Cover Your Tracks

by Daco Auffenorde

  She struggled to free herself from his grip with her free hand, but he was much too strong.

  “What the hell are you doing, you son of a bitch? We’ve got to get out there so the pilot sees us. Let go of me!”

  He pried her hand off the doorknob and squeezed his body between her and the door. She tried to push him aside, but it was like trying to move a massive block of granite. She balled up her fists and started hitting him on the chest, but he didn’t flinch. He simply grabbed both of her wrists and held her arms apart.

  “Why are you doing this?” she screamed. “If you’re some sick pervert, just tell me!”

  “It’s not a helicopter,” he said.

  “Bullshit.”

  “No. Listen.”

  She listened. The rumble persisted, got louder, but it no longer sounded mechanical. The upper floor shook, and the windows rattled so loudly they might’ve actually broken. The word tempest came to mind. Nick was right—again.

  “We’ve got to get downstairs!” he shouted.

  Bolts of lightning struck so fast the sky looked like a strobe light on a discotheque dance floor. For a moment, she thought she was imagining things.

  “Keep moving, Margo!”

  Once downstairs, Nick pulled her into the storage room and toward the bench. Once he helped her get down on the floor they scooted underneath the bench and pressed themselves up against the stone wall. The wind’s roar was deafening. The building shook as if it were made of tinker toys, and Margo feared that it would break apart into little pieces.

  “Oh my God! What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a bomb cyclone.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A winter storm, hurricane-force winds, snow. Not the time to talk. Hunker down!”

  She tried to curl up protectively, and he wrapped his arms around her. His body against hers felt both welcome and repugnant.

  Again, the tower shook even harder.

  “No!” she screamed. “No, no, please God.”

  “Andie, it’s all right.”

  Was he confusing her for a man?

  He pressed his body against hers and pulled her closer. Then the unthinkable happened: he kissed her.

  She jerked her head away and gagged as he clung to her. She didn’t want this. “Nick! I’m not Andy. I’m Margo Fletcher.”

  He didn’t hear her over the din of the storm, or didn’t want to hear her, because he stroked her hair and said, “Andie, it’ll be all right.”

  Margo struggled to free herself but, given his superior strength, that was impossible. She prayed that his assault would stop with the kiss. If he realized what he’d done, if he became aware of how much she’d loathed that kiss, he could easily snap and kill her.

  CHAPTER 38

  After the bomb cyclone—or whatever it was—passed, Nick rolled out from underneath the bench and helped Margo to her feet. The storm had lasted twenty minutes and the kiss had lasted seconds, but it was the kiss that had her in turmoil. Neither of them spoke about what had just occurred. Was he even aware of what he’d done? He’d called her Andy. Was he gay? Or maybe Andie was short for Andrea. Either way, he’d confused her for someone he’d cared about. Earlier, he’d mentioned that he’d lost someone dear to him. Andie? Why hadn’t he told Margo about him or her?

  “Wait down here while I go check things out,” he said as if nothing had happened.

  She nodded, glad for the time alone. He truly didn’t seem to remember the incident. Or if he did, he knew how to keep up a good front.

  He came back a few minutes later. “There’s a broken window, but the wood stove is still lit, so you can come up.”

  Upstairs, the wind seeped in through the shattered window.

  “Have any idea how to fix the window?” she asked.

  “I’m going to use the wood from one of the chairs to board that window up,” he said. “It could’ve been far worse. I’d bet that this particular window was already compromised, and the winds just finished the job. Pretty sturdy construction though. The cyclone would’ve leveled most places.” The Nick she’d come to know had returned—affectless and all business, as if nothing had happened in the storage room. There was comfort in that. But she couldn’t let her guard down.

  She turned toward the bed. “I need to rest.” She tried to behave normally, but for Margo Fletcher and Nick Eliot, there was no normal. Not since the train’s crew applied the emergency brakes only a couple of days earlier. That train ride seemed like it had happened in another lifetime, and in a strange way, it had.

  “The baby?” he asked.

