Page 105 of Under Story

Over the years, Laurel daydreamed about what she would do with Silas, if they found him. She wanted to take him to the playground near their house and to the public library. She pictured them at the Madison Children’s Museum, with its Wildernest and Rooftop Ramble; she imagined reading to him, and feeding him, and giving him his first bath. In real life, though, all she wants to do is stare. No amount of looking sates her.

Years ago, Laurel and Eli said that Silas One changed daily. Here, the phrase is not hyperbole. At eight weeks, Silas Two can laugh and hold a toy. He follows Laurel’s movements with interest. Once, he pushed himself into a sitting position, though he tipped over right afterward. Laurel assumes this has to do with his age: an eight-year-old’s brain—even one that has just been composed—is much more robust than an infant’s. Last week, she walked to a coffee shop while Eli watched Silas. By the time she returned, he had learned to roll over.

—

Two months earlier, in Cedar, Laurel lay in bed, stunned. Then she got up.

“I should go check on him,” she said.

“We can see him on the monitor,” said Eli.

“I know,” said Laurel. “But—”

She wobbled when she stood. The shades were open, the sky dark. She had no idea what time it was.

Laurel knew that Eli was watching as she walked to the bathroom, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn around. She didn’t know what she would see in his face, nor what she wanted to. She didn’t know what he would find in hers.

She sat on the toilet and wiped herself. The porcelain was cold under her thighs. After Silas died, she had chosen to get an IUD, and she wondered if it was still working. Laurel tried to calculate how long ago the insertion had been, but it was so confusing to count years forward and backward that she soon gave up.

She opened the bathroom door. Eli had put on his boxers.

“You all right?” he asked.

She noticed how handsome he was. But that thought was fleeting. In its place came the same numb bewilderment.

“Mm,” she said, pulling on her pajamas.

Laurel climbed into the bunk across from Silas. She woke throughout the night. Every time, she knelt by Silas’s bed, frantic until she heard him breathe. When he fussed, she went downstairs to mix and warm the formula.

Eli appeared on the landing. “Can I help?”

The microwave droned.

“I’ve got it,” said Laurel.

“I can do the next one.”

“There is no next one, remember?” Silas’s stomach was large enough that he needed only one nighttime feeding.

“Oh,” said Eli. “Right.”

His eyes loomed out of the darkness. So did hers. The microwave beeped loudly.

“Well,” he said, “let me know if you need me.”

Laurel cooed as she came back into the bedroom. Silas sucked the plastic nipple instinctively. Afterward, she slept until dawn. When she opened her eyes, a bird sang outside, and Silas was gone.

Laurel made a high-pitched, animal sound. She flew down the stairs. Eli sat in the living room. Next to him, on the couch, lay Silas. To prevent him from falling off, Eli had made a barricade: two baking sheets and a pool noodle.

“I was trying to let you sleep,” he whispered.

Dressing Silas required both of them: Laurel held his upper body, and Eli eased his kicking legs through pants. He had his first tantrum as they put him in his wheelchair.

“At least his lungs are clear,” Eli muttered, Silas screaming into his ear.

But he slept during the drive. Afraid to wake him, they passed the trip in silence—until Eli turned off the beltline.

“Laurel,” he said, “we’re going to have to talk about what happened eventually.”