by Jasmine Walt
Footsteps rush through the hall. A light flicks on, yellow and brassy, illuminating my bare room in a way that makes it feel colder. Ma’s standing here now, her expression fallen. She hurries to my side and holds my hand. I wish she would stop running her fingers through her hair. It makes me nervous.
“Oh, God, Rose. I’m sorry. It’s going to be okay, baby, Mama’s here now.”
I don’t respond. Pa stands in the doorway, still dressed in the dark denim pants he put on after his shift at the farm. Sleep marks carve the left cheek of his face, and his short black hair sticks up on one side. My heart skips to near racing. It’s so loud in my ears I swear Pa can hear, too.
“Evelyn,” he says coolly. “Get the rum and a glass of water.”
She keeps staring at me, swallowing, looking at least a decade older than her forty-three years. In this light, her nose looks especially crooked from all the times it’s been broken. But my Pa didn’t do that to her—no, her own Pa was to blame for that.
She swallows again, and now I’m feeling the urge to swallow, too, but my mouth and throat are too dry. It takes me a moment, but I realize why she’s still standing there. She’s wants to protect me.
Little late for that.
Pa snaps his dark face toward her. “Go!”
Mama startles, and I startle, too. Everyone startles when Pa yells because his eyes get bigger and darker and his face gets pinker. As Mama darts from the room, my skin gets all shivery.
I close my eyes and wish Mama was back, but when I open them, it’s still just Pa and me. I’m shaking so much it makes the pale, painted-yellow headboard of my bed rattle against the wall.
Two of the Dark Ones step closer to Pa. Step right into my direct line of sight. Dark, faceless figures.
I gasp. I’ve never seen them so directly. But before I can react any further, another contraction crests, wracking my body with a new wave of pain.
A coolness caresses my forehead. “Breathe.”
The voice has come from behind me. One of the Darkness. They have never spoken to me before. Why do they care about me now, after having caused me so much pain? Why whisper words of comfort tonight?
Pa steps toward me, but they grab his arms, pinning him in place. He doesn’t seem to see them. No one sees them but me.
Pa’s brow furrows, and he shakes his head. “Where’s your damn Ma?” he asks. He’s been drinking, and his whiskey-breath fills the room. “Evelyn!”
Moments later, Mama rushes in with the rum and water. She’s also brought fresh towels, which she drops by the end of the bed.
“Is everything okay?” she asks Pa. “You’re going to help her, aren’t you? You said you’d—”
“No,” he says, his face pale. The bead of sweat above his lip trembles. “You deliver the baby.”
“Me?” She glances over to me. “I’ve never—but you—you’ve delivered some of your siblings...”
Pa came from a family of nine kids, and his Mama didn’t believe in hospitals. Not even when some of her babies caught cholera, not even after she lost a few to cot death. So Pa could do this, as Mama says, but I don’t want him to. I don’t want him to ever touch Anna.
“You created this mess,” Mama says with a forcefulness that is new and awkward. “You deliver the baby.”
Pa turns away. Leaves. The pressure overwhelms my body. I just need to get to a hospital, but I don’t think there’s time for that now.
“I need to push, Mama.”
Mama rushes to my bedside and holds the water to my lips. She’s trembling. Water splashes onto my chin, but I shake my head. My mouth’s dry, but even the idea of drinking sounds painful.
“Now,” I say. “The baby’s coming now.”
She sets the glass on the nightstand. “I can’t,” she says. She backs away, tears filling her eyes. “I—I’m sorry, Rose. I can’t.”
“You can’t leave me!”
She shakes her head and keeps backing away until she reaches the door, tears spilling down her bony cheeks. Then she turns, and all that is left of her is the clomp of her footsteps hurrying down the hall. Hurrying away.
A door shuts. A lock clicks. Mama’s shut down again, the way she always does when things are just ‘too much to take’.
