The Five

There are few things one can always be sure of in life. Cornelia had always thought there were five in total, and spent six of her first ten years investigating and categorizing these sureties.

Birth was obvious. She had even watched the birth of her baby brother and sister, insisting to be part of the
process even at four. Both her mother, Trisha, and her father, Shep, were stunned at her seriousness at such an early age. Her father watched her face with a secret smile, insistent that she had a note pad in her head with which she recorded the event with absolute specificity, not neglecting a single detail as she stood beside her father who patiently held his wife's hand in the operating room. At the same time, she never neglected compassion for her mother, offering encouragement after every groan. The doctors, their mouths tight with tension and confusion, suggested, with as much civility as they could muster, that a birthing room was no place for a child of four. The nurses, with constant sideways glances toward Cornelia and her father, huffed regularly, trying as best they could to hide the rags with blood, and the surgical instruments, afraid to frighten the child with them. But Cornelia was not moved. And neither was her father. His pride at her genius, as he called it, kept him steady as he assured both doctor and nurse that his daughter was quite fine, and his wife was more than happy with this arrangement.

First one child. Excitement stretched and raised the corners of her mouth. Then two. The excitement now expanded her eyes until they were nearly as wide as her smile. Babies were not always born in twos, she calculated, since she had no brother and sister before hand, and some of the children in the play group she attended were, like her up till now, the only child in the family. But birth was a surety in life; she knew that with proof now.

Kurt was quiet and smiled early. Shep had picked out that name: Vonnegut had always been one of his favourite authors. Trisha had wanted to name her second daughter Mariah, but Shep wanted a literary name, so they chose Isak, from the pseudonym of the author of Trisha's favourite book, Out of Africa. Dinesen had been a pioneer, Trisha explained to Cornelia. But Isak never stopped crying. Until she went to the hospital one day. Then Trisha started and did not stop for almost a year.

And so death was a surety. The second she noted, then filed that thought where she would not look at it again. At least not until she was thirty and could handle it. Which led her to her third surety: pain could be ignored, but it never numbed enough to not exist.
Her fourth surety was that there was love. People didn't always love, but as long as there were people, there had to be love. Even through the year Trisha was crying, there were times Cornelia caught sight of her and Shep sharing secret, and sometimes not so secret, kisses. The secret ones lasted longer, and they held one another tighter. This drove the matter home for Cornelia, even when Trisha was distant toward her and Kurt.

Kurt cemented this idea of love more than ever. How, she would often wonder, can one love more than I love this little creature, my little brother? Every sign of his growth mesmerized her. His first smile, his first tooth, the first time he rolled over, down to his first word. Book. He did his father proud, and Shep locked himself in his study for the next five evenings, writing away, his muses wiggling and dancing on the carpet down the hall.

When she told her father of her fifth surety in life, he
sighed heavily, and she wondered how she had disappointed him. She had often heard mention of God, though hardly ever at home, and never from her father's lips. Shep was a careful atheist. He was so insistent in the non-existence of a higher power that he never even used the terms of higher powers casually, for fear that a slip of a tongue would lead his genius daughter down a path of confusion. When Trisha had let out 'for the love of God!'� while Shep was within hearing, there ensued a heated debate later, behind closed doors, of course, and Trisha emerged looking penitent. Cornelia kept this episode stored away, taking it out for observance whenever she was truly alone, for she had other, weightier evidence to compile with this instance to bring her to her conclusion.

There was Everet, one of Cornelia's friends from the play group she attended. Everet's mother held her son after disciplining him, and assured the child that God still loved him. The maternal voice sounded not only loving but confident. Cornelia cornered him beside the plastic white and orange stove in the play kitchen when no one was looking and asked him to explain this to her. Demanded, such as her questions were. Who was this God his mother spoke of?

