The crying from upstairs grew louder, two distinct voices rising and falling in the dark. I took the second step, dragging my left thigh up with a slow, deliberate swing.
My stump rubbed against the hard plastic of the socket, a sharp pinch that I tried to ignore as I dragged my weight upward. The sweat on my collar felt cold, and the simple act of climbing felt like a hill I had to conquer yard by yard.
I counted each riser. Seven, eight, nine, then a brief pause to catch my breath in the narrow hallway.
The plaster walls in the stairwell were cold to the touch, and the faded wallpaper was peeling at the seams near the top, revealing the old gray plaster beneath. I kept my eyes on the landing above, where the thin strip of yellow light was the only thing guiding my steps.
I pushed past the pain in my hip and forced my leg up the remaining six steps.
The nursery door was half open, letting out a sliver of yellow light. I pushed it back with my forearm, the metal hinges giving a soft whine.
My mother sat in the corner, her face pale in the glow of a small turtle lamp. She was rocking back and forth in the old maple chair, holding Emma against her chest.
Lily lay in her crib near the window, her tiny fists shaking as she wailed.
The blue plastic baby bottle sat empty on the floor beside her.
My mother did not look up when I entered. She wiped her glasses on her apron with a slow, rhythmic motion.
“She is not coming back, Caleb,” my mother said.
I walked over to the wooden crib, my boots heavy on the floorboards, and lifted Lily up to my shoulder. Her tiny body was warm, and she let out a long, shuddering sigh as she tucked her head into the hollow of my neck.
“Where is Mara?” I asked.
My mother pointed toward the changing table. A single sheet of folded yellow notebook paper lay next to the diaper stack.
“She left two days ago, Caleb, and she took the bank account with her,” she said.
The silence in the room seemed to deepen, heavy and cold, while the small radiator under the window hissed and sputtered. I carried Lily over to the dresser, my boot thudding heavily against the bare oak floorboards where the rug used to lie.
I reached out with my free hand and picked up the paper. It was torn from a legal pad, the edges rough and uneven.
The handwriting was Mara’s, written in her quick, leaning script. I recognized the blue ink from the pen she always kept in her purse.
She had not written my name at the top. The first sentence simply stated that she could not live this way anymore.
“How did you find them?” I asked, my voice barely louder than a whisper.
My mother stopped rocking. Her hand stayed on her apron, her eyes fixed on the floor.
“I had a feeling,” she said. “Mara did not answer her phone yesterday, and when I drove by, the house was dark.”
“And the babies?” I asked.
“They were alone, Caleb.”
A cold, heavy knot formed in my stomach as I looked down at the soft hair on Lily’s head, smelling the faint trace of lavender baby wash. My mother had saved them, but the way she looked at the floor told me there was a deeper truth she was trying to spare me from hearing.
“How long were they by themselves?” I asked.
“Thirty-six hours,” my mother said, her voice cracking slightly. “They had no heat, Caleb. The furnace had kicked off because the thermostat was turned down to fifty degrees.”
I looked at the yellow paper again, the letters blurring slightly before my eyes as the coldness of the house seemed to seep into my bones.
“She just walked out,” I said.
“She did,” my mother said. “She took her clothes, her jewelry, and everything from the safe.”
I turned the paper over. At the bottom, written in a different, bolder hand, was a single sentence.
“We are leaving for Columbus,” it read. It was signed by Mark.
The name stood out against the yellow paper like a physical blow. Mark had been my best friend since the third grade, the man who promised to check on my family while I was gone.
“He was here?” I asked.
“His car was in the drive on Tuesday,” my mother said. “Mrs. Gable saw them loading boxes into his trunk.”
“They planned this,” I said.
“I think they did,” my mother said softly. “The bank called this morning about the joint account. It is empty, Caleb.”
Emma began to stir in my mother’s arms, her small mouth opening as she let out a soft whimpering sound.
“They need to eat,” I said, setting the yellow paper back on the dresser.
“I brought some formula from the store,” my mother said, rising slowly from the rocking chair. “But we only have one bottle.”
“I will go down and wash it,” I said.
I took Emma from her arms, balancing her against my right side while Lily rested on my left. The weight of both girls made my prosthetic leg tremble, the metal joint locking for a second.
“Let me do it, Caleb,” my mother said, reaching out.
“No,” I said. “I have to do this.”
I carried Emma down the stairs, holding her tight against my chest. Every step down was a sharp reminder of the cold iron in my leg, but I did not let go.