  “Fine, and I want to keep it that way. I’m exhausted and a bit crampy. Kind of freaked out by the whole thing.”

  Once in the bed, she rolled toward the wall and closed her eyes. She did her best to focus on the wind and snow slapping against the windowpanes. When Nick began breaking up the chair, the sounds of the wood cracking and splintering called to mind the breaking of bones. She tried not to flinch, but she couldn’t help it. She wanted to cover her ears and block out all the noise from this world. But she feared that doing so would only alert him that something was amiss. He might become annoyed or agitated. He worked for a long time, as if trying to find an excuse to stay out of Margo’s way. Or that was one explanation for his preoccupation with the repairs.

  Yet again, Margo’s thoughts drifted back to her family. How delighted her parents and Heather must’ve been that her pregnancy made it impossible to attend Olivia’s wedding. And no guilt necessary for a breach of etiquette—they’d graciously extended the invitation, but Aunt Margo declined.

  Three days after the phone call with her mother, while Margo was holed up in her condo watching Casablanca on cable—Ingrid Bergman had just asked Sam to play “As Time Goes By”—Margo got a text from her sister Blanche.

  In town on business. Can I come by and see you?

  Wow. Margo responded, then put a “thumbs up” emoji in the box. Where r u?

  Outside ur condo.

  Margo shook her head. Her weird little sister showed up uninvited, which was fine, but then didn’t just ring the buzzer and ask to come in. More Fletcher formality filtered through Blanche’s wonderful ditziness.

  A few minutes later, Blanche was comfortably seated inside Margo’s condo.

  At first, they only acted like sisters, talking about babies, work, and more about babies. Margo put Blanche’s hand on her belly, and Blanche shrieked in excitement when she felt the baby move. It hit Margo that hers was the only pregnancy in the Fletcher family that Blanche could experience. Margo made popcorn, and they watched the rest of Casablanca. After they both wept at the last scene, Blanche maintained that Ilsa should’ve gone off with Rick and left Victor Laszlo to his own devices. Whatever. Only then did Blanche reveal why she’d really come all this way to see Margo.

  “Mother says you’re not coming to Olivia’s wedding.”

  “Look at me,” Margo said. “I’m a whale. And whales can’t fly.”

  “There are other modes of transportation. Olivia really wants you there.”

  “I have work, and I only heard about the wedding recently.” Margo averted her eyes.

  “Sorry. I was sworn to secrecy.”

  “Yeah, our dear old father would throw you in the brig if he heard you violated the rules.”

  “He … It’s not only that, Margo. I’ve got to survive in this family, too. And I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  “I’m pretty tough. Anyway, the whole thing is bullshit. So what if I prescribed birth control pills to a sexually active sixteen-year-old? Heather should’ve thanked me.”

  Blanche hesitated for a moment “The whole fucking morality thing was only an excuse, Margo. A pretext to keep you away. Heather took Olivia to the Spokane OB-GYN that week and got her a prescription from her own doctor.”

  “Why cut off communication?”

  “Because Heather has always been scared that you’ll tell Olivia the truth, or I don’t kn
ow, that maybe Olivia would bond with you in a way she hasn’t with Heather. She’s jealous of you.”

  Margo was stunned. “She’s jealous of me, and she’s raised my daughter as her own? I never came close to telling, Blanche. I wouldn’t fuck up Olivia’s life like that. There’s been enough of that in our family.” Margo shook her head. “I don’t get it. I truly was acting as an aunt and a physician. Protecting Olivia, and if you think about it, Heather and Charles.”

  “I agree with you. And, I think, if you can find a way to come to the wedding, we can all get through this.” Blanche put her hand on Margo’s belly. “I have a feeling this little one is going to help. You know how babies can bring a family together.” Blanche smiled wistfully. “In most cases.”

  Margo thought for a moment, then shook her head. “It’s not wise to travel. Even on the ground.”

  Blanche inhaled deeply, and her fair cheeks turned a bright red. “There’s something else that might change your mind.” Her jaw flapped, but she couldn’t get the words out. For a moment, Margo worried that someone was terminally ill. Their grandmother? One of their parents?

