hey huddle together, like a wilted bouquet of ebony flowers. Two brothers sweating in black wrinkled t-shirts, three sisters in hand-sewn black summer dresses with sandals much too white for the mud that lines the river bank. Guarded by a forest of oak and maple trees, the narrow river winds a sheltered course through the foothills. The unforgiving sun radiates the kind of slippery heat that is best kept behind closed bedroom doors after sex.

As the children wait for Mother to begin the ceremony, the river churns urgently. Uncle Cecil, as he calls himself, stands next to Mother, slapping away the mosquitoes, the edges of his lips drooping with sadness. If the children were a few years older perhaps they might insinuate that Uncle Cecil is intimate with Mother; he lingers on the "s" sound when he says her name, Stephanie, as his mournful blue eyes follow the sway of her narrow hips. Of course they would be wrong, other than a one-sided yearning on his part because Mother has had only one lover. Him. The man whose name should have been placed on their birth certificates, on the line marked father - instead of the word "unknown." None of them know that mother doesn't dare take another man or woman into her bed, because she loves their father and, also, because their father never truly let her go.

Stephanie awakens from her dream drenched, with her blond hair sticking to her slender neck. Her long legs ache, stiff from curling on the sofa. The air smells salty, of sweat and something more, sour milk perhaps, although she can't be certain. Although the mountain range and hundreds of miles separate her from the coast, some days the sound of the waves seems closer.

One of the babies gurgles in her sleep, as if she is gargling fluid, and Stephanie shudders before closing the window.

She turns on the television. On the news there is a story about a mother who used her nine-year-old daughter as an accomplice in shoplifting. A fuzzy clip from the security camera shows the mother scrambling away in her blue Chevy while the girl is left behind and captured. The segment cuts to an anchorman with perfect hair and whitened teeth, grimly proclaiming, "It has been nearly a week and no one has come forward to claim the girl."

Stephanie feels a strange sympathy for the mother. Maybe she forgot her. She understands that there are excuses for why someone would give up a child. Lack of money or food. Youth. Substance abuse. The father disappeared. After all, these excuses floated to the top of any conversation about her birth mother, wherever she may be.

No mother possesses the ability to protect children from the uncontrollable ebb and flow of events: nuclear war, abductions, car crashes, falling from heights, incurable illness, random terrorist attacks, drowning, a parent's demise, or destiny. Motherhood is a river and Stephanie can't swim.

"Something that completely belongs to me," she had said the day she gave birth to quintuplets, struggling to juggle their heaviness when they were each placed into her arms. "It's what I always wanted," she said during their extended stay in the neonatal intensive care unit. Then she forced herself to repeat it until she believed it.

A soft cough interrupts, penetrating the quiet. Anxiously, she looks over her shoulder. Four tiny bodies curl together on her bed. She propped kitchen chairs against the sides of the mattress to keep them from rolling off. The fifth baby sleeps in the laundry basket, which she lined with towels. Stephanie walks over to the bed, unfastens the tabs to check a diaper for wetness, and tucks a blanket beneath chubby knees. She envies the smooth hairlessness of a baby's skin. If it were possible to hang by her ponytail and dip herself in wax to remove of all her body hair, she'd do it.

Wipe, tuck, feed. None of the motions quench her thirst to return to the days before all of this responsibility, before all of this overwhelming fear. However, she isn't privy to drink from the river of forgetfulness, and her mind will be cleared only in death. Or so she prays.

"One day he will come," she whispers, bone tired. "How do I keep them safe?"

Just feeding them guarantees enough stress. She swipes groceries from the Stop 'N' Shop where Uncle Cecil works, smiling sweetly while he rings up just a gallon of milk, pretending not to notice the diapers, the apple juice or the loaf of bread while ogling down the front of her blouse, which she deliberately unbuttons. She doesn't consider herself a thief, just a woman taking what she needs to get by. Like the welfare checks or the clothing from the Salvation Army. She rejects most freebies from big corporations offered in exchange for promotions involving the children. Publicity scares her. Too many people start knowing your name, taking away your privacy. She prefers not to share her children. What the hell is she going to do with five tricycles on a dirt road, anyway? She sold them, of course.

When the babies settle, she turns to a page in her journal, skimming through the information collected during her pregnancy. Her favorites are trivial tidbits that reassure her when she feels inadequate. She reads one aloud, "Nurse sharks ignore their babies who must fend for themselves the second they are born."

Outside it begins to rain. The wind chime hanging from the curtain rod pings to the rhythm of the drops while the glass seahorses swim erratic circles in the air, knocking their tails together.

Inevitably, when she settles back on the sofa, her hand finds its place between her legs, seeking comfort in the wetness. "It's just water," she murmurs, listening to the wind mimic the breaking of waves against the shutters, until her mind forgets where she is, she is gone, gone, and then her body stiffens and releases, allowing her to drift back to sleep.

