by Nicole Fox
This is not my city.
This is not my home.
I can see the profile of a nurse. Her hair is dirty blonde and tied into a tight knot at the back of her head. She’s talking to someone just out of my line of vision.
“My baby!” I gasp, breaking free of the parched hoarseness that grips my throat. “My baby…”
She doesn’t hear me. She’s so engrossed in her conversation that she doesn’t even glance in my direction. The panic builds as bits and pieces of memory resurface.
I don’t remember much, apart from the fact that I’d been preparing to run.
No, wait—I’d assaulted a man. Possibly even killed him. I needed to get out of town.
And then my water broke in the middle of a bus depot.
I remember being in pain.
I remember feeling scared and helpless.
I remember worrying about the future.
But not once did I ever envision waking up alone. Hollow. Terrified beyond reckoning and drowning in fears and nightmares and long-buried memories.
The emptiness I feel now makes sense.
I glance down at my stomach. There’s only a small bump left. There’s certainly no baby inside me anymore.
My body craves the fluttering kicks I’ve gotten used to over the last few months. Without them, I feel lost. Unmoored.
“Where’s my baby?” I demand, raising my voice to anyone who will listen.
The blonde nurse gives a start of surprise and turns to me. “Oh, my,” she says. “You gave me a fright! Well, I’m glad you’re awake.”
She comes forward and begins examining the IV drip attached to my hand. I flinch away from her as my eyes flit across the room.
There’s a baby bassinet in the corner, but there is no baby in it.
Oh, God, did I lose…
Him?
Her?
I don’t even know what I was having.
All that stress, all that anxiety, all that panic… has it finally caught up with me?
Did it cost me my child?
“My baby,” I beg desperately. Tears are pouring unchecked down my face. “Where is my baby?”
She looks at me finally. For the first time, she looks me right in the eye and sees the panic on my face.
“Oh, honey,” she says. Her eyes soften. “Don’t worry.”
I try to breath, but nothing helps. Nothing will help but the knowledge that my child is okay.
“We’ll bring him up momentarily,” she tells me. “He’s just fine. He’s beautiful.”
I feel relief rest over me like a warm blanket on a freezing cold day. I fall back against my pillow and breathe deeply, taking in as much oxygen as I can.
He’s okay.
Oh, God. Thank you. He’s okay.
Wait.
“He?” I ask, looking up at the nurse again.
She smiles. “You didn’t know you were having a boy?” she asks.
“No,” I admit, almost embarrassed for some reason. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”
A second later, another nurse walks into the room, but I don’t register her at all. My eyes are focused on the blue bundle in her arms.
I sit up immediately, ignoring the slicing pain in my stomach.
“Easy there, honey,” the blonde nurse cautions me. “You’re fresh out of surgery. You need to go slow.”
I nod impatiently, but I lift my hands up and out, waiting for my baby to be placed in my arms.
The second nurse walks forward and puts the little blue bundle in my arms.
I see a flash of dark hair—a mess of it, really—and then I see his eyes.
“Hello, little bird,” I murmur.
I stare down at my son, unblinking. He’s gorgeous. More beautiful than my imagination could have ever concocted.
And he looks like Artem.
The resemblance is indisputably obvious. He has Artem’s coloring, lighter than mine. He has Artem’s square jaw, his angular nose, his straight and direct gaze.
The only thing that I recognize that has come from me, are the eyes.
My son has large hazel eyes, framed by dark eyelashes. I can see my own reflection as he stares up at me, as though he’s trying to figure out who I am.
“Hello, little bird,” I say again. “It’s me. Your mama.”
It’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud. Raw emotion wells up inside me. My vision blurs behinds tears, but I force them back, unwilling to lose sight of my son for even a moment.
He gurgles in my arms. I cradle him tenderly as I press a delicate kiss on his forehead.
“You are beautiful, mijo,” I whisper.
“He really is,” the blonde nurse agrees. She smiles down at the both of us. “Pure beauty. And trust me, I don’t say that about every baby.”
Laughter bubbles up to my lips.
For the first time in a long time, I feel truly and freely happy.
“Is there someone we can call for you, dear?” the blonde nurse asks.
And just like that, my happiness deflates just a little, reminding me of all the problems that still exist. All the trials I have yet to overcome.
“No,” I answer swiftly. “There’s no one.”
The second nurse moves forward just a little. The two of them exchange a glance. I can see pity in their eyes, but it doesn’t affect me anymore.
“What about the father?” the second one suggests gently.
I open my mouth, but snap it shut a moment later. How do I answer that question?
I left the father.
We wanted different lives.
I had to save my child from the world I was born into.
“There is no father,” I say simply. “It’s just me and him.” I leave it at that.
The blonde nurse moves forward and puts her hand on my shoulder. “Sometimes, that’s all you need.”
I smile gratefully at her. “Thank you.”
“He’s going to need a name.”
A name.
It’s strikes me that in all the months I had to plan and prepare for his birth, I’ve never once thought about names.
