The change from a life of two to a life of five was meant to be a joyous occasion, a hectic but happy extension of the universe that Gale and I had created together. It turned into the instant my universe broke into a thousand sharp fragments instead. I was sitting in a sterile hospital bed at the age of twenty-three, my body hurting and my head spinning from the triplets’ birth. A nurse had just placed Bex into my other arm, Zelle was a warm weight on my chest, and Sly was sobbing in his bassinet. I turned to face Gale, hoping for the encouraging grin that had helped me get through a challenging pregnancy.
Rather, I noticed a stranger. He had a bare, primordial fear in his eyes. He stammered, his voice low and brittle, “I—I need some air, Lark.” “Give me a minute.”
The minute seemed to go on forever. He returned no more. When my release paperwork was completed two days later, I was a lady with three babies by myself in the hospital lobby with no means of transportation home. Our lone car was taken by Gale. Feeling the pity of the nurses as they assisted me in strapping three small carriers into the back of a vehicle, I had to call a cab. A frightening reminder of the liveliness that existed before the silence took over, the light I had left on for 48 hours was still burning when I finally entered our apartment.
Emotional and biological survival dominated the ensuing weeks. My days were divided into four-hour chunks of eating, changing, and rocking, and I survived on adrenaline and dry cereal. The constant, overlapping cries of three infants who need more care than one person could ever give filled the flat. I quit picking up the phone and shutting the drapes. I was drowning in formula and lack of sleep until the night I finally snapped and contacted Brock, Gale’s best buddy, the only person I suspected of knowing where he was.
Brock did not visit Gale to make excuses. He arrived with a bag of diapers, enough groceries for a week, and a calm, modest strength. He didn’t inquire or express hollow sympathy. He just leaped into the trenches after rolling up his sleeves. He took out the trash, folded the never-ending mountains of laundry, and became familiar with each triplet’s unique cries. And above all, he stayed.
I waited for the other shoe to drop for a long time since I thought Brock’s attendance was just a one-time duty. But his “staying” became the cornerstone of our life as the months stretched into years. Every day, all four of us were the ones he picked. By the time the triplets were four years old, we truly were a family. The children, who had long since begun referring to him as “Dad,” were the highlights of our modest backyard wedding. Brock established a career, I completed my degree, and we constructed a home that was full of the frenetic energy and laughter of three happy kids.
Twelve years after his disappearance, on a soggy Thursday afternoon, Gale’s ghost was banished to a shadowy corner of history. A voice from a nightmare stopped me in my tracks as I was sneaking inside a coffee shop. “Lark.”
Gale appeared to be a specter of the person I had once loved. His eyes darted with a feverish, frenetic energy, and he was exhausted. His children were not questioned. He didn’t inquire about my survival in the misery he abandoned me in. He turned to face me instead, saying, “I need your help.” Five thousand dollars is what I need.
His demand was breathtakingly audacious. As though the cosmos were working together to assist him in repaying his obligations, he talked of “fate” bringing us together. He didn’t apologize when I informed him he was nothing more than a coward and turned to walk away. In a pitiful, desperate attempt at extortion, he followed me to my car and planted a letter on the windshield. It was a warning that if I didn’t pay, people would “reveal the truth” about how our relationship ended.
I had never witnessed Brock’s eyes light up with protective rage until I showed him the note. We headed directly to the cops. We were not going to be pulled into the shadows by a man who had deserted his own blood; we had lived in the light of honesty for twelve years.
Within a week, Gale was located by the police. Upon our arrival at the station for his statement, the cowardice he had displayed at the age of twenty-three had turned into a twisted, venomous hatred. With officers at his sides, he sat in his handcuffs and attempted to fabricate a last, horrible story. “Knowing” that Brock and I were already together—that the triplets weren’t even his—he said he had gone. He attempted to defend his own defection by portraying himself as the victim of a massive betrayal.
“Gale, you left her in a hospital bed,” Brock stated in a low, frighteningly controlled voice. “With three babies. And now, in order to protect your own ego, you wish to distort the past? That won’t work.
After leaving that station, we didn’t turn around. We chose to keep his return a secret from Zelle, Sly, and Bex. They are now energetic teenagers with their own lives. Bex serves as the trio’s emotional glue, always the first to give a hug; Zelle is an artist who adds color to her walls; and Sly is a comedian who can make me laugh even in my worst moments. They are aware that Gale departed voluntarily, but they also see the signs of a man who genuinely loves his family.
Brock supplied the life, while Gale supplied the DNA. Ultimately, I came to understand that Gale’s stillness in that hospital room was a clearing rather than a conclusion. The appropriate individual has to have the room to fill it and create something far more exquisite than I could have ever dreamed. The cosmos creating space for a larger truth can sometimes be the harshest betrayal.
