“Daddy says that they could bring things from the wastelands to make the pain better,” says Inga, “but that’s unnatural.”
“They make the pain better for other things,” Vanessa points out. “That’s not even from the wastelands, they grow the plants here. Remember when Mr. Saul the fisherman broke his arm and it bent backwards?” She didn’t see it, but part of her wishes she had.
Inga nods, looking doubtful. “I don’t know why it’s different. Maybe if you don’t have pain, the baby won’t live.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” says Nina.
“I wonder what it’s like in the wastelands,” says Vanessa. “Birthings.” Both Nina and Inga turn to stare at her, their brows furrowed.
“I thought there wasn’t anybody left?” says Nina.
“No, there are people left but it’s only a few defectives,” corrects Inga. “I mean, mostly defectives.”
“Then why would it be different?” asks Nina.
Vanessa says, “I thought everything was different.”
“Everything’s worse,” hazards Inga. “I bet you have no friends around you and no herbs, and if you take too long somebody cuts your belly open and takes the baby and leaves you dead.”
“Why would somebody take the baby?” says Nina, wrinkling her forehead.
“Father says that children are precious in the wastelands,” Inga answers. “Ones that aren’t defective. They’re worth more than gold. There aren’t many of them.”
“Why not?”
“Because of war, and disease, and murder.” Inga ticks the items off on her fingers briskly. “He said that I would live about two minutes in the wastelands, before someone murdered me.”
“If you’re so precious, why would they kill you?” contends Vanessa.
Janet screams again, louder. Another gush of bloody water, laced with black. The straw beneath her wilts and darkens like the fine hair around the edge of her forehead. She is glistening with sweat, every muscle writhing under her skin, her lips stripped back from her teeth. In the close, warm air of the shed, mended every time even a whisper of cold air drifts through the boards in winter, Vanessa can smell Janet’s breath; it’s sour, full of pain and panic.
“Why can’t they give her a sleeping draft?” Vanessa murmurs. “Mother gave me some last night. I barely woke up at all.”
Nina looks wistful. “Daddy says I shouldn’t ever take it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
They all turn as Janet shrieks high and reedy, like a trapped sheep. “There’s the head!” cries Sharon Joseph, who is kneeling between her legs. “Push!” Janet pants in short, moaning gasps.
Something slithers into Sharon’s lap. She hands it to Shelby, telling her to suck the slime out of its throat. Shelby makes a face, and Sharon slaps her. Leaning forward, Shelby gives the baby a dramatic kiss, spits blood and white muck into the straw, and retches.
“It’s alive!” says Inga with surprise. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“You’re the one who told us it was alive,” responds Nina.
“Yes, but I didn’t expect it to stay alive.”
“It’s a girl,” says Sharon, glancing at Mother and Janet, and the three women burst into tears.
Laughter for a boy, tears for a girl. Everyone at the birth is supposed to weep if it’s a girl, and now everyone is dutifully crying. Sharon’s shoulders shake rhythmically. Surprised, Vanessa feels her eyes fill and tears slide hotly down her cheeks. She glances at Nina, who has hidden her face in her hands. Nina blurs, then sharpens, then blurs again as tears spill down Vanessa’s face, gathering at her upper lip and jaw, dripping onto the already damp and salty straw. The room is so full of noise that she calculates nobody will hear her if she scrunches up her face and yells as loud as she can. And so she balls her fists, licks the briny tears off her lips, arches over at the waist, and screams like she’s being slaughtered.
Vanessa once asked Mother why everyone cries for girls. It doesn’t seem fair that boys are greeted with celebration, but that everyone cried when she came sliding into the world on a river of salt and blood. Mother told her she’d understand when she was older.
Chapter Seven
Caitlin
Tonight, when Caitlin closes her eyes, instead of seeing a scowling ancestor or terrifying monster, she sees Janey Solomon. She’s looking at Caitlin, and her mouth is askew, and Caitlin realizes that she’s not angry or disapproving, just thoughtful. Burying her face in her pillow, Caitlin smiles a little.
A few hours later, as Caitlin is dipping in and out of a doze, she hears little plinks against her windowpane, which means Rosie is awake. Carefully creaking open the window, trying not to make any noise, Caitlin slithers out onto the roof. It groans loudly but holds her weight. It makes Caitlin sad to know that someday she will probably get so big she falls through the roof—although in truth the roof could give tomorrow. She also can’t bring herself to tell Rosie Gideon to stop throwing pebbles at her window, even though window glass is more precious than almost anything on the island and Father would be furious with her if the window broke. Besides, if she told Rosie to stop, Rosie might start leaping onto the roof and banging loudly on a wall—or worse, ignore Caitlin altogether.
Slimmer and lighter than Caitlin, Rosie is perched on the edge of her roof expectantly, waiting. Caitlin guesses the Gideons rue having a house so close to her family, but she likes the proximity to Rosie. Scooching and shinnying, she inches down the flaking shingle roof until they are squatting across from each other, inches apart, mirror gargoyles. Rosie took out her braids for the night, and her hair falls over her shoulders in tight ripples of brown.
“I heard a drop of rain,” Rosie whispers.
Caitlin stares up at the sky, which is clear and black and strewn with stars. “I don’t think so.”
“I did!” Rosie is nine and very headstrong. Caitlin often reflects that if they were the same age, Rosie would be more likely to punch her than talk to her. But Caitlin’s extra four years earn her a grudging respect. “I think summer is here.”
“I don’t think quite yet,” says Caitlin, the words bitter in her mouth. She swallows to clear the taste, but it lingers like a film. “Almost, but not quite.”
“I don’t want to wait any longer,” complains Rosie. “My shoes are too tight. Mother spanked me for pinching Gerald when he deserved it. I hurt.”
The I hurt shivers through Caitlin’s bones in sympathy.
“It will come,” she whispers. “I promise. Maybe only a few days?”
“Listen,” begs Rosie. “Tell me if you hear rain coming.”
The two girls are silent, inhaling the sultry night air and each other’s breath. Caitlin hears crickets, a dog barking, a branch cracking, Rosie’s light, expectant breathing. She hears her own heartbeat, industriously tapping against her ribs.
“I don’t hear any rain,” says Caitlin finally. “I wish I did.”
“I hate it in my house,” mutters Rosie. “Whenever my aunt comes over, she and Mother fight and break things. It’s loud.”