I shouldn’t care. I hadn’t wanted them here. But now I’m terrified. I don’t know how to—
I grit my teeth against another contraction and cry to myself. Pain rips through me. I must be dying. My body trembles through every limb, and nausea quakes my stomach. I try to get out of bed. Maybe there’s still enough time to get to a hospital. I’ll take the keys to Pa’s truck from the hook by the door and—
Another wave of pain slams through, and I lean back into the bed. The pain is like a fire slicing me in half, and the contractions are right on top of each other now, barely giving me a moment to breathe or even think.
I’m not going anywhere. I can’t even get back on the bed. Everything is happening too fast and, at the same time, the pain seems to stretch on for eternity. I just want to have my baby safely—have her and get her far away from this place.
“Mama!” I holler. “Please, Mama!”
Sobs echo from the other room, and I realize I’m crying, too. It’s just me now. Me and the Darkness and my baby, my Anna, coming into the horrifying world that doesn’t deserve her.
2
August of 1961 to December of 1691
That first moment I see her, my heart freezes in my chest. I suck in a quiet breath. The world around me grows still. There is only her.
She looks nothing like Pa. Not her tiny toes, not her delicate wisps of hair. She really is all mine, and soon we will be away from this awful place, just her and I.
God, she’s beautiful. I guess everyone thinks that about their baby. I purse my lips, considering whether Pa’s mama looked down on Pa with this same unconditional love. Did she think he could do no wrong, that he was perfect in every way? If she were still alive today—if she only knew—learning Pa’s secrets would kill her.
I should have killed him a long time ago, when he was passed out drunk. The world would be better without him. But I can’t let my mind go there—can’t let him ruin this moment. He’s ruined enough.
I hold Anna to my chest, her cherub cheek pressed close to my beating heart. Her existence is healing. I just smile at her, at everything she does, at everything she isn’t doing.
I kiss her forehead and whisper, “Don’t worry, my sweet Anna. We’ll leave this place soon.”
As I bathe her over a towel, using just a small sponge and a dish of water, I am awed at every perfect thing about her. Her tiny fingers, her chubby knees, her slender shoulders. And right there, on the back of her left shoulder, is a birthmark to match the one on my wrist—a pale brown misshapen heart.
I know now that heaven exists. It’s right here in my arms. And as I watch her sleep, an indescribable feeling of love floods through me, and I know, instantly, that I will do anything to protect her.
I blink my eyes open to a used-up candle and a gray sky. I shake the sleep from my head. Something’s off. Had I fallen asleep while nursing Anna? I can sense her absence even before I check the bassinet I made from a box and old sheets.
I stumble back toward my bed and shuffle through my blood-stained sheets. She’s not here.
Anna’s not here.
Oh, God.
My heart stutters. How much time has passed? I had been in such a state. I don’t even know what time I gave birth, just that it was in the middle of the night. It’s past dawn now. I slept too long. Why didn’t I wake up? Why didn’t I notice that I slept too long without being woken by my baby?
I ignore the aches pulsing in my body and try to remember the last moment I saw her. I can envision the light in Anna’s muddy blue eyes. I remember wondering if her eyes would one day be as green as mine. I swaddled her in one of my old shirts, wondering how much she would look like me and how much she would remind me of Pa once we escaped.
; Then what? I needed rest to regain my strength. We were going to leave right after Pa left for the farm this morning. But now morning has come, and Anna’s gone.
An anchor crashes into the pit of my stomach, and my mind races. I stumble from my room and dart through the house. She isn’t in my parent’s room, the living room, the kitchen.
I can’t breathe. My lungs hurt from the effort. Where is she? Where’s my daughter?
I’m shaking and full of dread and I absolutely can’t live if anything bad has happened to her. Please, God, let her be okay. Please!
My sluggish heartbeat turns to a pounding of adrenaline. I rush to the front of the house and burst onto the porch. The first thing I see is the dead raccoon that Pa left beside the house, now swarmed by flies. I spin toward where I know Mama will be sitting.
Beneath the long-ago burnt-out porch light—now a cemetery for moths—Mama sips at her tea. She’s cozy, all wrapped in her cotton robe as though nothing is wrong. The glow of morning sun catches the reddish hues of her graying blonde hair.
