by Ciara Shayee
True to his word, he remained in the chair until she was asleep, her breaths even and soft. Careful not to disturb any of the three sleeping girls, Laker finally stood, stretching his arms and legs until they ached. His leg—the one he broke during his last year at school—gave an audible pop. Wincing, Laker was about to retake his seat when he heard a loud clang from out in the corridor. He flinched and alternated glances between Indie, Grace, and Marley.
Thankfully, none of them stirred. He tiptoed across the tiled floor towards the door, checking on them once more before opening it as quietly as possible and stepping out into the hall. The door clicked shut behind him as his eyes caught the source of the noise. His body registered the heavy energy clouding the area before his mind could catch up, his first clue being Peter’s rigid stance against the far wall and the stony look on his face. Before he could ask what was going on, Reagan’s fist came down on the seat of the chair beside the one he was sitting on, another clang ringing out through the thin corridor as the metal chair legs scraped the floor. Peter reached for his shoulder in warning.
“No,” Reagan growled, but there was no fire in it. Only defeat. His eyes screamed anguish, their colour so similar to Indie’s that it made Laker cringe, though he couldn’t pinpoint why. “It’s wrong. There’s no way.”
Only then did Laker notice the man opposite Reagan. A doctor, judging by the white lab coat and stethoscope around his neck. He held a clipboard in one hand and wore a grim look on his face.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ashby. I ran the test three times myself. The results are correct.”
Laker saw Peter squeeze Reagan’s shoulder again as the dark-haired man made as if to stand.
“She can’t be…” he breathed, the fight leeching out of him into the floor. He made a pitiful sight, slumping over on a worn chair in a corridor bearing peeling paintwork and faded carpet.
A rock landed, heavy and weighted, in Laker’s stomach. She can’t be, what?
“It would explain a few things, Mr. Ashby. The majority of her symptoms fit. The mood swings, sickness, lethargy…”
Laker felt nausea hit him square in the gut, breath whooshing from his lungs with the doctors next words. Recovery became infinitely harder for Indie, and the chance of her being able to put the past firmly in the past became slimmer within a second.
“All of Indie’s symptoms are, without a doubt, linked to the fact that she’s pregnant.”
~ oOo ~
“She needs a doctor, please!”
Garrett scowled, flicking the ash from his cigarette on the floor. Grace was too distracted to care, though she’d mopped only hours before. “There are no doctors for hundreds of miles. Tell her to just get on with it before I lose my patience. She’s being a dramatic brat.”
Grace’s face fell as her eyes burned with tears she refused to shed. “But she needs a doctor, don’t you get it? She needs medicine and help!”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Go back to your room and stay there; I don’t want to hear another word out of either of you! You hear me? You won’t like what happens if I’m disturbed again.”
Hesitating just long enough to earn herself a dangerously raised eyebrow, Grace darted back up the stairs she’d just descended, skidding into the room she shared with Indie.
She was just where she’d left her, leaning over the side of the bed with her elbows digging into the thin mattress, heaving breaths wracking her small frame as she panted and keened, her cheeks red from exertion and hair matted to her head with sweat.
“Well?” Indie managed to ask through gritted teeth.
Grace grimaced. “I’m sorry. He wouldn’t listen. What can I do?”
Indie didn’t get the chance to speak. Her face scrunched up in obvious pain before she dug her arms into the bed, gripping the sheets so hard that she ripped tiny finger holes in the fabric. Her body shuddered, a wave of agony tearing through her. She sucked in deep breaths through her teeth. “Flannel…please,” she finally breathed as the pain eased a little. Grace hurried to ring out the flannel she’d left beside Indie, soaking it in cold water before returning to hold it against her friend’s head. She was panting heavily now, exhaustion and sweat burning her eyes.
“This hurts, Gracie. It really, really hurts.”