At least, not since those early days in the cabin, when it was just Artem and me. When we’d still been wrapped up in the glow of new love and fragile hope.
Thinking about it now, I realize how idealistic those conversations were.
We were just pretending.
Pretending that happiness was possible.
Pretending that we could make it as a family—against all the odds.
My son gurgles loudly and I wrench my attention back to him.
“Are you hungry, my angel?” I ask.
He raises his little fists before settling into my arms.
“You wanna try feeding him, honey?” the blonde nurse asks.
I nod as the nerves set in a little. I grew accustomed to carrying a baby while I was pregnant. But now that he’s out, a fully-fledged human being in his own right.
It terrifies me.
I am solely responsible for him.
In all the world, I am the only one he has.
I am the only one he can count on.
“It’s okay,” the blonde nurse reassures me. “Breast-feeding can be a little tricky the first time around, but you’ll get the hang of it.”
I smile, finding comfort in her soothing words. “What’s your name?” I ask her.
“Nurse Sedley,” she replies. “But you can call me Maria. And this is Annette.”
For the first time, I focus on the nurse that brought my son in to meet me for the first time. She’s dark-haired, like me, but her eyes are dark and husky, her lips full and blushing with color.
“I don’t remember anything about the labor,” I say.
“It was a C-section,” Annette tells me. “You were in no fit state to undergo a natural labor. But Dr. Farrow did a fantastic job. He stitched you up well. You will have pain for a few days, but you’ll heal.”
I nod hesitantly as I try to process
all of that. “You were there?”
“I was,” she says. “I was the one who washed your little boy up and swaddled him. He has an amazing set of lungs on him.”
I smile, realizing I haven’t heard him cry yet. He’s been quiet in my arms for the longest time. I sit up a little straighter and shimmy down my hospital robe on one side.
Maria moves forward and holds my boy for a moment so I can get my right breast out. I’m aware suddenly how different my breasts feel at the moment. Heavier than I would have expected and larger than I’m used to.
“Your milk has come in nicely,” Maria comments.
I hold my son up to my breast and gently guide his mouth towards my nipple. He seems uncertain at first but Maria helps me wheedle his mouth open.
When he finally clamps down on me, I give a little yelp and cringe as the pain shoots through my nipple.
“It’s okay,” Maria coaxes. “Easy does it.”
It takes several minutes for me to get accustomed to the strange sensation. “This is… weird,” I admit.
Maria smiles. “It takes some getting used to,” she agrees. “I’ve had four babies and breast-feeding was a new experience each time.”
“Really?”
“Mhmm. People don’t talk enough about how hard it is,” she tells me. “Everyone assumes it’s this natural art that just comes to you.”
I wince a little as the baby bites down on my nipple a little. “Wow, and he only has soft little gums.”
Annette rests a reassuring hand on my leg. “Trust me, darling: it’ll get easier.”
I brush the back of my knuckle against his velvety soft cheek. “He’s so beautiful.”
“He really is,” Annette agrees. “And those features! So different.”
“His father is Russian,” I say without thinking.
“Oh?” Maria blurts.
I look down at the baby to cover over my awkwardness. I probably shouldn’t have shared that with them, but it had just slipped out.
I sigh inwardly. Maybe I don’t have to be so nervous. After all, if Artem wanted to find me, he would have done so by now.
Why hasn’t he even tried?
I try not to let that thought consume me. But it hurts more than I’m willing to admit.
It hurts so bad some nights I can barely sleep.
He didn’t even try to fight for me.
I disappeared and he just… let me go.
“You wanna tell us about his father?” Maria questions, putting a hand on my arm. “Because you can. You can trust us.”
Can I trust anyone?
I look between the two women in front of me, and I’m struck by how much I want to tell them, how much I want to share my story with them. With someone. With anyone.
Because, honestly, I’m sick of being alone.
I’m sick of keeping people—good, kind, generous people—at arm’s length because I’m so scared of being found, of being betrayed.
“Don’t cry, honey,” Maria says. Only then do I realize I’ve got tears running down my cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, trying to wipe away my tears.
“Did… did he do that to you?” Maria asks.
I stare at her with confusion. “What do you mean?”
I follow her gaze and notice that she’s staring at the bruise on my arm. I have no idea how I’d gotten it in the first place. Maybe from the fall in the bus depot? I can’t be sure.
I look up at her concerned eyes and I realize what she’s thinking. I’m about to correct her but I stop before I can find the words.
After all, what is the point?
I can’t give her details.
I can’t explain specifics. At least, not without also giving up my identity in the process.
The idea of Artem finding me is… confusing.
But the idea of Budimir finding me is downright terrifying.
Especially now that I have my little Phoenix.
“It’s complicated,” I tell Maria in the end.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she tells me. “You don’t have to talk about it.”
She helps me switch my son to my left breast, so he can feed evenly. Immediately, the tension that was mounting in my chest eases a little.
“Any thoughts on names?” Annette asks eagerly.
