According to YES (23 page)

Rosie huffs and puffs to the corner of Fifth Avenue and East 89th St, trying to keep up with the fizzy twins. She moves at half the speed she used to, and the boys have little patience with her. They are excited about the arrival of the new baby, but they just can't believe how long it is taking to cook. Rosie has to draw pictures for them of exactly how it is developing inside her, and they are fascinated and disgusted in equal measure. As the winter creeps on, Rosie has to lay two A4-sized pieces of paper together on the floor, to be able to draw the outline of the actual size of the growing fetus. It's now about 17 inches long, and for the first time, it's too big to fit on one page. On their visits to 90th St, the twins are obsessed with knowing when it's eyes might open, or when it might be able to hear, and since both of those things are happening around now, they play music, they clap, they sing, they shine bright torches on to her bare belly and they tell the unborn baby,

‘Don't worry, you won't be stuck in there for long!' and
‘Someone's comin' to getcha dude, hang on in there!' They don't like how her navel sticks out, they refer to it as, ‘Like, totally gross,' and they tease her about how often she has to stop for a pee. They call her the ‘The Tap'. Her ankles and hands are fairly swollen and she finds herself tired and breathless whilst she transports the extra pounds around, and she can't believe that she actually waddles. Like a penguin.

Today is another adventure though, and she has brought them here to the Guggenheim Museum for the first time, she knows they will love it. As they enter, they have to undergo a security search, so the boys offer up their brightly coloured backpacks and Rosie willingly opens her big red handbag for the guard to furtle around in.

Unsure of exactly what exhibition is on currently, Rosie ushers the boys into the main hall of the phenomenal building. The outside is already a hit with Red and Three, since they consider it to look like either ‘a giant spacecraft' or ‘a huge curly white helmet that would fit on a massive zoid', so she knows she's on to a winner. These are the moments that make living in New York the dream she hoped it would be, stepping out into the vast, open space of the central atrium of the building. The atmosphere is nothing they have ever experienced before. Lofty and light.

Rosie wonders if Lennon and Yoko ever came to see anything here? Surely they must have …?

The boys whisper, ‘Wow' and ‘Awesome', as they tilt their
heads up to see the sky through the big skylight, which has struts crossing it, giving it the appearance of a glass cobweb.

Rosie seizes the moment to explore their initial reactions.

‘Guys, tell me the words that are popping up in your heads right now … ?'

Three: ‘Big. White. Wheel.'

Red: ‘Shell. Window. Sunshine.'

‘Fantastic,' says Rosie, ‘all those words are so … right.'

All three of them become aware of a small repetitive sound, so they seek out the source. Over to the side, there is a table, and two people, a young man and woman sit with a microphone between them, reading out a series of numbers in sequence,'

‘Twelve thousand, four hundred and twenty two …' she says

‘Twelve thousand, four hundred and twenty three …' he says, and on they go.

‘What are they doing? asks Red.

‘It must be part of the exhibition. Oh yes, look, it's written here,' Rosie looks at the leaflet she was given on her way in. ‘On Kawara, is a Japanese conceptual artist who lived in New York … bla … bla … bla, oh, OK, I see, so his art is all about normal things he did every day, like who he saw, where he went, what he ate, and he made a record of it all, so these people are counting every single day out loud. Wow. It's weird, but I like the idea, don't you?'

‘Yeh,' says Three, ‘but I could do that.'

‘Well then, you should, and maybe one day, you can have an
exhibit here with all your stuff? And we can all come to admire a big long line of all your different stinky socks …'

‘Yeh,' says Red, agreeing that's no bad idea.

‘Yeh,' says Three, knowing it is, and that she's kidding.

‘So, my hearts, here we are right in the middle of this fantastic building. What do we always try to look for in any interesting space?'

The boys know this, it's par for the course on outings with Rosie, so they quickfire the words they know.

‘Umm, colour, form, shape …' says Three.

‘Yeh, umm, that word for clever, yeh, genius, umm … funny … not funny … what is it?' asks Red, then remembers, ‘yeh humour … and … and …'

‘I know, beauty' says Three.

