The Girl in the Mirror(66)

I’m almost startled to remember that Adam is Esther’s father and Tarquin is her brother. It feels as though she fell out of heaven, as though she is just herself, not related to us. She has green eyes and fine black hair, and she doesn’t look like anyone else in the family. I thought Adam would prefer sons, but the look on his face when he takes his daughter from my arms is pure joy.

“Watching you give birth was amazing,” he says. “You were so strong!”

I remember that Adam wasn’t allowed to be present for Tarquin’s delivery, which was an emergency cesarean section. After we dropped out of prenatal classes, Adam didn’t seem too interested in the upcoming birth, but now he can’t stop talking about it.

“Watching you bring our daughter into the world . . . I can see why people used to worship pregnant women. You were like one of those fertility goddesses!”

“What do you think, Tarq?” I ask. “Is Mu—am I a goddess?” I was going to say “Mummy” but I stumble over the word. Calling myself “Mummy” is one of the lies I’ve been telling.

And yet, I am a mother now. For the first time, I deserve the name. And I’m the only mother Tarquin knows. Telling the truth will rip that away from him.

Tarquin climbs onto my bed and nuzzles against my belly, murmuring, “Mama, Mama.” The labor must have made me crazy last night, to make me think he knew the truth. The kid adores me.

“What do you want first?” Adam asks. “Renovate or buy a new house? Build our dream home? Or we could buy a holiday home somewhere, or a new car each? I’m thinking a Ferrari convertible for you . . .”

“I like the house for now,” I say, “and I don’t really care about cars at the moment, but I do want to bring Bathsheba back to Australia. Let’s pay a crew to sail her home.”

“Is this the right time to do that? We have two kids now.”

“I’m not suggesting we move aboard,” I say. “I just want to know she’s nearby.”

“I’m surprised,” says Adam, “but I’ll think about it. In any case, this is the last thing we need to do to secure the inheritance.” He hands me a form. “We need to prove that the baby’s surname is Carmichael. Then Colton will have no choice but to sign everything over to us.”

I squint at Adam. “How do you feel about that? Our kids having different surnames? I know we have to do it, but it’s odd.”

Adam shrugs. “Let’s just get it over with,” he says. He hands me a pen. I take it in my right hand.

Summer Rose Romain, I scrawl. I’ve been practicing Summer’s childish loops for months, but this is the first time I’ve signed her name in front of someone. I’m so intent on getting it right that I sign first and then I read the form.

Adam has already filled in the baby’s name: Rosebud Carmichael.

“What is this?” I say. “Rosebud? Is this a joke?”

“What are you talking about?” says Adam. “We’ve been calling her Rosebud since the day we found out you were pregnant. It’s the name you always wanted for a girl.”

He skips over the whole losing-the-baby-in-the-middle-of-the-ocean thing. He’s clearly not ready to talk about that. Not with Tarquin in the room.

“I think you misunderstood,” I say. “People use a whimsical name for the fetus, but they don’t put it on the birth certificate. Frankly, Rosebud was a little nauseating even before she was born. It sounds kind of sexual, like a nipple.”

“Come on, Summer, we agreed on this ages ago,” says Adam, slipping the paper into his briefcase. “You get Carmichael, I get Rosebud.”

“What do you mean, I get Carmichael?”

Adam lays our daughter in her bassinet and picks Tarquin up. He looks ready to hightail it to the registry office. I’ve just about had enough of this husband-knows-best routine.

“I don’t care if her name is Carmichael!” I shriek. “We’re not naming her that for me! Give her whatever surname you want, but I’m not calling her Rosebud!” Tears fill my eyes. I have a sick feeling that if Adam leaves the room, I’ll have lost this argument. My daughter will be Rosebud Carmichael, like a little bud of Summer Rose.

“I suppose you want to call her Iris,” says Adam.

“No,” I say. “Iris hated her name.”

Adam slumps down in a chair and puts Tarquin down. Tarquin toddles over to the bassinet and gazes at his baby sister. “Baby’s out,” he says.

“Okay,” Adam says. “Fair enough. What do you want to call her?”

“Esther,” I say. “It feels right for her. No more flower names. Iris grew up never feeling good enough because her name was like an offshoot of mine, like she was an afterthought. And ‘Rosebud’ feels like that, too. This baby is new, she’s our chance for a fresh start.”

Adam studies the wall. My speech probably makes no sense to him. Are we going to have a standoff over this? And in the meantime, I suppose, we don’t get the money. Do I care?

At last Adam opens the briefcase and takes out the form. He tears the paper right down the middle.

“Esther Carmichael,” he says. “I like it. I’ll go and get a new form.”

He stands to leave, but before he reaches the doorway, he turns and walks back to me. He looms over the bed; his face is so near. The air is heavy with cinnamon and cloves.