Creators(23)

“She’s… Sharon’s having the baby.”

My stomach dropped. “What…what does she need me for?”

“I don’t know. She just keeps asking for you. She’s going crazy about it. Melinda begs her to breathe and push, but she won’t. She says she needs you.”

I looked back at my sister who, somehow, managed to remain asleep despite Lockwood’s dramatic entrance. She had been sleeping more and more lately. In fact, her health seemed to be getting worse as the days went on. Her skin had turned an alarming shade of gray. Her hair was always matted to her forehead and cheeks with sweat. She was too weak to even sit up. Sharon had tried to tell me that for some women, especially frail ones like Louisa, pregnancy was harder than usual. My little sister had always been sickly, an affliction that seemed to affect most of the last natural-born children, but this was different. Every time I looked at her, all I could see was Emma writhing and crying out.

But I wouldn’t abandon her. Not again.

“Don’t worry. I’ll watch after her,” Lockwood promised.

I hesitated. I hated leaving her. Once my livestock shift was done, I always came straight to the infirmary and sat with her. Louisa still didn’t speak much, but I could tell by the way her eyes lit up when I entered the room that she was just as happy as I was to spend time together.

“Okay. I’ll go,” I said hesitantly, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach. “But you have to promise me. The second she shows any sign of…well, anything that doesn’t seem right—”

“I’ll come get you. I swear it,” he interrupted, knowing the dark places my mind wandered to. Most likely because when it came to Louisa, his mind wandered there, too.

Lockwood was the only person who spent as much time with Louisa as I did. Even her own father failed to show up much. He came by now and then, popping his head in and asking how she was. All we could ever tell him was that she was the same. My father usually appeared satisfied with this brief assessment. I knew he was busy, but that didn’t mean being with us wasn’t important as well. I thought of how hard it was for him to look at her. I understood his fear, but wasn’t he supposed to be a fearless leader? How brave could he really be?

Lockwood, on the other hand, was forever by Louisa’s side. The more time he spent with her, the more she seemed comforted by his presence. I even heard her ask him to bring another book last week. He had chosen Vanity Fair. I liked that maybe she could find a friend in this place. Perhaps, if she survived, she could think of the community as home. Lockwood wanted that as much as I did, and I was eternally grateful to have found such a great ally. Besides, if she lived through the childbirth then it meant she was like me, immune to the illness that killed so many mothers, and the community would beg her to stay.

I ran to Sharon’s room as quickly as I could. Unlike back in the compound where women were brought to a special room to give birth, surrounded by medical instruments that couldn’t save them, the women of the community did not find it strange to attempt giving birth right in the comfort of their own home. I thought the whole process rather primitive considering the dirt and dust that covered each room no matter how hard one cleaned, but Sharon had given birth to five children successfully, so who was I to judge?

I heard her screams before I could even open the door. It seemed like I couldn’t go a day without being reminded of what I’d lost when Emma went away. It was painful enough having to look at Louisa, but hearing Sharon’s screams caused a sensory overload.

My hand shook as it reached for the doorknob. I took a few deep breaths to try and steady my nerves. Sharon went out of her way to check in on my sister every day, so I owed her this. I owed her for other reasons as well. She had given me so much, despite the way I had judged her during my early days in the community. Back then, I thought her simpleminded, nothing but a mule with no other purpose than to bring babies into the world. But she was so much more. She was the mother I never had and always wanted.

As I pushed the door open, Sharon’s screams stopped. She lifted her head from the cot where she lay sweating. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she managed between uneven, labored breaths.

Melinda, the other woman who had assisted her the day Al and his men were shot, stood at the foot of her bed. Two of Sharon’s eldest daughters huddled in the corner, one holding a basin of water.

“I came as fast as I could,” I explained, slightly embarrassed by how shaky my voice sounded.

Sharon, whose hands gripped onto the sweaty and bloody sheet beneath her, unclenched her fist and reached out a hand toward me. “I was waiting and waiting. I needed you to see this.”