She doesn't get far before he pulls her out from the water. As his wet finger traces the trident-shaped scar branded on her cheek, a marking mirroring the pitchfork that he carries, he gazes at her as if he could wash her face clean of pain. His kisses whisper tales of mermaids and sirens while professing his love.

"I will come for them," he murmurs afterwards, gripping her arm. His fingers feel icy against her burn, and for an instant she is a terrified fish struggling to break free.

"For what? Come for what?" she cries.

He doesn't answer, diving headfirst into the surf, vanishing.

Shivering, she clenches her cotton shirt that sticks to her skin, searching for a glow of aquamarine, a fin cutting through the surface, a head of black curls, but finds nothing. Only the crackle of thunder and a persistent tug against her ankles which coaxes her towards the water.

It is the day before their fourth birthday. Somehow, in the middle of the night, the girls had snuck into the bathroom, filling the tub with frigid water. When Stephanie stumbles into the bathroom, half-asleep, to empty her bladder, she discovers two of them floating face first, with the third on her back, eyes closed and her hair fanning out like seaweed.

Stephanie's eyes grow wide, yanking the dripping forms onto the bath mat, wrapping their slippery skin with a towel. Her screams summon Uncle Cecil from the trailer next door. By the time he arrives, in a pair of ripped boxers, waving a serrated knife around, the girls are bawling, bewildered and clinging together. Their lips and feet look purple-blue and frigid to the touch, but that's nothing new. They have been that way since they were born and four layers of socks or gloves won't remove the chill.

The boys whine from their bed, "Thirsty, thirsty."

Uncle Cecil shakes his head without asking questions. No matter what occurs, he never asks. Not the day Stephanie asked him to get a suture kit from his sister who worked as a nurse over at County hospital. Obediently he soaked a towel in brandy, holding it to the boys' mouths to suck on it until they fell asleep, keeping silent while Stephanie had stitched the tiny slits on each side of the boys' necks. Saying nothing when he noticed how those slits opened up again two days later, like winking eyes. Stephanie appreciates his quiet ways. She also relishes the way he shyly hides his eyes behind thick glasses, and keeps his hair so long it hangs across his cheeks.

It isn't long before the boys return to sleep. One curls at the foot of the bed, a ring of matchbox cars occupying his pillow. The second boy sprawls with one hand meshed in his shoulder-length hair, the other resting against his nose as if he fell back asleep in mid-pick.

The girls continue to whisper among themselves after climbing into the bed, threading their ice-cold fingers into each others' long black braids.

It's another thing that is coming between Stephanie and the kids. Their talk of "I'm a fish," and, "breath under da wawa. Yep I can." Or the way they tangle up in each others' arms yet stiffen when she tries to cuddle them.

Sometimes she wants it to stop.

The following afternoon, Uncle Cecil brings a gift. With serious faces, the children tap the edge of the plastic bag as the five orange goldfish dart back and forth among the strings of floating fish shit. When they pour the fish into the new plastic bowl, their solemn expressions remain unchanged. Only their eyes light up with excitement, ten sparkling pools of cerulean. It is the closest they have ever come to expressing joy, and for that Stephanie feels grateful. So when Uncle Cecil offers her a beer and invites her outside the trailer to watch the setting sun, she accepts.

Stephanie doesn't usually talk about the kids' father. Bits of him and the one night she spent with him belong to each child. After that, there isn't much remaining to share.

Tonight, giddy from the beer, she feels the urge to talk. Standing on tiptoe she whispers her secret to Uncle Cecil, "I stole them away from him. I've been hiding ever since."

When she glances back at Uncle Cecil he wears a faraway expression that transforms the softness of his jaw line into a featureless pose like the statues whose faces are immortalized while the fine details are lost in the smoothness of the marble.

A heavy crash emerges from inside the trailer followed by the wail of high-pitched voices. Stephanie shrugs, hands her beer to Uncle Cecil and steps inside.

Pieces of the image fall into place. A puddle dribbles across the linoleum and into the faded beige rug. The new plastic bowl rests upside down beneath a folding chair. Tiny fingers stroke something cupped in the palm. When the eldest girl leans over to nuzzle what she protects, Stephanie catches a glimpse of orange tail.

"You can't hug a fish," Stephanie's voice rings sharply.

When she squats down to console them, the children pull away with their arms rigid at their sides, stroking the lifeless fish in their palms. They stare at her with cold, cold eyes as she mops up the mess with a paper towel.

All that affection for some damn fish, thinks Stephanie.

She can't help but feel jealous.

The cloudless sky appears bluer than normal. Stephanie gathers her long hair, knotting it behind her head with a tortoise shell comb. She stares at the river flowing placidly through the hilly landscape. You can't protect something that can't be contained, that doesn't belong to you, she thinks, staring at a floating branch hurrying past. Swimming.

She begins the ceremony with, "We are gathered together today to say farewell."

With a flourish Stephanie lifts the plastic bag over her head and dumps the dead fish into the river. Five orange forms float along the surface.

Splash.

