Turn 155 of 228

Talk to Marcus about the triplets' development and what it means for their family

Marcus is awake at two in the morning. The warehouse is dark except for the blue glow of his laptop screen, the game paused, the speakers silent. He sits in the reinforced chair Carl welded from steel tubing — the only chair in the building that holds him. Seven hundred and sixty pounds of naked flesh, the yellow nails resting on the keyboard, the beard thick and matted, the body hair catching the screen light. The triplets are asleep on Lena's belly, the three small bodies rising and falling with her breath. Lena is awake. The hum is quiet tonight — three heartbeats, slow, warm.

"Marcus."

He turns. The chair groans. The face in the blue light is the face she married — the face that was there before the wish, before the weight, before the warehouse. Just bigger. Just more.

"You're awake," he says.

"I'm always awake at two now," Lena says. "The body doesn't sleep the way it used to. It rests but it doesn't shut off. Like it's growing even when it's still."

Marcus closes the laptop. The blue light dies. The warehouse is dark except for the security light from the bay window, the orange streetlight falling across the concrete. He looks at the triplets on her belly. June on the left, curled. Iris in the center, face down. Mae on the right, the fist closed even in sleep, the fingers gripping Lena's body hair.

"They're not normal," he says. The voice is quiet. Not worried. Not sad. Just the voice of someone stating what is true.

"No," Lena says.

"June stood alone today. Three months old. She stood on the concrete and she grinned and she sat down on purpose. Iris said 'big mama' and meant it — she wasn't repeating a sound, she was describing you. Mae ate four fistfuls of sweet potato and screamed for more. They're hitting six-month milestones. Nine-month milestones. Fourteen-month milestones. Billy Jo is documenting all of it."

"I know," Marcus says. "I've read the sections."

He's quiet. The yellow nails on the armrest. The security light on the stretch marks. Then:

"What does it mean for us?"

Lena shifts. The belly moves. The triplets shift with it, the small bodies adjusting without waking, the instinct to stay on the warm surface even in sleep. The hum is steady.

"It means they're going to keep growing," Lena says. "It means they're going to be bigger than other kids. Older than their age. Smarter than the charts. It means June is going to climb everything and Iris is going to watch everything and Mae is going to eat everything and none of them are going to fit in a school desk or a car seat or a normal house."

"Like their mother," Marcus says.

"Like their mother," Lena says.

Marcus is quiet again. The beard. The yellow nails. The 760 pounds in the steel chair. Then he stands. The chair groans with relief. He walks to Lena — barefoot, the yellow toenails on the concrete, the 760 pounds shaking the floor — and sits beside her on the concrete. His hand finds hers. The yellow nails interlace. The stretch marks catch the streetlight.

"I built a life around fitting into things," he says. "Desks. Cars. Apartments. Then I met you and you stopped fitting and I watched you stop fitting and I thought — I thought I'd be scared. I thought I'd leave. I didn't leave. I got bigger instead. I got fatter. I stopped wearing clothes. I stopped showering. I grew the nails and the beard and the body hair and I did it because you were doing it and being near you made me need to do it."

"The proximity effect," Lena says. "Billy Jo's data."

"I don't care what Billy Jo calls it," Marcus says. "I cared about you. I wanted to be where you were. Where you were was comfortable. So I got comfortable. And now we have three daughters who are going to be comfortable too. And comfortable for them is going to mean standing at three months and talking at six weeks and being bigger than every kid in every room. And I'm not scared of that. I'm scared of the world that's going to look at them and see something wrong."

Lena turns her head. The twelve-foot body on the concrete. The triplets on her belly. The yellow nails in Marcus's yellow nails.

"The world looked at me and saw something wrong," Lena says. "For twenty-four years. And then I wished for comfort and the wish didn't care what the world saw."

"I know," Marcus says. "That's what I'm afraid of. The wish doesn't care. The wish just keeps going. And they're — they're babies, Lena. They didn't wish for anything."

The hum shifts. Not louder. Not faster. Just — aware. Like the hum heard him. Like the hum is three heartbeats and the heartbeats heard their father say they didn't ask for this. The triplets stir. Mae's fist tightens on the body hair. June curls tighter. Iris turns her face into the warmth of Lena's belly.

"No," Lena says. "They didn't. But they're comfortable. You can feel it. They're warm and they're growing and they're becoming who they are and they're not afraid. June isn't afraid when she lets go of the shelf. Iris isn't afraid when she looks up at me. Mae isn't afraid when she screams for more. They're the most comfortable people in this building."

Marcus doesn't speak. The hand tightens. The yellow nails. The warehouse is quiet. The hum is three heartbeats and the heartbeats are steady and the heartbeats are not afraid.

"I'm going to learn everything I can about accelerated development," Marcus says. "I'm going to read every paper Billy Jo writes. I'm going to build whatever they need — furniture, equipment, whatever. If June is going to climb, I'll build things that hold her. If Iris is going to watch, I'll make sure she sees everything. If Mae is going to eat, I'll make sure there's always food."

"You're going to be a good father," Lena says.

"I'm going to be a fat, naked, unwashed father with yellow nails who lives in a warehouse with a twelve-foot wife and three superhuman daughters," Marcus says. "But yeah. I'm going to be good at it."

Lena almost laughs. The belly moves. The triplets shift. The hum is warm. The hum is patient. The hum is family.