“I know, Indie, I know it does. Can I do anything else?” Indie’s whimpers absolutely broke Grace’s heart, particularly because she knew there wasn’t anything she could do to ease her pain. There was no magic cure, no medication she could give—not that they had in their limited medical supply kit, anyway. And if Garrett were to be believed, even if a doctor could get there, they probably wouldn’t make it in time.
“Oh, Jesus, again…” Indie trailed off with a low, animalistic howl, pressing her forehead down into the bed as she rode through the waves of pain tormenting her body.
“They’re getting closer, Indie…” Grace sighed, her heart racing. She had no idea what she was supposed to be doing, no idea how to help. The only thing she could think to do was carefully coax Indie up onto the bed and help her out of her tracksuit bottoms.
“Hold my hand, okay? Squeeze as hard as you need to.”
Indie whimpered, her breaths rasping as she dragged in ragged puffs of air when her body cooperated.
This went on for hours.
Indie fidgeted well into the night, unable to rest but rapidly running out of energy. At eleven-thirty, her pain eased just a fraction, nausea slamming into her gut like a wrecking ball for a few minutes before she felt the almighty urge to bear down.
Too tired to fight it, and too mentally drained to question her instincts, Indie squeezed Grace’s hands until they turned purple as she let her body take over, battling valiantly for a further forty minutes before slumping in an exhausted heap against the cushions. Grace let her relax back, kissing her sweat-dampened forehead before shakily moving around to the foot of the bed.
With wide eyes and twin waterfalls cascading over her cheeks, she cleaned up as best she knew how, tucking a towel beneath Indie before taking another and wrapping it around the bloody, greyish pink bundle between Indie’s legs. She peered down, not one particular emotion taking precedence. She was petrified, more nervous than she’d ever been in her life, and beyond confused.
But, amidst all that, was an awe so strong it couldn’t be denied or hidden.
Grace fell in love on the spot. She cooed, rocked, and soothed. Then, when Indie finally raised her head with tired eyes, scared eyes trained firmly on the towel-wrapped bundle in her arms, Grace moved around the bed, scooting in to sit next to her.
Smiling a shaky, watery half-smile, she carefully adjusted the precious cargo in her arms, shifting it to lay against Indie’s chest. “Happy birthday, Mommy.”
Indie peered at the face of her child, still a child herself, and wept.
She wept for the life she’d lived, the life she’d lost, and the life she’d created.
She memorised every tiny detail of the baby’s face. The button nose, rosebud lips, and eyes the exact same shade of sea-blue-green as her own. Only once she was sure she’d never forget the baby’s face did she look to Grace, seeing fear and wonder reflected back at her.
“What are you going to call her?” Grace whispered when their eyes swivelled back to the baby as she began to fuss.
“Her…” Indie murmured. She hadn’t assigned the squirming mass in her stomach a gender. It hadn’t seemed real until the contractions started in the early hours of the previous morning. It had become real, then. And it was even more-so now, with the squirming mass gone from her belly and resting, instead, at her chest.
Against her heart.
Outside, the wind howled, rain beating the windows in a harsh staccato. Not a star was visible in the sky, the moon hidden behind its shroud of black clouds. Draughts rattled the old house, and Grace tugged the covers up over her, Indie, and the settling newborn.
“Marley,” Indie eventually said. “Marley Grace Ashby.”
; Grace felt fresh torrents of tears gathering in her eyes, but she held them back and swallowed the lump in her throat, reaching over to kiss the now-sleeping baby’s cheek with her fingertips.
“Happy birthday, Marley,” she murmured, twisting a little to curl into Indie as she sighed. “And happy sweet sixteen to us.”
Indie hummed, staring down at the life she’d had no choice in creating, and wondered about all the things her dad had pictured his daughter doing or having on her sweet sixteen.
She doubted childbirth and forced parenthood made the list.
~ oOo ~
Indie woke with a jolt, flying upright. It took a few long moments for her to remember where she was.
It had been a while since she’d dreamt of Marley’s birth. It had been, without a doubt, the scariest, most painful experience of her life. She’d been petrified when she discovered her pregnancy, just fifteen-years-old, but was even more-so when the contractions began.