The eldest child jumps in with her arms extended as if to catch the fish between her palms. Like penguins diving from a glacier her two sisters follow, a flurry of lemmings falling, falling. Screaming, Stephanie plunges in after them. Uncle Cecil removes his shirt and follows. Stephanie sinks under, her breath sucked from her chest, bubbles streaming through her nose, chilling the insides of her gums, gulping a surprisingly silt-tasting mouthful. She kicks against a gleaming cloud of silence that cushions her, forcing her upward. Sputtering, she cuts through the surface, her dress billowing up above her waist, expanding into a floral mushroom. Instinctively her arms flail, thrashing to grab hold of someone.

Although the currents ripple in her ears, swallowing their voices, Stephanie sees her girls with their mouths open like hungry birds. They tread water although they have never been taught how to swim. Uncle Cecil paddles towards her, his head disappearing for a moment before resurfacing.

In a rush of movement a wave arches into the air; something heavy pushes out from below the surface. When it splashes against the boys' cheeks as they squat on the shore, their legs weaken. They too jump into the water.

Stephanie manages to grab the arm of her youngest boy who floats past her. When she draws him close, his feet flap at her stomach, wiggling to break free. She refuses to let go; his buoyancy keeps them from submerging.

A jolt surges through Stephanie, carrying with it the voices of her other children. To summon them Stephanie screams their names. Hysterical, she thinks about death and pain and, "How can I save them all?" A haunting sing-song floats up from the river that somehow eases her panic. The children sing a song about five rivers: Acheron, Lethe, Phlegethon, Styx and Cocytus. How the five rivers of sadness, hatred, fire, forgetfulness, and lamentation each branch out into separate tributaries, like the arms on a starfish, to assume their respected paths. Not all rivers lead into the ocean, sing the children, but some, if they are lucky, may find their way into a father's embrace.

"Stephanie!" shouts Uncle Cecil.

Contagious laughter jets through Stephanie, tickling her feet, and suddenly she is giddy with joy, lifted by her children's voices that hug her with their song. It makes no sense. As if possessed, Stephanie can't help but tilt her head to the sky, and unwillingly join in.

When Uncle Cecil grabs hold and heaves her towards the shore, still clutching her youngest boy, she welcomes the touch of his hands around her waist. With the water and the song washing over her, and Uncle Cecil's strong arms around her, Stephanie feels unafraid. Is it shock or only numbness? She presses herself close to his skin. For the first time in years she feels free of fear.

"Farewell, it's what you wished." Her childrens' laughter drifts further away as Uncle Cecil hoists them both to the bank. The weight of her youngest son drops to the ground at her feet.

Abruptly, the gurgle of the river swallows the sounds of the other children. Shivering, she turns to Uncle Cecil. His wet curls are slicked back against his head. Without thick glasses his face looks too familiar. Such cerulean eyes, they glow brighter than the sky.

"You?" Her tone mixes question with accusation. Slowly, she backs away from him.

With each drop of water rolling off her skin, an emotion infinitely worse than fear replaces the numbness: horror. She spins around, confused, scrutinizing her clothes the way someone re-counts money, suspecting something is wrong, suspicious of a mistake, unsure if she has been swindled. The perfume of wet wood overwhelms the air. Her face pales to a shade of gray as the realization sinks in. The wetness suddenly chills her deep. If she holds her breath she can hear the faint laughter.

And something more.

Her youngest son. She hears him swallowing air, as if it were water. Choking. Her legs weaken, and the ground appears to rise up to greet her as she folds to her knees. After crawling to him she blows three hard puffs of air into the boy's mouth. It makes it worse so she flips him over and pats his back, hoping to knock the water out of him.

"He can't breathe," says Uncle Cecil.

She thrusts her fingers into her son's mouth, searching in case something is blocking his airway. She pulls his tongue forward. Pats him again on the back.

"Release him to the water or he'll die." Uncle Cecil's voice is tender, gentle, and Stephanie wants to follow his advice, but something inside her fights him anyway.

"He can't breathe," says Uncle Cecil, more forcefully.

"Shut up! Shut up!" she shouts and drags the limp body of her son further away from the riverbank.

There's a chance. This one is still mine.

The boy's eyes are open but unblinking. His arms and legs flop limply at his side. Uncle Cecil tries to pry the boy away from her but Stephanie only hugs him tighter, vows never to let go. He grabs the boy's arm. Shoves her. Such icy fingers. She flattens herself on top of her son to keep him safe. Her heart pounds.

Uncle Cecil slams into her again. The pain rattles her teeth but she refuses to budge. She swats him away until Uncle Cecil bellows at her, "Release him, release him now!" a cry of pure terror, sheer anguish.

Is her boy saying something? She lifts her head up slightly. The unrelenting melody of the river buzzes in her ear. Uncle Cecil's roar blends with her sobs. She tunes out everything else around her, fixating on her boy's quivering mouth, the tiny gills on the side of his neck opening and closing, opening and closing, until all motion ceases. She hears only one final haunting sound escape from her throat.

Both mother and child are then enshrouded in a final blanket of stillness.