Rebecca Read online

  Crap. "Wait here." As she stood, blood rushed to her head and the room rocked around her. Why did it have to be so damned hot in here?

  She found some petroleum jelly in the bathroom and came back to find Rebecca completely hysterical, eyes pinched and face red, legs and arms flailing. She lubed up the thermometer, snatched her ankles again, and - as carefully as possible, considering her daughter's squirming - pressed the thermometer tip into her rectum.

  Rebecca's shrieks redoubled at this affront, taking on a tone, Sarah would swear, of indignation. Grimly, she held the thermometer in place until it beeped.

  The display said: 100.1.

  With a sudden sinking feeling, she realized she didn't know what that meant.

  It was high, she knew that much. But was it cause for worry? How high was too high? Was there a point that was dangerous?

  She felt an instant of absolute freefall. Emboldened by Rebecca's unceasing screams, panic gibbered at the back of her thoughts.

  She had no idea what she was doing. She was eighteen, for God's sake. She was supposed to be getting ready for school. The trip to Target had been fun, admiring her daughter's eyes had been very touch-feely, but she wasn't a mother. She was unqualified.

  What the hell was she doing? She was unqualified.

  Her mind scrabbled for something to grab hold of, anything, and found the memory of Tiff from the night before. "What are you gonna do?"

  It struck her like a slap. She'd find the answer like she found nearly everything for debate - by looking it up on the internet. Her laptop was useless (her mother refused to pay for internet access, calling it a "waste"), but her phone could still connect.

  The obviousness of this answer made her feel like an idiot. She stumbled to her feet, away from the screams, and grabbed her phone.

  100.1 wasn't dangerous, but it was close. The internet consensus said 100.4 required immediate medical attention for kids under three months. The younger the child, the worse the possible maladies for even small fevers: seizures, meningitis, and worse.

  She did her best to calm Rebecca down - tried again to feed her, swaddled her, walked with her - but each time her daughter fell asleep, she woke within twenty minutes. During one of these respites, Sarah checked the apartment again for any kind of children's medication, and came up empty.

  Just after sunset, she checked Rebecca's temperature again. The girl had stopped crying, and was staring blankly into space. The thermometer read 102.7.

  It was a mistake. The words swam into her mind from a forgotten dream, triggering some nameless terror. The heat in the apartment was smothering her, pounding in her temples. The old, familiar pain in her abdomen was stretching its limbs. Let your Father fix it.

  "Oh, god," she breathed. The panic she had forced down before leapt to its feet, snapping like a jackal. "Oh, shit. Oh, god."

  You only need to give permission.

  "Rebecca." She leaned over, staring into her daughter's eyes, willing her to return the gaze. The girl blinked, long and slow, staring past her mother as if she weren't even there.

  You can't do this.

  "Rebecca!" She grabbed her and lurched to her feet, the room spinning, and stuffed her in the carrier.

  48

  "It's my baby," Sarah told the Urgent Care receptionist. "She's sick, she's really sick."

  "Okay." The girl was a couple years older than Sarah. She clapped a clipboard, burgeoning with blank forms, on to the counter without looking up. "Just need you to fill these out. Do you have your insurance card?"

  "Yeah." Sarah started digging through her purse. "She has a fever of 102.7. She's only a couple weeks old."

  "We'll get to her as soon as we can."

  "102.7," she repeated. "I read it can be really dangerous for a newborn to go past, like, 100.4."

  The girl looked up. "I understand, ma'am. They'll sort her out in triage." She didn't look annoyed; it would've been easier if she had.

  God damn it, did you hear me? She wanted to shake some sense into this woman. I'm not gonna just sit here while my daughter has a deadly fever! But she couldn't say that, so she handed over the insurance card - another provision from her mother - before retreating to one of the hard, plastic chairs littering the room to fill out forms.

  The questions were agonizingly stupid. Name, address, contact information. She started to fill in her mother's name for the emergency contact before she remembered her mom was out of town. Did they mean emergency contact for this visit? Or long term? Did it matter? God, she couldn't even do this part right. Rebecca's life depended on her and she couldn't even fill out a goddamn form.