She winced at the memory of the pain that had ravished her body for almost twenty-four hours. It had resulted in the best thing in her life, her beautiful daughter, but at the time Indie had been exhausted and terrified of everything—especially the newborn baby relying on her and Grace for everything.
Looking over at her now, Indie thought she couldn’t remember what her face had looked like in those early days. But as she fidgeted in her sleep, Indie saw the same purse to her lips she’d worn as a newborn, the same scrunch of her forehead as she wriggled and adjusted her hold on her stuffed bunny.
Yes, she could remember. She may not have the albums most mothers got to cherish forever, but she had her memories and nobody could take those away from her.
Only when a myriad of muffled cries and a thump came through the cracked-open door did Indie snap out of her staring. She pulled her eyes from Marley’s sleeping face, trying to see through the gap between the doorframe and the door. She couldn’t. The bed was at the wrong angle.
Carefully, so as not to wake Grace or Marley, she padded across the room on bare feet, wincing momentarily at the chill to the floor before adjusting and sliding her feet into a pair of socks with sticky circles on the bottom to stop her feet slipping on the floor. A kind nurse with warm brown eyes and a wrinkled face had given them to her, Grace, and Marley so they could move around without worrying about sliding. At the time she’d been too overwhelmed to think much of them, but she was grateful for her foresight now, and resolved to thank the nurse when she returned.
Moving towards the door, Indie was startled to hear swearing tinged with a familiar Italian lilt. She hurried, pushing the door open slowly just as the doctor helped Reagan up into a sitting position on the floor.
“Dad?” she gasped, falling to her knees in front of him. His face was pale, eyes glassy. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
Receiving only a blank stare from Reagan, she looked to Peter—who averted his eyes—before meeting Laker’s gaze. He looked pained as he forced himself to look at her.
“What’s going on?” Indie asked in a small voice.
The doctor rose and she scampered back a little. She hadn’t realised how close to him she’d been, eyes only on her dad.
“Miss Ashby, the results of your blood tests came back. You gave me permission to share them with your father, and they came as a bit of a shock. Would you like to discuss them in the room?”
Eyeing her dad, then the doctor with his soft grey eyes and unreadable expression, Indie felt frissons of fear snaking their way into her heart; she shook her head.
“No, h-here is fine. What...what is it? What’s wrong with me?”
When she was having Marley, nobody told Indie that she was pregnant. She may have been only fifteen, but she knew enough about periods from overhearing conversations as a child to realise that it wasn’t normal for them to suddenly stop.
Especially after what had happened six weeks or so before.
This time? This time she’d had no inkling, no suspicions or worries. Truthfully, she’d had plenty other things to worry about.
So, with that said, it wasn’t a surprise to anyone when her heart-rate soared and the breath rushed out of her in one long gust as the doctor informed her of the positive pregnancy tests, and the need for a scan to determine how far along she was.
Laker’s arms were waiting to catch her when her legs became too wobbly to support her weight. Her eyes glazed over as she fell back against his chest and closed herself off before their eyes, all emotion wiping itself from her face. A shroud of numbness protecting her from the outside world.
Nothing could get her there. Nothing could penetrate it.
And nothing pulled her out of it.
An entire day passed with Indie in an almost catatonic state, fluids being pumped into and out of her by machines, warm hands and warmer voices attempting to cajole her from the misery of her own mind—to no avail.
Until Laker had an idea. One the doctor initially rejected, but finally agreed to try.
With Reagan to her left, Grace her right, Marley at the foot of the bed with Laker’s hand in her and her bunny in her right, and Peter a step back from his childhood friend—just in case—Indie finally roused, a sound no mother could ignore penetrating the bubble she’d created around herself.
Tears filled every eye in the room as Indie moved, slowly, to a sitting position, eyes searching for focus, roused only by the sound of her unborn child’s heartbeat, its first grainy image squirming in mottled grey, black, and white on the screen at the end of the bed. Marley wriggled closed, peering intently at the profile of her brother or sister before twisting to frown uncertainly at her mother.