  “Just say it, Blanche.”

  She took a deep breath. “A couple of weeks ago, Olivia came to me. She wanted to know what the deal was between you and Heather. I …”

  “Jesus, girl, spit it out.”

  “I … I told her you were her biological mother. I fucking just told her.”

  Margo’s mouth dropped open and didn’t close for a long time. Blanche had flung open the secret door to their family closet, and the bones had clattered to the floor. Part of Margo was glad that Olivia now knew the truth; the other part was terrified. What would this do to her? What would this do to Heather and Charles and their parents? Margo hoped Olivia wouldn’t hate her, that the family wouldn’t shun Blanche. She wanted to scream at Blanche; she wanted to hug her sister in gratitude.

  “Did you hear me, Margo?”

  Margo released the air in her lungs. “Jesus, Blanche. You, the dispassionate one? Ms. Switzerland?” Then Margo started laughing, almost uncontrollably.

  “What the fuck is funny about this, Margo?”

  Margo suppressed her giggling long enough to say, “Heather and Charles disowned the wrong fucking sister.”

  Blanche shrugged and grinned. “I was sick of the lies. And the unfairness. They’ve never been fair to you, and they’ve never been fair to Olivia. It’s always there, and it’s eaten this family up. You’re mistreated, and you’re like a saint. Keeping that secret. Well, I’m no saint.”

  The urge to laugh passed as quickly as it had come. Margo didn’t know what to think, what to feel. There was fear, guilt, relief—most of all relief, because Olivia still wanted her to come to the wedding. “I’m no saint,” Margo said. “How did Olivia react? I mean, what did she say?”

  Blanche reached out and took Margo’s hand. “She said somewhere inside her, she knew. I mean, who wouldn’t, she looks like you and Mother, and a story about recessive genes can only go so far. But Olivia also said that it doesn’t matter. That Heather is her mother, always will be, that you’re her fun aunt.”

  Margo thought for a moment. “Good. That’s good.” And it was good. “Does anyone else know about this?”

  Blanche shook her head.

  “Did she ask why I gave her up?”

  “Yeah, I told her, and she gets it. She’s twenty-two, so seventeen is young to her now. She understands you were too young to raise a baby. That you were practically still one yourself.”

  But Margo hadn’t wanted to give up Olivia. Not after her father burst into the clinic and certainly not after her daughter was born. By then, she’d desperately wanted her baby. Margo was too young to understand she had that choice. She feared losing her family if she didn’t do as she was told. The reality was, she lost her family anyway. No, she didn’t lose them. They discarded her. She was packed up and shipped out, never to return, out of the way.

  “Does Olivia know the circumstances? That our parents forced me to give her up, didn’t give me a choice?”

  “No. That wasn’t for me to say. I couldn’t crush the kid.”

  Margo nodded, feeling the agony of old bones being sent back inside the closet. Perhaps it was best this way.

  “Olivia wants her aunt to be at her wedding,” Blanche said. “If there’s any way you can travel, please try to come. Please.”

  Margo thought for a while. “I’ve always wanted to take a train ride and see the countryside. I’ll check with my obstetrician and see if he’ll sign off. I doubt it, but …”

  She spoke with her doctor and booked the train tickets the following Monday. Then she sent a text to her mother with the details.

  Now, the snow beating against the tower windows lulled Margo to sleep. She woke right before dawn. Nick was lying beside her. She sat up, but he didn’t wake, which was unusual. Most of the time, he was so attuned to her every move that she couldn’t so much as make a peep without him noticing. She pushed her body to the edge of the bed and scooted off. She walked to the kitchenette and drank some water.

  Despite her naps, she still felt queasy. Then a hard, agonizing cramping struck. She keeled over and grabbed the counter, trying not to groan. Maybe the elk meat had gone bad and she’d contracted food poisoning. If so, the dehydration that followed would place the baby at risk. But as quickly as the cramp came, it passed, along with the queasiness.

