But Cecily is so small in a bloody sea of tubes and machines and white rubber gloves. She’s gasping and moaning, and suddenly I’m terrified she’s going to die.
“I can’t,” I say.
“I’ll look out for her,” Jenna says. “I’ll make sure nothing happens.”
I know she would. I trust her. But she doesn’t know the story about Rose’s baby, how Rose gave birth with no one but Vaughn to take care of her, and the awful thing he did when she was too sedated to stop him. He did something similar to me, after the hurricane. He’s most dangerous when Linden’s wives are unable to fight back.
And I will not leave this room while his gloved hands are lifting up Cecily’s nightgown.
Something else keeps me frozen to that spot too. Cecily has become a sister to me, and I feel it’s my place to protect her just as my brother and I protected each other.
It goes on for what feels like hours. Sometimes Cecily is screaming and thrashing her legs, and other times she drifts in and out of sleep, or chews on ice chips that Elle feeds her from a paper cup. Once she asks me to tell her a story about the twins. I’d rather not share my life stories with a room full of attendants and Linden and Vaughn, so I tell her one of my mother’s stories instead, and I embellish to make up for the details I don’t know. I tell her about a neighborhood where everyone flew kites.
They had hang gliders, too, which were giant kites that people could ride. The riders would stand somewhere high, like on a bridge or at the top of a very tall building. Then they would jump, and their hang glider would catch the wind. They would fly. Cecily sighs dreamily and says, “That sounds like magic.”
“It was,” I say. And on top of everything else now, I miss my mother. She would know what to do; so many babies were born on her watch. Young, expectant mothers would donate their children to research labs; in exchange they were given prenatal care, a few warm months off the street. And my mother was always so careful with the newborns. All she wanted to do was find an antidote so that the new generations would be able to live full and normal lives. When I was little, I believed she and my father would do it, but when they were killed in that explosion, Rowan said it was pointless. He said there was no saving this miserable world at all, and I believed him. And now I’m about to witness the birth of a new generation firsthand, and I don’t know what I believe. I just know I want it to be alive.
Cecily’s body is seized by another contraction, and her back arches off of the mattress. I’m holding one hand and Linden is holding the other, and for a strange moment I feel almost like she’s our child. All through my kite story, I noticed him looking at me in gratitude. Now she makes a terrible shrieking, whimpering sound. Her lip quivers. Linden tries to soothe her, but she jerks her face from his kisses, gurgles and screams in response to our cooing voices. I feel tears brimming in my own eyes, as I watch the tears stream down her face, and finally I snap at Vaughn, “Can’t you do something more for her pain?”
Genius that he is, expert on the human form, aspiring bearer of the world-saving antidote.
His eyes meet mine with neutrality. “No need.”
The attendants are putting Cecily’s legs up on a pair of strange platforms that look like bicycle pedals. I think they call them stirrups. Vaughn leans close and kisses Cecily’s sweaty forehead and says, “It’s almost done, darling. You’re doing wonderfully.” She smiles wearily.
Jenna sits on the divan in the corner, looking pale herself. A little while ago she braided Cecily’s sweaty hair back for her, but she hasn’t spoken much since then. I want to go and sit with her, to comfort her and be comforted by her, but Cecily won’t release her death grip on me. And soon, too soon, Vaughn is telling her to push.
To her credit she has stopped moaning about the pain.
She sits upright, propped against the headboard, and a new determination washes over her face. She’s ready.
She’s going to assume control.
When she pushes, the veins in her neck bulge. Her skin is sunburn pink. She grits her teeth and clamps Linden’s and my hand. A long, strained whimper gets trapped in her throat and escapes as a spluttering gasp.
This happens once, then again, then again, with a few seconds between for her to catch her breath. She’s getting frustrated, and Vaughn tells her this next time will be the last time.
It turns out he’s right. She pushes, and there’s a horrible bloody sound as the baby comes out of her. But worse than that is the silence that follows.
Chapter 20
We wait, and we wait. I want to look away, and I think Linden does too, as this white infant is held up by one of the attendants, bloody and still, but we’re frozen.
All of us are frozen. Jenna on the divan. Cecily clinging to our hands. The attendants like sleeping cattle.
I barely have time to form the thought that Vaughn will let this baby die like his last grandchild, before he goes into action. He takes his new grandchild and sticks some kind of turkey-baster device into its mouth, and in a second the room is filled with a shrill cry, and the baby’s limbs begin to thrash. Cecily deflates.
“Congratulations,” Vaughn says, holding the writhing child up in his gloved hands. “You have a son.”