Indie stared right back, her gaze flitting between the faces of the lives she’d made. The lives she carried within her heart.
Her purpose. Her reason for living. Her reason to fight, to overcome, and to heal.
She had a purpose, and she vowed not to forget it again.
chapter thirteen
A week after the girls arrived at the hospital, they finally had answers.
Not all of them, but enough to paint a harrowing picture of what Indie and Grace—and later, Marley—had experienced during their time on the ranch.
The revelations began during Megan’s therapy sessions, and with the permission of the girls, she shared the information they had given with their dads, and thus, Laker.
He cringed as he brushed Marley’s hair back into a ponytail on the third morning at the hospital, remembering the scene the previous morning when Indie told them about Marley’s father.
Indie was sitting on the chair in the window, Marley at her feet with Mr. Bunny and some wooden blocks a nurse had brought up from the children’s ward. She was also sporting a pair of headphones that almost dwarfed her head. Megan had insisted upon it if Indie wanted her to remain in the room. She was a child, just five years old, and she’d already seen and heard far too much. She didn’t need to hear this, too. Happy with the compromise, Indie had insisted Laker be allowed to stay in the room, too. She wanted him there so that Marley could be taken out of the room if she got too upset. She didn’t want to frighten her daughter, but having Marley nearby helped her to feel more relaxed.
She felt better when she could see Marley; see that she was safe.
“Are you still okay with discussing what we planned?” Megan asked softly.
Indie turned her head slightly, meeting Megan’s gaze. She looked petrified but resignation darkened her eyes. With a nod, she sighed and visibly steeled herself for what would doubtlessly be an uncomfortable conversation. “Yeah. I just…it’s difficult to talk about.”
“That’s okay, there’s no rush. We’re not in any hurry, so you just take your time, all right?”
A few minutes passed before anybody spoke again. Surprisingly, Indie broke the silence.
“He came to the ranch after a supply run and begged for a job. Garrett wasn’t there at the time—he was away on some trip—so one of the other guys just said ‘yes’ an
d let him stay.”
Megan hummed, “So he worked on the ranch. Do you know his name?”
A maelstrom of emotions crossed Indie’s face, a shudder rippling through her body. Megan saw it, even from where she sat a good six feet away.
“Marcus. Marcus Lucien. That’s what he said, anyway.”
Laker’s fists clenched in his lap. It was clear from the tone of Indie’s voice that she didn’t like this Marcus Lucien one bit. Rage bled into his veins, but he forced himself to stay still and hide it.
Indie wasn’t done.
“He was there for a while, six months or so altogether, I guess. Garrett…he came back after about three weeks and went crazy, but it was weird. He was angry before he even got to the ranch. It didn’t click at first that he must’ve been watching on the cameras or something to know Marcus was there…” Indie trailed off, then shook her head and continued. “Grace got really sick that winter. Everyone got the stomach flu, but it hit her and one of the guys the hardest. She was in bed for almost a week once it passed just to recover.”
Laker didn’t like where this was heading. If Grace spent the week in bed, that meant Indie was alone most of the time. She’d already admitted that she and Grace had been treated like slaves, forced to do the cooking, cleaning, and general upkeep of the house, which had to be kept up to ridiculous standards. The men had been warned not to mess with them upon their arrival, she’d heard Garrett giving some new hires the lecture once, but he hadn’t been there when Marcus was hired. He hadn’t given Marcus that warning.
He watched as Indie shuddered and stared at Marley, hopelessly oblivious to the conversation as she listened to nursery rhymes. He wondered what Indie was thinking; if she could see Marcus in her baby. It was likely her hair at least was his. Or possibly carried down from her grandmother, who’d passed her dark tresses down to Archie.
“I think it was the third or fourth day Grace was ill…I’d just finished cleaning up after dinner, and the dishwasher was broken. I was distracted and knocked a plate off the side. It didn’t break but it made a really loud noise, and I guess he heard.”