. . . she does.
Malorie sits up in bed and grips her belly before she understands that she has been howling for some time already. The bed is soaking wet.
Two men rush into the room. It is all so dreamy
(Am I really having a baby? A baby? I was pregnant this whole time?)
and so frightening
(Where’s Shannon? Where is Mother?)
that, at first, she does not recognize them as Felix and Jules.
“Holy shit,” Felix says. “Olympia is already up there. Olympia started maybe two hours ago.”
Up where? Malorie thinks. Up where?
The men are careful with her and help her ease to the edge of the bed.
“Are you ready to do this?” Jules asks anxiously.
Malorie just looks at him, her brow furrowed, her face pink and pale at once.
“I was sleeping,” she says. “I was just . . . up where, Felix?”
“She’s ready,” Jules says, forcing a smile, trying to comfort her. “You look wonderful, Malorie. You look ready.”
She starts to ask, “Up—”
But Felix tells her before she finishes.
“We’re going to do this in the attic. Tom says it’s the safest place in the house. In case something were to happen. But nothing’s going to happen. Olympia’s up there already. She’s been going for two hours. Tom and Cheryl are up there with her. Don’t worry, Malorie. We’ll do everything we can.”
Malorie doesn’t answer. The feeling of something inside her that must get out is the most horrifying and incredible feeling she’s ever known. The men have her, one under each arm, and they walk her out of the room, over the threshold, and down the hall toward the rear of the house. The attic stairs are already pulled down and as they steady her, Malorie sees the blankets covering the window at the end of the hall. She wonders what time of day it is. If it’s the next night. If it’s a week later.
Am I really having my baby? Now?
Felix and Jules help her up the old wooden steps. She can hear Olympia upstairs. And Tom’s gentle voice, saying things like breathe, you’ll be fine, you’re okay.
“Maybe it won’t be so different after all,” she says (the men, thank God, helping her up the creaking steps). “Maybe it won’t be so different from how I hoped it would go.”
There is more room up here than she pictured. A single candle lights the space. Olympia is on a towel on the ground. Cheryl is beside her. Olympia’s knees are lifted and a thin bedsheet covers her from the waist down. Jules helps her onto her own towel facing Olympia. Tom approaches Malorie.
“Oh, Malorie!” Olympia says. She is out of breath and only part of her exclaims while the rest buckles and contorts. “I’m so glad you’re here!”
Malorie, dazed, can’t help but feel like she’s still sleeping when she looks over her covered knees and sees Olympia set up like a reflection.
“How long have you been here, Olympia?”
“I don’t know. Forever, I think!”
Felix is talking quietly to Olympia, asking her what she needs. Then he heads downstairs to get it. Tom reminds Cheryl to keep things clean. They’re going to be okay, he says, as long as they’re clean. They’re using clean sheets and towels. Hand sanitizer from Tom’s house. Two buckets of well water.
Tom appears calm, but Malorie knows he’s not.
“Malorie?” Tom asks.
“Yes?”
“What do you need?”
“How about some water? And some music, too, Tom.”
“Music?”
“Yes. Something sweet and soft, you know, something to maybe”—Something to cover up the sound of my body on the wood floor of an attic—“the flute music. That one tape.”
“Okay,” Tom says. “I’ll get it.”
He does, stepping by her to the stairs that descend directly behind her back. She turns her attention to Olympia. She’s still having trouble shaking the fog of sleep. She sees a small steak knife beside her on a paper towel, less than a foot away. Cheryl just dunked it into the water.
“Jesus!” Olympia suddenly hollers, and Felix kneels and takes her hand.
Malorie watches.
These people, she thinks, the kind of person that would answer an ad like that in the paper. These people are survivors.
She experiences a momentary surge of peace. She knows it won’t last long. The housemates wisp through her mind, their faces, one by one. With each she feels something like love.
My God, she thinks, we’ve been so brave.
“God!” Olympia suddenly screams. Cheryl is quickly beside her.
Once, when Tom was up here looking for tape, Malorie watched from the foot of the ladder stairs. But she’s never been up here herself. Now, breathing heavily, she looks to the curtain covering the lone window and she feels a chill. Even the attic has been protected. A room hardly ever used still needs a blanket. Her eyes travel along the wooden window frame, then along the paneled walls, the pointed ceiling, the boxes of things George left behind. Her eyes continue to a stack of blankets piled high. Another box of plastic parts. Old books. Old clothes.