âMom, thereâs someone under the bed.â You bend down and see your son there instead and he whispers âMom thatâs not me up there!â You take a step back when someone tugs your shirt. You turn, your son is in the closet asking âwho are they?â You suddenly hear him calling from downstairs âMommy?â
You sigh, raising your voice so that all of your sons can hear you. âAll right, everyone into the kitchen. Now.â Hearing a shuffle in the attic, you add, âYes, Duncan, that includes you.â
You donât see any movement as you go down the stairs, but youâre used to that. You know theyâll all be there by the time you walk through the kitchen door.
As usual, your children have all fitted themselves into the kitchen. The dimensions of the room are a little wobbly with so many of them present, but youâve long ago learned to ignore how the laws of physics only occasionally apply to them. A host of little faces look up at you anxiously, and you smile gently.
âItâs okay, none of you are in trouble,â you reassure them. They relax - and how astonishing is it, that they trust you so much? Youâre so proud of their progress.
One, however, still looks nervous. You beckon him forward, and he comes reluctantly, shoved by his identical older brothers.
âAre you new?â you ask carefully.
He nods, and you drop to one knee. âItâs okay, sweetie,â you tell him firmly. âI love all of my sons, even ones I havenât met before. Ask your brothers, theyâll tell you.â
ââm here because I heard you were nice,â he says in a tiny voice.
You open your arms, offering a hug but waiting to let him decide whether he wants one. This child must have seen hugs before, because he flings himself into your arms and starts crying. Thatâs good. Some of your sons are traumatised from what theyâve seen, knowing more slaps than kisses.
Eventually, the sobs dry up, your other kids patiently waiting for your attention again. âWhy do we look like this?â he asks, curious.
âBecause this is what the first of you looked like - Wilson, where are you?â
A hand raises from the crowd and waves energetically.
âWilson took on my sonâs form to play Child or Double. Calling from downstairs when my son was in bed, getting tucked in when the child I bore was playing out in the garden. Once I figured it out, I hugged him and told him that as far as I was concerned, I now had twins. It took him some time before he believed me.â
Wilson shrugs unrepentantly.
âWhen my son died, Wilson stayed. It helped, having one of my sons with me while I grieved. Then another of you began to turn up, and I had twins again. Then more. Until now, when I have more of you than will technically fit in my kitchen.â You give your sons a look of motherly disapproval, but they only giggle. They know you donât mind.
âItâs not like you need to feed us!â calls out one of your bolder sons. Eric, probably. Your newest, unnamed child looks up hesitantly, then steps out of your arms to join his brothers. Lucas might be a nice name, you think idly. You donât have a Lucas yet.
âThat does help,â you admit. You put steel into your next words. âHowever, there are Rules in this house, and one of them is no messing around at bedtime. I know that bedtime is a traditional time for the Child or Double game, but four of you is pushing it.â
Youâd say more, but thereâs a knock at your back door. You turn to answer it, knowing that your sons will have evaporated before your fingers grasp the handle, and brace against the cold night air as you pull the door open.
Two identical little girls stand there. One has a bruise on her cheek, and has clearly been crying recently. The other - the other is a Doubler, just like your sons. After this long, you can tell the difference.
âPlease,â the Doubler says, and her voice trembles on the word. âPlease. She needs somewhere to stay.â
Part of you is shocked, already looking ahead to the potential legal issues. The rest of you is all mother, and you whisk her into the nice warm kitchen and get her a glass of water.
Your sonâs bed will be occupied by someone else tonight. You think heâd have been okay with that.