It takes me a second, but when the idea comes, it’s so perfect and fully formed that it’s a wonder I didn’t think of it months ago.
“Phoenix,” I say. “His name is Phoenix.”
My little bird.
Rising from the ashes of the house that Artem burned to the ground.
“Aw, honey,” Maria says, running her hand over Phoenix’s downy hair. “That’s perfect.”
“Love it,” Annette agrees.
I don’t even know if they’re just saying so for my benefit, but I appreciate their enthusiasm. For a moment, it make me feel less alone.
Then the doctor walks in, a tall, mustached man with feather-white hair and hooded eyes. Annette and Maria move aside so that he can examine me.
“Good afternoon,” he says, nodding towards me without a smile. “You’re looking well.”
“You’re the doctor who performed my C-section?”
“Your emergency C section,” he clarifies. “You were unconscious when you arrived. You were brought in by an older African American man.”
Geoffrey.
“We asked him a few questions when we needed some of your personal information,” the doctor continues. “But he couldn’t give us any. He claimed that you two were not related.”
“That’s true,” I reply. “We’re not related. I met him a half hour before my water broke.”
“I see,” the doctor tuts. “Well, I’m going to need you to fill out some forms for us.”
“Forms?” I ask, panic rising inside me like bile.
“Yes, we need your name, age, nation ID number. Things of that nature,” he says. “We need to know who to contact.”
I can feel my breaths come in again, sharp and painful.
When will I be rid of this feeling, this weight on my chest?
“There’s no one to contact,” I say. “It’s just me.”
The doctor cocks his head to the side. “No husband, boyfriend? No mother or father?” he presses.
“No,” I repeat firmly. “No one.”
I stare down at my son and the weight of my words settles over both of us. The path I have chosen is going to be a lonely one.
Did I do the right thing by leaving Artem?
Or have I just deprived my son of a good father?
No. No second-guessing. I did this for Phoenix’s safety. For my own.
There was no other choice.
“Uh, doctor?” Maria says, but I don’t look up to watch the exchange. “She just woke up mere minutes ago. She’s still disoriented and very tired. Perhaps we should give her a few hours?”
“I can give her one,” the doctor says, looking at me with his leering, hooded eyes. “But I’m going to need you to fill out those forms.”
He gives me a curt nod and strides back out the door.
If I fill out those forms, someone will find me. Budimir, Artem, my father’s allies—someone. That much is guaranteed.
I’ve managed to stay under the radar this long. But now I’m trapped here, I’m physically incapacitated, and I have no one to ask for help.
I try to control the panic I feel, but my body hurts, my breasts hurt, and I’m so fucking scared that I can’t keep the sobs at bay.
They burst from me the moment the doctor has cleared the room.
“Oh, darling!” Maria cries out.
Annette moves forward, too. “Honey,” she murmurs. “What’s wrong?”
I look up at both of them, wondering how much to say, whether or not I should say anything at all.
“Childbirth is a difficult and emotional journey, honey,” Maria assures me.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I… I can’t fill out those form
s,” I admit at last.
Both nurses exchange a glance. “Why not?” Maria asks.
I shake my head and Annette sighs. “Honey, you were admitted to this hospital. We’re gonna need you to sign a few things.”
“I can’t,” I reply desperately. “I can’t sign anything. I can’t pay for anything and I can’t put my name on anything.”
“Esme…”
“I shouldn’t have told you my name,” I whimper. “I’m such a fool.”
“Shh,” Annette consoles me. “Hush now, darling. Your son needs you to be strong.”
I know. I know I need to be strong.
I just don’t want to have to be all the time.
I want Artem.
I want my husband.
The moment the thought let loose inside my head, I felt it deep down inside my heart. The truth of it. The desperate, powerful longing for him that’s never stopped.
That never will stop.
No matter what he does, I love Artem Kovalyov.
“I need to stand up,” I say, at last. “I need to stand. Can you get the IV out? Please… please?”
Annette and Maria exchange a worried glance. But then Maria nods.
I cover myself up and hand Phoenix over to Maria, while Annette moves forward and starts releasing me from the drip.
The moment I’m free, I get out of bed, frustrated by how little my body wants to co-operate. Another bolt of pain courses through my body and strikes at my stomach.
But I don’t have the option of a slow recovery.
“Honey, you sure you wanna stand right now?” Maria asks.
“Yes,” I insist. “I need to walk. To breathe.”
I can feel my anxiety levels spike and I hear a siren in the distance.
Are they coming for me?
I killed a man in the diner. They’re no doubt looking for me.
I should have been out of the town by now.
“Honey. Esme!” Maria grabs my shoulders and pulls me around to face her, forcing me to meet her gaze. “You’re in real trouble, aren’t you?”
I nod, feeling another sob scratch at my throat. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
“All right,” Maria says with finality, looking towards Annette. “Annette and I are gonna go do our rounds now. We’ll be gone for ten minutes. Understand?”
I pull her to me and hug her as tight as I can.
“Thank you,” I whisper in her ear as I look towards Annette. “Thank you both.”