‘Beauty' repeats Rosie. ‘I think that's my most important one. Although humour comes a pretty close second. Now, here's what's going to happen. I'm too babyfat to walk all the way up that curvy ramp, so I am going to sit here like a happy lump, and enjoy the view. You two are going to go up, up, having a look at the Japanese guy's work all the way, using your eyes and noticing everything so that you can tell me all about it when you get back down. Did you know you could see before you could speak? So, really look, look, look, OK? The ramp up is one long continual spiral, so just keep following it to the top up there. Once you get there, and you've done all your looking, and you're both ready, CAREFULLY – note that word please,
CAREFULLY – look over the wall to me sitting here and give me the thumbs up, OK? And when I give you the thumbs up back, you can commence Operation W. B. Shall we have a quick demo of the thumbs up, so there's no confusion? Here goes, you guys first …'

They both do it to her. She does it back.

‘Right. We're ready. Off you go, and take your time, because I really want you to remember what you see so you can tell it all to me. Good luck, men, your country's proud of you.'

She slaps them both heartily on the back, and sends them off to start their exploration.

Rosie sits down on the nearest seat, which is in fact a low concrete wall, and she is grateful to take the weight off her feet. She sees the heads of the boys – one blondie red, one tomato-soup red, both unmistakable – as they gradually make their way up through the winding exhibition space. She allows herself time to drink it all in, and she acknowledges that moments like these, still and calm, are sublime. Even the normal, earthly timescale seems altered in a space so extraordinary, and while the unmarked time ticks by, she lets her heartbeat slow down. This must surely be good for the baby, the unruffled lack of rush. Rosie feels open and bright, the way she sometimes can in a church. Here, she allows all the subdued movement and chatter to pass her by. She likes it, it's cheerful and it's all around, but sitting, stopping and shutting up, are her way to an inner hush.

She breathes deeply, and closes her eyes for a moment, and when she shuts down that sense of sight, the others seem to perk up. She hears the muffled big quiet of people trudging around softly, showing respect for the artists' work. She smells the air from the chilly outside that has clung to the coats of people coming in and swooshing past her. She can still taste the remnants of the gum she disposed of in a bin two blocks away, and she's aware of how much she desires coffee, and how she's trying to have less. She can feel the coarse wool of her beloved green coat under her cold hands. She can feel the tightening of the coat around her swelling stomach. She moves her right hand up to flick her hair behind her ear and she feels the earring there with her fingers. Cherry earrings. Big and dangly. And so red. She can't see them, but she knows they are. She loves them. And then, she feels a turning from the baby, it could almost make her nauseous, but it's curious and miraculous, so she surrenders to it. The baby is taking its place, ready to be known, life waiting to live. Rosie slowly opens her eyes and she thinks, ‘Yep, this is sort of it. The bliss I've been looking for. Someone else needs me, and they come first, and there's no denying it. I am going to be someone's mother, someone's everything. And they will be mine. Always.' Rosie Kitto is full of happiness. Full right up. She smiles and smiles.

The young man and woman are still at the desk, counting away the minutes, ‘Twelve thousand, eight hundred and forty four …'

Rosie looks up. The boys are one floor below the top level, moving on up gradually. How lucky they are to have each other, their enduring need for love and security met so intimately. Rosie thinks about how being a twin has somehow helped both of these little chaps process all that's gone on around them. The distraction and the support for each by the other is key. They know and manage one another so well, fitting into each other seamlessly. Even when they differ, or disagree, they at least understand it about each other. She can't imagine being a twin.

A sudden shocking thought comes hurtling into her peace. OH GOD. What if she is carrying twins?! It's possible, it's in the genetics of the Wilder-Binghams. It could be. But wait … no … she has had scans. Expensive scans conducted by clever trained individuals in a reputable hospital, paid for by Thomas. No. She has an ultrasound image. There's one baby. She has seen it, with its little hand held up as if it's halting traffic, as if it's saying, ‘hold it, I'll decide when, thank you.' She didn't ask to know the sex, it simply doesn't matter. And actually, it doesn't matter if it's twins either. In fact …

Just as Rosie starts to fantasize about this possibility, she hears a whistle and looks up. There is Three, giving her the thumbs up over the wall. This is it. The moment all three of them have been talking about for the last couple of days. The boys have planned it meticulously, as if they are junior ninjas, and this is their secret mission. Rosie stands and moves to
the centre of the circular hall, and she gives the thumbs up signal back.