  Nick rolled over, opened his eyes, and looked at her.

  “Sorry to wake you,” she said.

  “It’s cold in here. I’ll add some fire to the stove.” He got up, and as he approached he seemed so hulking, so intimidating, that she shuddered. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice, because he walked past her and stoked the fire.

  Another wave of nausea rolled over her, this one worse than before, and there was no stifling a deep groan. A moment later, her water broke.

  CHAPTER 39

  Nick looked at Margo with a kind of impatient bewilderment and pointed to the floor beneath her.

  “Is that what I think it is, Margo?” he asked.

  “Yeah, my water broke. I’m in labor.” Using the wall to brace her back, she slid down to the floor.

  His eyes widened. “Is the baby all right?”

  “God only knows. It’s coming so fast.” She should’ve known it would be like this. It had been so long since she’d delivered the first baby and she’d been so young, that she’d forgotten how the birth process felt. Of course, every pregnancy and birth differed. Her mother always said that she’d birthed her children in a matter of hours. That wasn’t true of Margo’s first. Once she became a doctor, she doubted the truth of her mother’s claims, thinking how easy it must’ve been for the older woman to look back and repaint a difficult reality into a more palatable fantasy. And yet, the signs were there. But with all the chaos and physical exertion, she’d missed the signs indicating the process had started much earlier, maybe even a day or two prior.

  Nick hobbled over and squatted down at her side. “Come on, let’s get you in the bed.” He reached out a hand.

  “No, don’t touch me.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Find a helicopter and fly me to a hospital.”

  “Come on, I’ll rub your back. It’ll help the pain.”

  Any touch from him was repulsive. “No thanks.” She stood up using her own strength. With wobbly legs, there was only one place to head—the bed. Then it happened—the baby moved. “Oh Jesus. This can’t be happening.” She keeled forward.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She probed her stomach and located what she believed was the baby’s head. “The baby turned. It’s breech.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Not the desired position to deliver. Too much can go wrong. I might need a C-section, but that can’t happen. Obviously.”

  “What can we do?”

  She reached the bed and sat down.

  “I need to elevate
my hips above my head. Let’s put some ice on the top of my stomach. Heat at the other end. Babies don’t like the cold. Maybe it’ll work to turn the baby back around.”

  As he broke ice from around the ledge of one of the window-sills, she made her way across the room and toward the wood stove, where she eased to the floor and lay on her back. She lifted her legs and spread them apart to feel the heat between them and her lower abdomen. Modesty couldn’t be a consideration.

  He returned to her side, carrying shards of ice.

  “Hold it on the top of my abdomen.”

  He did as she asked. When a contraction came, she lowered her legs. When the contraction passed, she repeated this process of lifting of legs and placing ice on her belly.

  After the third time, he asked, “Is it working?”

  “No. We’ll have to try another approach. Let’s get ready for the birth first. So we’re ready when the time comes. Go look around the room for anything we can use to deliver the baby.”

  He found only a few rudimentary utensils in the kitchen.

  “Grab the bucket, go downstairs, and get some snow. Then boil more water.”

  When he returned, he set a pan on top of the wood stove. Once the water reached a full boil, she had him sterilize the knives, forks, and spoons.

  “You’ll have to use the table knife to cut the umbilical cord. Dump that water and get some more snow. I’ll need sterilized water to wash the baby and for drinking to stay hydrated.”

  Another contraction came and went. They were coming closer together. Her cramps intensified, coming every five minutes. This pattern persisted for at least an hour. It indicated she was still in active labor, the first stage.

  “We need to try and move the baby. I can’t do it alone. I need you to perform an ECV. It normally takes two experienced hands. Go clean your hands in the snow. Break off some of the soap you made from the fat. It’s outside the window. Keep the other part of the soap clean. Hurry. I’ll get back in bed myself.”

  Returning shortly, he said, “Just tell me what to do.”

  “I’m going to take a deep breath, and when I exhale, you’ll need to lift the breech out of my lower pelvis.”