All at once the room is filled with commotion and noise. The baby, still crying, is taken away to be cleaned and inspected. Linden holds Cecily’s face close to his, and they’re talking to each other in fast, hushed voices and kissing between the words.
I fall beside Jenna on the divan, and we put an arm around each other. I whisper, “Thank goodness that’s over.”
“Maybe not,” Jenna says.
We watch as the attendants tend to Cecily, who has delivered the placenta, who is still bleeding, who is still too pale for comfort. She is transferred onto a gurney, and I am immediately at her side. This time I’m the one clinging to her hand, and I say, “I’ll go with her.”
“Go?” Vaughn laughs. “No, she’s not going anywhere.
We just need to get this mess cleaned up.”
Already there are attendants stripping the bed of its sheets. Vaughn oversees this and says, “No, this is no good. The whole mattress is ruined.”
“Where’s my baby?” Cecily whispers. Her eyes are glassy and distant. Tears and sweat roll down her face.
Her breaths rattle in her chest.
“We’ll see him soon, love,” Linden says, and kisses her.
For the moment she looks nothing like a child. If I didn’t know either of them, I would almost believe that they were a normal mother and father in a normal hospital under normal circumstances.
But of course, there’s no such thing as normal anymore. Any chance of normal was destroyed long ago, like a research lab with my parents inside.
Cecily looks so weak and exhausted, her face drained of color, and other worries start to take over. What if she loses too much blood? What if there’s an infection? What if giving birth was too traumatic for her small frame and there are complications? I wish Vaughn would take her to a hospital, even if it had to be the hospital he owns in the city. Someplace well lit, and full of other doctors.
I don’t say any of this out loud. I know it would be futile. Vaughn never lets us leave, and suggesting it might even scare Cecily. I brush the hair from her sweaty face, and instead I say, “You should rest now; you’ve really earned it.”
“You’ve earned it, love,” Linden echoes, and kisses her hand and presses it to his cheek. There’s an almost smile on her lips as she fades into unconsciousness.
That night Cecily sleeps deeply and without snoring.
Thinking of my encounter with Vaughn after the hurricane, when I was too weak to defend myself, I check in on her periodically. She barely moves, and I’m relieved to see that Linden is faithfully at her side.
Jenna goes to bed even before dinner is served. But Vaughn is constantly arriving at our floor with excuses to check on the mother of his new grandchild. And it’s abundantly clear that I won’t be able to make it to the basement for a while. It’s too risky, and I’ve only just been given this key card. I don’t want to have it confiscated. I try to console myself with thoughts that Gabriel’s okay.
After all, he was able to get that June Bean to me. Maybe Vaughn knows nothing about that kiss. Maybe Gabriel has only been assigned to clean medical equipment or mop the floors. But still the thought of him alone in that windowless basement sets my stomach in flip-flops. And on top of that, I haven’t seen the baby since it was carted away. And every time I hear Vaughn’s insipid voice outside my bedroom, I think he’s going to say that it didn’t survive.
Gabriel, please look after the baby if you see it down there, okay?
Sometime after midnight, while I’m watching the snow and nursing a cup of Earl Grey, Linden comes into my bedroom. His eyes and cheeks are all lit up, and he’s grinning wildly. “I’ve just been to see him,” he says. “My son. He’s beautiful. He’s strong and he’s healthy.”
“I’m so happy for you, Linden,” I say. And I mean it.
“How are you?” he says, pulling the ottoman near me and taking a seat. “Have you had enough to eat? Do you need anything—anything at all?”
He’s over the stars right now, and I admit it makes me feel a little better. Like everything is really going to be okay.
I smile and shake my head, look out the window. “Full moon,” I say.
“Must be a sign of good luck.” He reaches out and touches a lock of my hair. Then he gets on the ledge beside me, and I curl my knees to my chest to make room for him. He smiles at me, and I sense him advancing.
Gently he moves my legs from between us, and my feet land on the ground, and he tilts my chin and kisses me.
I allow it, because I’m first wife—the key card makes it as official as it could get—and because I promised him I’d be a better wife, and it would make him suspicious if I pushed him away. And because, truthfully, it isn’t the worst thing in the world to kiss Linden Ashby.
The kiss lingers for a while, and then I feel his fingers starting to unbutton my nightgown, and I draw back.
“What is it?” he asks, his voice as hazy as his eyes.
“Linden,” I say, blushing, fixing the one button he’d managed to free. I can’t think of a suitable explanation, so I look at the moon.
“Is it because the door is open?” he asks. “I’ll close it.”
“No,” I say. “It’s not the door.”
“Then, what?” He tilts my chin again, and hesitantly I bring my eyes to him. “I love you,” he says. “I want to have a baby with you.”