“Where is she?” I ask, grasping the doorframe to keep my weak body balanced.
Mama jumps. Her tea splashes as she shakily lowers the cup to her lap. “Oh, Rose. Please don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what?”
I’m met with silence. She shifts in the porch swing and lowers her gaze. Her face is all puffy, her eyes red.
I narrow my eyes. “Where’s Anna? You know. I can tell you do.”
Then I see it—that flash of a smile that is completely devoid of happiness. Her instinctual defense to hide whatever she is really feeling. But this time, even she can’t hold that smile in place.
I’ve lived on the wrong side of secrets long enough to know when someone is hiding something. And that’s exactly what Mama is doing.
I step closer, jabbing my finger in her face. “Tell me! I know you know where she is! What did you do to her?”
I’m shaking. My hands clench and my heart pounds in my ears. Ma stands, the teacup tumbling from her lap. She fumbles for it, then lets it go. She paces, then sits again. Her hands flit around, from her face, to smooth her dress, twisting in her lap. She’s coming undone, about to fall apart completely, and I don’t care one bit.
“WHERE’S ANNA?”
“Your Pa loves us,” she says finally, her words hidden behind her hand as she talks. “He’s protecting your reputation.”
“His reputation?” I say, incredulous.
She smiles weakly. “You’ll understand one day.”
I won’t ever understand. Mama had been good to me once, but ever since the Darkness came, she’s someone else. A woman stuck between denial and oblivion.
“Where’s Anna?” I ask again, but already I have that sinking feeling in my stomach. The pain of the birth ebbs, replaced by a fresh rush of adrenaline.
“It’s for the best.” Mama pinches the bridge of her nose. “We can be a family again, the way we’re supposed to be. Your Pa’s learned his lesson. We all make mistakes, Rose. The Lord implores us to forgive.”
Pa’s truck crunches over the gravel driveway and starts down the road, tearing away from us. He must have her. I can’t even think straight, can’t think beyond the thought that my daughter must be okay. That she can’t be hurt. That Pa can’t take her away from me. I’m sick with panic and fearing the worst. I can’t lose her.
The dusty blue truck kicks up dirt as Pa halts at the end of our road. He’s on his way to hide the evidence of what he’s done. He can’t stand to look at her, to be reminded of the monster that lives inside of him. He already tried to convince me to give her up. I considered it, but only for the sake of protecting her from him. But it wasn’t his decision. Anna was never his. She is a product of his abuse, of his drunkenness and Mama’s cowardliness.
But she is still my child.
I need to get her before it’s too late. Before he signs her over to someone who won’t give her back.
So I run.
I run without looking back. I run without caring about the after-pains of birth or the possibility of bleeding out or the hot pavement cutting my feet. I run, my body numb, not feeling the ground beneath me. I don’t care to know if Mama started after me or if she’s stood to watch me flee, staring dumbfounded, or if she’s still swaying in her swing, sipping tea, looking at the poppy fields. I don’t care about anything anymore—only Anna.
As I run past Mrs. Kelly’s she yells, “Where ya off to, Rose?”
She comes off her porch and onto the walk, staring at me with a furrowed brow. “Oh! You had your baby! Rose? Rose?”
She’s behind me now, her voice echoing after me. I must look crazy, running like this so shortly after giving birth. But I don’t care. No one in this town truly knows me. No one can help me. The only thing that matters right now is getting to Anna, and I don’t dare hope anyone would help me with that. There’s no time for hope right now.
Pa’s truck careens a corner in the distance, and my legs are given a new direction. They carry me mindlessly down a forgotten stretch of pavement that cuts through the fields like an unnatural hairpin valley. Hills on the roadside crest and fall. The road turns to dirt, diverges into a forest.
I don’t know which way Pa went, but I have to keep going or I’ll lose her forever. If I keep going, there’s a chance. There’s a chance I can find Pa—find Anna. There’s a chance I can save my baby.
I run through the woods, past dried up waterways and dandelion with no fluff. The shadow men rush beside me, and I run harder, the world a blur of tears and movement and shadows. My lungs burn from my effort, but the moist, earthly air sooths my throat and leaves the acrid taste of pine on my lips.
