Work Text:
It all started on October 1st, 1999.
Everyone was ten when they got their names. Mom had picked them out, most of them, at least. Some of the women had named their babies as they passed them into the hands of Reginald Hargreeves.
On the 1st of October, 1989, a sixteen year old girl cried, choked off, as she handed a rich white man her tiny son on the porch of her already overcrowded home. She was thin, thinner than she should be, and she didn't want her baby to ever be hungry, to ever have to listen to gunshots or dog fights or live in fear of the police. In a wretched voice, “Su nombre es Diego.” The woman she handed him to gave a brief nod, and put him into a stroller labelled ‘two’.
On the 1st of October, 1989, a thirty three year old chef gave birth to a perfectly normal baby. She was always alone in her greyscale apartment, and her nights were filled with spice and sweat and friendly cursing, but the baby felt like a miracle. She knew she could be a great mother if she got the chance, and this was that chance. She took him home that very night, nestled him into a pile of pillows. He was chubby, with cheeks like steamed bao, and he wouldn't stop squirming, and her heart was so full. She named him Ben, after the kind sous chef at the first kitchen she worked at.
Reginald Hargreeves had found the boy a week later, in a downtown orphanage. The staff said his mother had died of a blood clot in her femoral artery, a standard, but sad method of death by maternity. Despite how unusual the birth had been, Ben’s mother died from perfectly natural causes. He was found in her arms, hours later, by a neighbour that heard a crying baby. Money passed under the table, and soon, Ben was just a name on the lips of a dead woman he never got to know.
Grace named all the others, however. Luther for Number One, already so strong and vigilant. Allison for Number Three, she thought, the girl deserved something regal and sophisticated. Number Four was Klaus, something both violent and comforting about the hard consonant followed by a soft ‘ow’ sound. Grace quietly thought that was very fitting.
Vanya received her name in secret. After Mom had went down the line, bestowing names like jewels, Reginald had left after Number Six.
The children still stood in a line, knowing better than to disband before given proper permission. Grace let out a sigh like the air in the room had just been unfrozen, and in a way, it had.
“And last but not least, Number Seven, you will be called Vanya. It means strong, alright darling?” She stood and smiled, her eyes still vaguely distant, as though she hadn't just given Seve-- Vanya the gift of inclusion she’d been hoping for her whole life.
No one spoke up. They all loved mom, and if she said Seven deserved a name, then she did.
Five did not get a name on October 1st, 1999. This was because he already had one.
When he was six years old, Number Four had walked into his room without knocking.
“Hi Four,” said Five, because Mom had said to be polite. Four didn't say hi back.
“There’s a lady who wants me to tell you something.”
“Four, why would a ghost wanna tell me something?”
“I dunno, but she says it’s real important.”
Four was swaying now, from his heels to the balls of his feet and back again.
“Fine, what is it?”
“She says,” a slight pause as Four listens to a voice Five can’t hear. “She says that she is your mother,” Five sat bolt upright, “and that she has your name.”
“Four is it her? For real?”
“She looks a lot like you,” Four said, “and she’s really stubborn, like you.”
Five took a deep breath. “Okay.”
“She says your name is Feivel, but you can go by Five if you want. She says it means ‘smart’, but like, really smart.”
Five sank to the floor. “Okay. Okay Four.”
“There’s one more thing though.” Five looks up, and Four is biting his lip with the his one rabitty tooth that hasn’t fallen out yet. He’s nervous.
“She says ‘ikh libe ir azoy azoy fil’, and that you need someone to teach you how to speak up.”
Five lets out a small laugh that is far too dry for how old he is.
“Thanks Four.”
“Welcome Feivel.”
Grace knew, in the same way that moms know about nearly everything, and just rustled his hair and told him to run along on naming day. She told Reginald that dear Five was under the weather, he let out an angry huff but continued with his notes.
Grace left the gift of an English to Yiddish dictionary on the end of Five’s bed that night instead of the gift of a name. She knew that he already had the name he needed, and she was happy to give to her son in whatever way she could.