielle only thirty. We had some time to go before her menopause.
"Since becoming metric, we have noticed that other couples have only two children. It dawned on us that these people have opted for the computer language which is basically binary: its base number is two. Well we are still young. We can still add the binary system to our metric system. And it is interesting to note that if you add the basic metric number (10) to the basic computer number (2) you get the imperial dozen. A good synthesis. And after the dozen? Why not infinity? For that contains all possible systems."
I got my laughs.