At the very top of the building, the highest point of the ramp, the two intrepid eight-year-old adventurers cautiously look around to check that no guards are watching too closely. The coast is clear, the first guard is on the next level down, and is conveniently distracted by a girl in short shorts.

In a trice, the boys kneel down and, pressing the special invisible button on the side of their respective pairs of sneakers, the hidden wheels pop out under the heels. They stand up, lean back and before anyone can truly realize what's going on, off they both skate, gliding along in what appear to be normal sneakers. These sneakers are anything but normal, they are instruments of tremendous thrill, and both of the lads are adept at manouvering on them. Just as well, since they have plenty of dodging to do as they gather speed, flying downwards on the continuous sloping spiral ramp, faster and faster. Zoom, past the guard who only notices when it's too late.

‘Hey! Stop! You kids!' he shouts, and everyone looks to see the boys zipping down the huge helter skelter.

‘Come on, boys, go go go,' whispers Rosie under her breath as she spins round, watching them fly along on their downward race. Three is very slightly falling behind the more athletic Red, so Red reaches out his hand and they whizz down the last couple of levels linked together, whilst all the people in the building stand back to make a safe track for
them to complete their wonderful ride. The onlookers start to clap as they tear by, and a few even help to hold the guards back. Zoom, zoom, zoom they go, round and round, with the wind in their hair and megawatt smiles. Very shortly they reach the bottom, by which time Rosie has waddled to the main exit and is holding open the door for the twins to shoot out, onto the sidewalk and away from any consequences. As they pass her, she shouts,

‘Splendid work ninjas! Hooray!' and she puffs as she tries to catch up with them on the corner. They quickly flick their wheels back inside and all three of them resume ordinary walking towards 90th St, one block away, where they can celebrate and toast their superb victory.

Operation W. B. complete.

Iva places her suitcase in the hall, just inside the front door. Her shoes are soaking wet due to the short walk from the cab to the kerb outside through the slushy snow. She takes her coat and woolly hat off, and she stands still to listen out for anyone in the apartment. Nothing. It's unusual for there to be nobody home at all in the middle of the afternoon, so she takes a little exploratory walk and checks in each room. There is a definite change from the place she left. Curtains are pushed well back, letting tons more light in. Everything is brighter, messier, and more lived in. Doors are open, and the occasional tiny crack of an open window allows a cheeky cold breeze in and through. Cuttings are growing in pots on almost any spare surface, a few whole plants are inside for shelter against the winter frosts, and the kitchen worktops are covered in pots of herbs. This is now an apartment you might want to hang out in.

Iva notices, however, that the dishwasher is open, and half loaded. Clearly, whoever was doing that job was in a rush. She
smiles, rolls up her sleeves, and sets about the stack of dirty dishes in the sink. Yep, they still need her here. Which is just as well, because fourteen hours ago, her heart broke as she walked away from her crying daughter yet again as she boarded the plane back to this place.

Three blocks away, Rosie is at an antenatal class. She is lying on her back on the floor, on a cushioned mat, with her feet flat on the mat and her knees raised up. She has a cushion under her head, and a professionally pink woman is walking around, weaving in between the twenty or so mats with other pregnant women on them, blethering on about breathing and breaking waters and stretch marks and how special and precious ‘baby' is. Rosie is very large now, in her third trimester, and she has had a tolerance by-pass, it seems. Something about the droning midwife annoys her. It's the silly infantile language she uses, as if all the potential mothers are actually babies themselves. Rosie didn't really want to come, but was persuaded by the doctor. She reluctantly tries to make the best of it by smiling at the woman on the mat next to her, and she gets a very uncertain smile back. She notices that this woman is looking towards the top of Rosie's mat, which is where ‘daddy' is supposed to sit and be supportive. The other lady's husband is dutifully stroking her head with his bony
fingers. At the head of Rosie's mat sit Thomas and Kemble and Teddy. The nosy lady is confused, and gives Rosie a slightly disapproving sneer. Rosie isn't going to have this lofty nonsense, so she says, ‘Yes. I'm VERY popular,' and that puts a stop to it. The Wilder-Bingham chaps look sheepish. Teddy goes bright red. Again.

