Elizabeth is having a bad dream. The children are lost. They are only babies, both of them, and through carelessness, a moment of inattention, she’s misplaced them. Or they’ve been stolen. Their cribs are empty, she’s hurrying through unfamiliar streets looking for them. The streets are deserted, the windows dark; there’s no snow on the ground, no leaves on the hedges, the sky overhead would be full of stars if she could only look up. She would call, but she knows the children will not be able to answer her, even if they can hear her. They’re inside one of the houses, wrapped up; even their mouths are covered by blankets.
• • •
She turns over, forces herself awake. She looks around the room, the looming bureau, the spider plants, the stripes of light through the blinds, making sure she is here. Her heart quiets, her eyes are dry. The dream is an old one, an old familiar. She began having it after Nancy was born. At that time she would wake crying convulsively, and Nate would comfort her. He would take her to the children’s room so she could listen and see that they were all right. He’d thought she was dreaming about their own children, but even then she had known, though she hadn’t told him, that the lost babies were her mother and Caroline. She’s shut them out, both of them, as well as she could, but they come back anyway, using the forms that will most torment her.
She doesn’t want to go back to sleep; she knows that if she does she’ll probably have the same dream again. She gets out of bed, finds her slippers and dressing gown, and goes downstairs to make herself a warm milk and honey. As she passes the children’s room she listens, then pushes open the door just to make sure. Pure habit. She will probably go on doing this for the rest of her life, even after they are really gone. She will go on having the dream. Nothing ever finishes.