She told herself, Five, and she imagined the baby holding up its paddle hand.
“I never doubted it,” she said aloud, her voice lilting into song. If she wasn’t careful, she’d soon be gaga-gooing to the tiny thing, whose heart couldn’t be larger than a freckle.
She remembered Hilda saying that forty weeks was ample time to fall in love with a person you hadn’t officially met yet, though when Micah was born, Dada said Hilda had been so tired and overwhelmed she’d beg him to take both kids off her hands. “Just for ten minutes, please,” she’d say. “They’re killing me.”
“I hope there’s just one of you in there,” Frida whispered now.
She sat up and took in her surroundings. It was very similar to her own room, one of the few she had seen on the Land with a door. Many of the residences on the Land were wide open, without even a curtain to provide privacy. Fatima had given that up for them, which now struck Frida as extremely generous. But even their door didn’t have a knob, and here was Anika’s, with a knob made of metal, the kind Frida imagined in old Victorian mansions. About half a foot up from the knob was a modern-day lock, just like the one Cal and Frida had had on their door in L.A.
How had Anika snagged that?
She looked around for anything else unusual, but there was just a bed and a child’s step stool with a candle atop it. The single window was covered with a piece of sheer cloth; perhaps Anika would board it up herself when the cold became truly unbearable. Or, more likely, she’d suffer through the winter nights, teeth chattering. The closet did not have a door, but it didn’t matter because the only thing in it was a pile of clothes, including the overalls Anika had been wearing a few days before.
Frida realized the nausea had distracted her from the best part of Anika’s room—it was right underneath her. Unlike the straw monstrosity she and Cal slept on, Anika had a twin-sized mattress, practically new, maybe twenty years old. How had she gotten dibs on it? Anika must be favored. Not Micah-level special, but special nonetheless. The headboard was modern, too, cheap that way, made of a light, hollow metal, probably from Ikea, which had closed when Frida was twelve. “They took their meatballs and went back to Sweden,” Hilda had said wistfully.
Frida turned onto her back and looked up at the ceiling. It was badly cracked, in worse shape than she expected, and she thought maybe she’d tell Cal about it. Maybe he could get Micah to bring in the construction team. She realized how protective she’d become of Anika. She really cared about her.
Above her was a drawing. It had been made on a piece of fabric, cotton most likely, or maybe muslin, though Frida couldn’t be sure, torn into a square and stuck to the ceiling with sewing needles. Only a soggy, sagging building would be weak enough to pierce with such flimsy things, Frida thought as she took in the drawing itself. It looked like charcoal, but more likely it was ash. There were two stick figures.
Jane had friends here. Jane had friends here.
Frida stood on the bed in order to get a better look. It looked like an adult and a child—both female, with triangles for skirts. To the left of them was a tree and, above them, a smiling sun. A few birds flew across the page, depicted as sure-handed Ms—had every child since the dawn of time learned to draw flying birds this way? Next to the figures was a tiny oval shape with eyes. Was that an animal? Or a baby?
Frida placed her hand on her stomach, finding her breath. She wanted to yank the drawing from the ceiling, find out more, a name maybe, but she knew she couldn’t.
Was this a drawing of a mother and her daughter? Did she belong to Anika? Who but a mother would keep something like this?
Frida would ask her. That’s what Anika wanted; she must. Tomorrow, as they baked, Frida would find out the truth.
There was a knock on the door, and Frida knew who it was before he stepped inside. Cal looked so clean compared with last week, when he would return from Morning Labor covered in dust and sweat. Now he wore the faded button-down jean shirt he had always loved. Holes in both elbows, but at least tucked in.
“You okay?” he asked, but not until he’d shut the door firmly behind him. “Anika came to get me.”
“I’ve got those symptoms you asked for.”
“I hope Anika doesn’t put two and two together.” He pulled the shirt from his waist, as if home from a long day at the office, and sat on the edge of the bed. “Just in case, Micah’s telling people you used to barf a lot when you were a kid.” He paused. “It’s really happening, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “I think so.”
“No one can find out. Not yet.”
Frida pushed herself up to sitting. “What happens if they do?”
Cal shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s why we should wait. I’m working on Micah.”
“What do you mean?”