As the night draws in back at home, Thomas suggests that they all get their coats on and take the twins up onto the snowy roof to decorate the biggest, hardiest plant for Christmas. He and Kemble use logs and firewood kindling soaked in gasoline to start a red-hot fire in a brazier, while Rosie sits wrapped up in three of Thomas's huge winter coats, directing the twins and Teddy, who are putting lights on the box-plant, along with lots of little hand-drawn Christmas figures the boys have made at school. On closer inspection, Rosie sees that the figures are all the people in the family. They have drawn everybody: Thomas, Glenn, Kemble, Natalie, Teddy, Rosie, Iva and, of course, themselves. They have laminated the little figures so that they can hang outdoors. They are for the most part quite accurate depictions of the family. They have drawn themselves as superheroes though, and Rosie seems to be an entire sphere, which is pretty authentic.

Iva brings a tray of steaming mugs of hot chocolate out onto
the roof, and with that, she brings the reassurance that she is back to buoy up the whole clan. They all stand in a circle around the red-hot brazier, sipping the warming drink, their faces burning and their backs freezing. Red and Three pretend the steam from the hot liquid is smoke, and they enjoy invisible cigarettes. Red offers one to his father, and Kemble willingly takes it and joins in, puffing the ‘smoke' into the cold night sky.

Then, from utterly nowhere, Three suddenly says, ‘Hey, Dad. Teds says you are a homosocksial, is that true?'

Kemble splutters his hot chocolate, and it fizzles on the brazier. ‘Holy shitballs, Teds, thanks!'

‘You said to help you tell them …'

‘Yeh, but, jeez …'

‘What is that, anyway?' says little Red.

Kemble is stumped. He feels all eyes on him, and he has no idea what he should say.

It's Thomas, standing next to Kemble, who breaks the silence, ‘A homosexual, boys, is a free spirit,' and pats his son on the shoulder.

With that one small gesture, Kemble knows that his dad has his back, that there is no judgement, that perhaps he has suspected all along, and most importantly, that he is loved no matter what. Kemble is instantly ten tons lighter. He didn't realize how heavy he'd been.

‘Hope I get to be a homosexual too,' says Three, and they all laugh, and relax a bit.

‘The thing is, guys,' says Kemble, gathering his thoughts, ‘you need to be whoever you really are, that's all. You two may be twins, but you are really different to each other, aren't you? You're unique, like Teddy is. So you need to notice all the stuff you're good at, all the stuff you are … and really be that. You don't have to be like me, be you. Whatever that may be.'

At this, Teddy looks across at his grandfather and they have a shared moment when they remember that Thomas gave his grandson this exact same advice just recently. So, the apple don't fall too far from the tree after all. How comforting. Teddy loves that it all chimes together. He also loves that he knew his granpop wouldn't make this difficult for his dad, he even told him so, and look, he was right. It's OK. It's really OK.

Kemble, Teddy and the boys surrender to the cold, admit defeat, and head indoors, mumbling about nachos and peanut-butter cups and other snacks they want to pillage the larder for. Thomas stays by the brazier to make sure it is safe to leave. Rosie and Iva stay with him.

‘Well, wow, that chaka'd my kahn!' says Rosie.

‘Dear boy,' says Thomas.

‘I knew this,' says Iva, ‘always smells too good to be not gay, and has four tweezers.'

‘I see' says Thomas, a bit bewildered.

The three of them stand for a moment, looking into the embers. All of them are thinking about Glenn, but no-one speaks of her.

Iva doesn't feel it's her place.

Rosie doesn't want to upset Thomas.

Thomas doesn't want to cry.

He coughs. Then, ‘How was your time at home, Iva?'

‘Yes. Good. Thank you Mr W. B. Was good to see my girl for long time. She grow so much. Coming a beautiful young woman.'

‘Like her mum', says Rosie, slipping an arm around her.

They look again into the bright light of the dying fire. It's as if all the good ideas are in there.

‘Iva,' says Thomas, ‘I was just thinking, how about if your daughter came to spend Christmas with us here … ?' Iva looks at him. He means it, so she walks around the fire and throws her arms around him, and she doesn't feel cold any more.