  If she couldn't put Mom's name, then who? Cal? He didn't know anything; probably wouldn't even come to the hospital if they called him. She filled in Tiff's information.

  At least she gave a shit.

  Did she give permission for the hospital to share her medical records? Sure. Did Rebecca have heart murmurs, or any known allergies, or diabetes? Had she been treated for drug addiction, or anemia, or jaundice? No, no, no, no.

  The room was sweltering, but Sarah felt cold at the same time, her skin clammy with panic. Her eyes stung from dripping sweat; she swiped at her forehead with the back of her hand. The ever-present ache in her uterus was throbbing.

  There were questions here she didn't even know the answers to. Was her daughter going to die because Sarah didn't know her blood type?

  She dragged the carrier back up to the counter. It weighed a hundred pounds. Rebecca was deathly silent.

  "I don't know the answers to all of these," she said. "I don't know her blood type."

  The girl assured her it was fine, that she just needed to fill out as much as she could. She'd done that, so she dropped off the forms. The girl returned her insurance card and ID.

  The whole exchange was cool and detached. It made her want to scream.

  49

  After an eternity, they called Rebecca's name.

  Sarah lurched to her feet, the baby clutched in one arm and the carrier in the other, and followed a plump, older woman through a door. "She's really sick," Sarah explained again as they walked. "I read that a temp over 100.4 was dangerous and she was over 102."

  The nurse assured her they would take care of her and led her to a little room, where she took Rebecca's temperature and pronounced it 98.4.

  "She's just..." Sarah started before the nurse's words sunk in. "98.4?"

  "Yep, pretty normal for a newborn. You said she's almost two weeks old?"

  "Yeah. But she was running a huge temp before, it was like 102.7."

  The nurse looked quizzical. "102.7?" She flipped through a couple papers on the clipboard in front of her. "When was that?"

  "Like an hour ago." Sarah couldn't keep the accusation out of her voice. "I tried to tell the lady at the front but she didn't seem to care."

  The nurse held the back of her hand to Rebecca's forehead. "Were you running a temp, sweetie?" she asked. Rebecca stared into her eyes, mesmerized. The nurse turned back to Sarah. "Well, temp is definitely okay now. Did you give her anything?"

  "No. I didn't have anything. I didn't know what to give her." 98.4? How was that possible? Had she misread the thermometer, or used it wrong?

  Her nipples chafed inside her shirt - she had started leaking. She glanced down and saw a spreading spot over her right breast. "God," she breathed, embarrassed. "Sorry. I was... in a hurry." She must've worn the wrong bra; it wasn't soaking up anything.

  She cast about for something to cover up with, and saw a paper towel dispenser on the other side of the room. When she stood, something warm and wet leaked down the inside of her leg.

  She felt her face ignite with shame. Disgusting. She couldn't trust her own body anymore; it had completely betrayed her.

  "Ma'am?" the nurse asked. "Are you all right?"

  "Yeah," she said, forcing a smile, but she suddenly wasn't sure; the room was baking, the walls trying to spin away. The ache in her uterus had grown to a scorchi
ng throb. She looked down and realized she was clutching at it.

  She tried to give a dismissive chuckle, but it came out as a wince. "They had to scrape some clots off my uterus after the delivery. It's been hurting for..." She lifted a hand to wave it off, and the sudden stab of fire in her gut nearly doubled her over. She heard a long groan ooze from her mouth.

  The nurse leapt up. "Do you need to lie down?" She took Sarah's hand, and started. "Sweetie, you are burning up."

  "It hurts." Sarah forced the words through clenched teeth. "Hurts worse for some reason."

  On the exam table, Rebecca started crying.

  50

  The nurse inundated her with questions, then brought her to another room. Sarah crept along behind her, one hand to the wall, clutching at the burning tennis ball in her gut. They got to the room and the nurse had her lie down. It didn't help. Stretching out exposed her to the pain, invited it to spread through her entire body. She curled up instead, moaning.