'I don't know.'� Everet's dark brown eyes twitched nervously, never looking into hers and eyeing his favourite black and green transforming robot across the room. Someone else had hold of it, and he needed it back again. Needed it. And Cornelia is asking questions again. He liked when she just played robot wars. But he knew she never let him go until he either answered the question or their parents came to pull them apart. And he had already been in trouble once that day. 'He's'� just'� He's up there somewhere, I think.'� His finger, pointing to the ceiling and level with his shoulder, spoke as much confidence as his whispered voice. Then his thumb went timidly toward his chest. 'And in our hearts when we ask. But we have to ask.'�

'What do we ask?'� Everet's whispering had intrigued her thoroughly, and questions were pouring into her mind as quickly as her heart beat.

'I don't know, I guess we ask Him to live there,'� he answered, keeping one eye on the robot.

'Is he big? Is he bigger than me?'� Her tone was demanding once more.

'He's bigger than the universe,'� Everet replied as if the matter was obvious. He huffed sulkily. Was she going to ask all day, or would she let him play again? He eyed his mother surreptitiously, and saw her in conversation. It wouldn't be long before she came over to pull them apart. Especially with Cornelia breathing down his throat and cornering him further between the placard board and the play stove.

Cornelia stared down at where she thought her heart was in her chest. How would the whole universe fit in there? But God was an assurance, and she stored that as scientific fact. She let Everet go to play again as her mind spun around the thought, and wandered aimlessly through the play kitchen, staring absently at the girls making cakes around her, and even McCayla dragging the dolls from the oven to the sink to punish them yet again. Cornelia might not ask this question Everet suggested, but now that she was sure of God she had a few questions for Him.

Her father's disappointment stunned her, though. He had never shown her disappointment for one of her discoveries. He beamed with delight when she showed him that nine times five had to be forty-five, since four plus five equalled nine. And the 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1* in the eight times tables: he was ecstatic over that one. Genius. But now this. So she kept her new discovery silent. With her five assurances, she reasoned, she could navigate through life.

Each one had to be studied thoroughly, and that would occupy the time. She would be the first to research all five assurances together, she told herself. And that would keep her name in history. Perhaps she could write a great novel about them, like her father. She wondered, though, with his disapproval of her fifth assurance, if he would read such a novel. She would have to do her research well.

And research she did. She read through every entry in the encyclopaedia relating to one of the five subjects. With home schooling, Trisha and Shep taking turns to teach their children, she had plenty of time to do this research, and was encouraged to do so once her initial studies were completed for the day. It had been Trisha's idea to home school the children, since she could take them through the subjects much faster and give them the chance to excel; and Shep agreed whole-heartedly since he disagreed with the teachings and influence of the public school system.

So her studies took root, and she even began to take notes. She was almost horrified to discover that every single person on earth was alive because two people had sex. It was the first connection she made between two of the assurances. No one, she decided, would subject themselves to such an activity unless they truly loved the other person. When she showed this finding to her mother, Trisha first laughed, almost from thankfulness at not having to teach the birds and the bees to any of her children yet, then after a long sigh, she stared distantly.

'It's not always that the two people love each other.'� Trisha was a realist, and wanted to communicate that realism to her daughter.

'But you and Shep love each other, and you made me and Kurt.'�

Trisha smiled sadly. 'Yes, and that is the way it should be, but it is not always so.'�

'But why, Trisha?'� Cornelia asked, staring down at her notes.

'Perhaps because of your third assurance,'� Trisha answered, 'that pain is inevitable for existence.'� She looked over to her daughter, still eight, and shook her head. She had said too much. She forgot often that Cornelia was only a little girl. Perhaps because she allowed Cornelia to call her by her name instead of 'Mom'. And she was such a bright girl, it was difficult to remember that she was only eight and not nineteen or twenty. 'It's Kurt and me, not me and Kurt. You need to remember that. Shep would have a fit if he heard that.'� At least she could try to steer the conversation away. If it was possible.

'So not everyone is created from love, but most are right?'� Cornelia asked, tapping the eraser end of her pencil against the paper.

Since Cornelia looked as if she would erase whole sections of her notes again out of frustration, Trisha tried to form her words well. 'For the most part, that is true. It doesn't have to be an absolute maxim for there to be an obvious connection.'�

Cornelia smiled. 'Explain maxim to me once more.'� She flipped her pencil over to make another notation, then looked once more at her mother.

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