I hear a loud crack and dizziness swarms through my head, and I feel a slam to my core—a shift, a thrust—as though I’ve stumbled even though I haven’t lost my footing. I’m starting to feel faint. My vision darkens, then brightens again.
I stop and look around. I’ve lost the dirt road that cuts through the forest. I can’t smell the rubber of tires from the main road anymore or the piss-stink of Georgia. All I smell is soil, and the hot air has given way to a bitter cold that bites my skin.
The sun, bringing no warmth at all, filters through the rustling leaves of the canopy, creating a confetti of moving light over a snow-frosted ground.
Snow?
Unease creeps over every inch of my body. My sense of time is lost—it was an early summer morning just moments ago, but now I shiver beneath a mid-day winter sun.
What happened? Where am I?
The world spins as I try to look in every direction all at once, try to find where I came from, try to catch sight of Pa’s pick-up truck and Anna before it’s too late.
But I know I am not in Georgia anymore. I know this as surely as I know it’s impossible for me to be anywhere else.
Ahead, the trees part to a clearing filled with rows of small cabins and horse-drawn carts toting cabbage, carrots, and beets. I sneak up, stopping just outside the small village. The people of the town wear drab, old-fashioned clothing. Some kind of Amish settlement?
A dark-skinned woman with her back to me, wearing both an apron and a shawl, gathers herbs from one of the vendors. Her attention dances around, and her face swings in my direction. I’m ready to call to her—Tituba!—but then I realize she’s staring toward somewhere deeper in the forest. Her expression sags, and my heart breaks for her. Poor Tituba. My life hasn’t been easy, but it would be worse to be the slave of Samuel Parris.
My mind throttles. Who is Samuel Parris? Or Tituba, for that matter? How do I know any of these things, any of these names? My consciousness tumbles around, as though fighting to cling to the reality I am trying to return to.
Where are the fields and the poppies and Pa’s pick-up truck?
Where’s Anna?
There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I gasp as I whip around. My head’s spinning, and I’m about to fall over sideways, but I steady myself.
A peti
te woman holding a bundle of wood stares at me with wide¸ tea-colored eyes. She’s wearing a long-sleeved tan dress with a dull green apron. A linen cap covers her long, mousy brown hair.
“Good Lord, Abigail,” she says. “I was hoping it wasn’t you out here.”
“Excuse me?” My voice is shaky and doesn’t sound entirely like my own. It’s softer. My southern drawl is subdued, fading. This woman has confused me for another woman.
“Well, I couldn’t be certain until I got a closer look, but here you are! Oh, poor dear. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. What are you doing out in your nightdress?” Her gaze slides down my body. Her mouth falls open and her fingers touch her parted lips. “What happened to you?”
I look down. Small twigs and burrs have caught in my nightdress, and the ruffles are smudged with dirt. No, not my usual nightdress. It is the same cream color¸ but it’s long sleeved and the material is thicker. Blood trickles down one of my pale legs. My feet are dirty and bleeding, but I feel nothing.
“Where am I?” I ask.
“Let’s get you home before anyone sees you,” the woman says. Her voice is nearly as musical as the water splashing over the mossy stones and roots of a nearby creek. “We’ll get you cleaned up and something hot to eat.”
“I can’t.” I attempt to wipe the tears from my face, but instead feel the gritty smear of dirt rubbing from my hands onto my cheeks. I look back toward where the road should be. “I need to find Anna.”
“Anna?” A line forms between her eyebrows and she places her hand gently on my arm. “Abigail, we can’t stand here like this. If anybody sees you...”
She’s too late. A man has already stopped to stare. I narrow my eyes at him, and he shakes his head before continuing on.
I grab her by the shoulders. “I’m not Abigail. And I’m not from here. I—I don’t know how I got here, but I was looking for my daughter and—”
Realizing how stiff she is in my grasp, I let her go. Her eyes are wide, but she doesn’t move. “Oh, Abigail,” she says. “Not again.”