  Rebecca. Where was Rebecca? She was still here; Sarah could hear her crying. She glanced up and saw the carrier, two tiny fists flailing within.

  Sarah answered more questions from the nurse; they never seemed to end. Then the nurse went away, and another woman came in: a doctor. She asked more questions, then said she suspected Sarah had a uterine infection. They were going to transfer her to Hennepin County Medical Center, where they could do more tests.

  Memories swam back to her of the room in the maternity ward, of people swarming over her like a pack of jackals, of a doctor burying his arm inside her. She shook her head and whimpered. The ball of pain in her uterus spat fire.

  The doctor was talking about an ultrasound now. She used the word "invasive." Sarah turned to look at her, and saw the Messenger standing in the doorway.

  "What are you doing here?" Sarah demanded. "Did you do this?"

  "Sarah?" the doctor said. "Stay with me."

  He stared at her, his eyes heavy with accusation, before turning away.

  "Sarah," the doctor repeated. "Did you hear what I said?"

  "I don't want that," Sarah told her.

  "The ultrasound?"

  "Yeah, the ultrasound! You're going to stick something inside me while -?" Sarah's voice snapped off in a hissing whine. She clutched herself, rocking.

  "We'll give you some morphine for the pain. You may still have some discomfort, but it's really important that we rule out complications." She kept talking until Sarah waved her away. Yes, fine, whatever.

  She would reach up there herself if she could pull the pain out.

  51

  They put her on an IV and gave her shots. People groped at her abdomen. The ultrasound came and went, a blind, thrusting monster that relished her agony. She swam in and out of these events, screaming and crying, memories of the night in the maternity ward bleeding seamlessly into the horrors of the ambulance and hospital, wondering if her body would ever be her own again. Rebecca's wails underscored all of it, chasing her through waking and fitful rest, echoing her own cries until she couldn't tell which was which.

  She had a vague impression of Tiff, asking her if it was okay to take Rebecca home, asking to borrow her keys. She was one in an endless procession of apparitions; Sarah waved her past. Cal came next, forcing his way behind her and shoving in like a spear of fire.

  No, no, I don't like this.

  You like it just fine.

  No, I never did. I lied to you. Get off me. Please get off me.

  You love it.

  I don't.

  Pastor Dennis nodded, smiling. You're doing good, Sarah. Put the devil in his place.

  She was flailing. Her mom took her arms, held her still. She said something about more medicine.

  Now that her mom was holding her, Cal could have his way.

  "No." Sarah wanted to scream, but all she could do was mutter. She was sinking. "Let me go."

  I didn't raise you to be gay, her mother snapped.

  I'm not!

  Don't fucking lie to me.

  I'm not!

  I can't believe this. I can't believe you would do this, Sarah. Why do you want this? What is wrong with you?

  As she sank, her mother's accusations chased her into the dark.

  52

  She was in a strange room, lying in a hospital bed. Through the broad window to her left, she saw it was dark outside. A windsock billowed from a roof antenna, but it was frozen in place, as if someone had pressed the Pause button on reality.

  A TV jutted from the wall, showing a man about to spin the Wheel of Fortune. He was frozen, too, his eyes nothing but dull pixels.

  "What happened, Sarah? I thought we had an understanding."

  The Messenger was sitting in a chair by the door. His legs were crossed, his posture relaxed but intent. She couldn't make out his eyes. That corner of the room was dim.

  "What is this?" Sarah managed. "Where is my baby?"

  "It's still here, somewhere." He waved the question off. "Answer me, Sarah. What happened?"

  "I changed my mind."

  "Why?"

  She has my eyes, she started to say, but a sudden apprehension tripped her. "Because I did."

  "Cal has brown eyes too, you know. Of course, Tiff only talked about your lovely brown eyes, not his."

  She couldn't hide from him; he knew everything about her.

