The Fourth Child by Jessica Winter (best classic novels TXT) 📕

excited about Lauren’s birthday,” Mom explained. “She means well. We have to celebrate who Mirela is, not whowe might think we want Mirela to be.”

The house filled with people, smiling faces bobbing in Lauren’s direction, but before they reached her there was Mirela, Mirela in every room, corner, doorway, Mirela in front of you and behind you and under your feet, Mirela laughing, jumping, hitting plates of potato salad and soft-cooked baby carrots out of surprised hands, pulling at sleeves, kicking at ankles, being herself. A car backfired in the crowded kitchen, raising a whoop from Nana Glenis; it was Mirela, who’d stolen a smoldering cigarettefrom between Aunt Faye’s fingers and attacked the balloons with it, pop-pop-pop. Lauren leaned against the sink, watching, wondering who might volunteer to try taking the cigarette away from Mirela.

“Happy buh day!” Mirela hollered at everyone, every conversation, every face scanning past. “Happy buh day!”

“I wanted to thank you for inviting me to your birthday party.” It was Danielle by Lauren’s side, holding a small white boxwith a large blue bow. The words sounded practiced. Danielle looked ill at ease in a starched white blouse. Lauren imaginedher taking it off as soon as she got back home, pulling on a loose T-shirt, flinging her legs over the side of the couch towatch Yo! MTV Raps.

The box flew out of Danielle’s hands onto the floor tiles, landing with a clinking crunch. “Ohhh,” said Danielle, crestfallen,as Mirela ran past her to kick the box into the next room. A group shout rose up from the den, signaling a happy developmentin the Bills game.

“It’s okay,” Lauren said, picking up the cigarette Mirela had dropped on the floor and flicking it into the sink behind her.“Thanks for whatever was inside that box.”

“So, uh—yeah, I just, I wanted to thank you for inviting me to your—”

“Happy buh day!” Mirela was back, she was there, she was always there, yelling, looking back and forth from Danielle to Lauren.“Happy buh day!” Danielle smiled down at Mirela as if through great ennobling pain.

A familiar feeling burbled back, coating Lauren’s synapses. It was the feeling of sitting back in class and watching Danielledisintegrate. Pull on her string.

“Hey, Mirela,” Lauren said, leaning over her like they were in a conspiracy. Lauren wasn’t sure if she wanted Danielle to hear what she was about to do. “Has Mom ever told you,” she asked the girl, “the story of what I did the day before I turned three?” She held out her palms to Mirela for pat-a-cake. “Before the sun went down, I went from room to room turning out all the lights in the house, yelling, ‘Go to bed, go to bed!’ because I thought that way my birthday would come sooner.” Danielle laughed, and Mirela pummeled Lauren’s palms with her little fists.

“My mom has told that story a million times,” Lauren said, looking up at Danielle. “You’ll probably hear it from her beforeyou leave today, Danielle.”

She turned again to Mirela. “What did you do,” Lauren asked brightly, “the night before you turned three?”

Lauren had conjured something on the night of All My Sons. A new scene, another girl. She could do it again, whenever she wanted to.

Mirela hit Lauren’s palms harder, harder.

“Go ahead, tell us, Mirela, we’re listening—what did you do on your birthday?”

Harder, harder.

“Mirela, listen—do you know what a birthday is?”

“Mah buh day!” Mirela said.

“Nooo, Mirela,” Lauren murmured, catching both of the girl’s fists in her hands as she got down on her knees. “It’s not Mirela’s birthday. It’s Lauren’s birthday. I don’t know when Mirela’s birthday is. Do you?”

“Mah buh day! Mah buh day!”

Danielle was fading out. It was just the two sisters in the room now. They were onstage together again, alone, holding hands.

“Nope, sorry, Mirela,” Lauren said. She controlled the edge in her voice. She heard Andy in her head. Little freak. “Your birthday is the day your mommy gave birth to you. But we don’t know your birthday. And we don’t know your mommy.”

“Mama,” Mirela said, pointing across the room where Mom was stringing the happy fifteenth birthday lauren banner for the third time.

“That’s not your mommy, Mirela,” Lauren said, shaking her head ruefully.

“Mama,” Mirela said. She was blinking rapidly. She was trying to think. “Mama. Mama.”

“But where’s your real mama, Mirela?” Lauren asked, her throat constricting and pinching the words, choking them off.

It was torn. It was over. There was no use stopping now. Lauren had dragged them all the way under. Their lungs were fillingwith water.

“Where is Mirela’s mommy?” Lauren asked. Altered, bewitched. “Not Lauren’s mommy. Mirela’s mommy, who gave birth to Mirela, on Mirela’s birthday.”

“Mama,” Mirela said, her finger stabbing the air, her eyes darting everywhere. “Mama. Mama.” She jabbed both arms, she stompedher feet, she spun around and around, screaming “Mama,” then screaming no words at all, strangled vowels and pure pain, sireningup from the child on all fours.

“My mommy doesn’t know your birthday, Mirela,” Lauren whispered, although no one could hear her. Her brow was dotted with sweatand her eyes were dry. “I’m so sorry.”

“Lauren, honey, what happened?” Mom was by her side.

Danielle was back. Danielle had never been gone. She was backing away. Lauren rose to her feet again, her knees knocking together.“I think . . .” She leaned back against the sink, reaching behind with both hands to grip the edge of the counter, unsteadywith what she’d done. “I think Mirela is sad that it’s not her birthday.”

“No my mama!” Mirela was wailing like she’d been burned. “No my mama!”

Even that day, after Dad asked everyone to leave and Mom had taken Lauren’s place at the sink, holding a washcloth to her bloody nose—even then, Lauren knew it wasn’t Mirela’s fault. Mirela didn’t have any say. Lauren didn’t, either. No one asks to be born. No one chooses their family. No one gets to say, You. You’re the one. You’re the one I want to be my mother.

That night, Lauren said to Mom, “Mirela is special because she is chosen.” She was trying