  "All you had to do was wait. He would've taken care of the rest." He scoffed. "For crying out loud, Sarah, it's not like He asked you to stick her in the microwave."

  "She wasn't sick. It was me." Insights ricocheted off each other, sparking. Were you trying to keep me from coming to the hospital? Was I the one who was supposed to die?

  He glowered. "That's crazy. Listen to yourself. Of course she was sick. But you broke your promise, Sarah. You broke your promise to God."

  "So he made me sick instead?"

  The Messenger was silent.

  Sarah scoffed. "Bullshit."

  "You saw the thermometer."

  "Bullshit," she spat again.

  "Eloquent. I would've expected a state champion debater to be a bit more well-spoken." He set both feet on the floor and settled forward. "Fine. Maybe He did. He doesn't like getting jerked around, and you made Him a promise, Sarah. You promised to give your daughter to God. Did you think He would just write that off?"

  "You said it was my decision."

  "It was. And you made it. You can't take it back now. And why would you want to? You don't love this child."

  "What would you know about -"

  "You hate it, Sarah."

  "That's a lie."

  "You're the one lying to yourself. You hate the kid. Let it go."

  "I don't!"

  "Do you love it, then?"

  Her answering silence thundered with condemnation. The Messenger gave her a sad, knowing smile. "You aren't meant for this. You'll never love that child. You resent it, and it knows it. What kind of life is that? You're going to raise it with hate in your heart, like your mother raised you?"

  The accusation made her breath catch.

  "You don't know what you're doing now. Imagine what will happen when it needs food, or it needs to go to school. You can barely cook. You don't have your own place to live. You're completely dependent on your mother. And now you're inviting random women into your home?

  "You. Can't. Do. This."

  She flinched from all his accusations, except one. "Tiff isn't a 'random woman.'"

  He sneered. "She'll seem that way, after a few years. She's just the first in a long series. It's always that way with gays. It's only about sex for them. They can never connect. That's why you can't love your daughter."

  She'd always accepted everything he said as true, when it pertained to her. But he wasn't talking about her, this time: he was talking about Tiff.

  "Watch your mouth," she snapped.

  He rolled his eyes. "Sarah, there's so much you excel at. Think about the decisions you're making, what they mean for you. You asked for H
is help, and now you're throwing it away?"

  She met his eyes, and said nothing.

  He glared. "So many people don't get a second chance like this, and you're throwing it away. Who the hell are you?"

  She jerked away from him, her eyes burning. She could see the street through the window, a few stories down. None of the cars on it were moving.

  "Why does that happen?" she asked, nodding toward the road, toward the halted windsock. "Why does everything freeze like that when you're around?"

  The Messenger sighed, then stood up. "This conversation's not over. We'll talk again." He turned for the door, then paused, as if debating whether to add something else. Finally, he said, "It happens because you're breaking down, Sarah, like an old DVD. Stuttering. You're not fully functional, and you haven't been in years.

  "It's not me that makes that happen. It's you."

  53

  She woke to a stream of motes dancing in the sun's glare, and eased herself, blinking, to a sitting position. The blazing coal in her uterus had died to a cold lump: she could still feel the ache where it had been, but it was no longer burning. Her relief made her sag.

  The hospital room had a TV, set to a game show channel. Out the window to her left was the roof of the next hospital building, and an antenna. She had a vague memory of seeing a windsock out there, but she must've dreamt it; there was nothing there now.

  She shook her head, trying to clear away the night's terrors, but a sudden panic seized her. Rebecca. She whipped her head toward the empty chair near the TV and back to the little hospital tray table. Her daughter wasn't here.

  She started to her feet and felt a tug in her arm. There was a tube running out of it. She hadn't even noticed.

  She was trapped here, chained up. She couldn't get out. They'd taken her baby and -

  Calm down! she berated herself. Her breath was fluttering, her heart doing back flips. Just calm down! God. Grow up! She grabbed her temple and clenched her eyes shut, forcing her breathing to slow.

  She was sick of panic.