by Orton, D. L.
I wrap my arms around her. “I love you, Isabel Sanborn. I have loved you since the first time I held you in my arms all those years ago.” I sweep an errant lock of hair away from her face. “But I can’t change the past, so the here and now will have to be enough. And for once in my life, I think it will be.”
“Me too.”
I slide my fingertips across her shoulder, down her arm, and leisurely around her still-flat belly. Earlier today, Mrs. Malloy used a portable ultrasound to determine that Isabel is fifteen weeks pregnant, and that we’re having twins: a boy and a girl! I press my palm against her belly, knowing it’s too early to feel anything, but still hoping. “Twins, huh? I should have known you wouldn’t go for anything average.”
She nips me on my shoulder.
“Ouch!” I run my fingers across her soft skin as rain spatters against the window and darkness falls. “What do you say we name them Nicholas and Alexandra, or Tristan and Isolde? I think Romeo and Juliet might be a bit much, but Tristan and Juliet has a sort of ring to it.”
“They’re siblings, Diego, not lovers.”
“Oh, all right. You can name them Jaime and Cersei for all I care, but the first thing I’m getting for them is a soccer ball. One for each.”
She brings her mouth up to mine, a smile on her lips. “How very practical of you.”
Chapter 16
Diego: Get in Line
I dab Isabel’s forehead with a cool washcloth, feeling next to useless. She lets out a whimper that slowly builds to a wail, the agony visible on her face. “Isn’t there something we can do? A morphine injection like she gave Seamus? Or liquor, even?”
Mrs. Malloy puts her hand on my arm. “Anything we give her will only delay the inevitable, Diego. Now that the labor has started, her body needs to finish it.”
“I can’t stand to watch her suffer, Molly.”
She squeezes my arm. “I know it’s tough, but the miscarriage may be for the best. Carrying twins is an enormous strain on a woman’s body, even when she’s healthy.”
“So there’s no hope for the babies?”
“I’m sorry, but the little ones went off to Heaven before the bleeding started. I know it’s not much consolation, but most women can get pregnant again within a few months. Once Isabel recovers, you could always try again.”
Hell no. Why would I put her though this another time?
I wipe my face on my sleeve and turn back to Iz. She has her eyes shut and her hair is matted with sweat. Instead of gaining weight, she’s lost it, and her cheeks are sunken and pale. The high fever started a week ago and Mrs. Malloy—Molly—and I have been unable to bring it down for more than a few hours. I know it’s because the gash in Isabel’s thigh is infected, and I also know that no amount of saline solution and topical salve is going to cure it. She needs antibiotics, and fast.
Why did it take me so long to see that? If I had done something sooner, maybe I could have saved the twins.
“If she’ll let you,” Molly says, “keep sponging her face and chest. We need to keep that fever down as much as possible. I wish I could do more, but as sick as she is, she should be in a hospital.”
Isabel lets out a whimper, her face contorted with pain and her hands gripping the sheets so hard that her skin in ghostly white.
“I’m sorry, hun. I wish there was something I could do.” I dip the sponge into the tepid water and touch it to her forehead.
She convulses with the strain of the contraction, spilling the basin of water onto the floor. “Please, Diego. Make it stop! I don’t want to lose my babies. I’d rather die than lose the twins.”
Mrs. Malloy catches my eye, shakes her head, and then mouths the words: “It will pass.”
I get a clean towel off the stack on the dresser, wipe up the mess, and then go to the kitchen to refill the basin. Over the last few months, the twins have become a powerful bond between Isabel and me, a hopeful force pushing us toward the future. But now that they are gone, I’m scared that Isabel will stop fighting, and the infection will kill her.
Now. You have to go now and get help before it’s too late.
Outside, freezing rain has been pouring down for weeks and the roads are impassable. I’ve let that—and the fact that Isabel keeps begging me not to leave her—be an excuse not to act. But there’ll be no more excuses. I can’t save the twins, but I can try to save her.
I swallow hard and go back in with Isabel.
Mrs. Malloy is trying to get her to sit up, but not having much success. “Please put the basin down and help me, Diego.” Her voice has an edge, and it scares me. “If you sit behind her and help her stay upright, the contractions will do more good. She’s close to exhaustion, and we’re going to need her to push.”
I lift up Isabel’s head and shoulders—she weighs almost nothing—and then slip in behind her, letting her back rest against my chest. She collapses against me, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Diego. I tried to save them, but—”
“Shh. It’s going to be okay, Iz.” I stroke her hair as lightly as I can, afraid that I might hurt her.
Mrs. Malloy places her hand on Isabel’s swollen abdomen. “We’re waiting for the next contraction, dearie, and then I’m going to need you to push hard. It’s going to hurt, so don’t be afraid to raise your voice.”
“I can’t,” Isabel says. “I’m too tired. Please. Just let me sleep.”
The midwife looks up at me, her eyes pleading.
I kiss Isabel’s hair, my heart breaking. “I love you, hun. And I need you. Don’t give up on me now.”
A minute later, I feel the contraction seize her body. She lets out a cry, her whole torso shaking with the exertion. Molly nods at me, her face pale.
“Push, Isabel,” I say. “Push as hard as you can.”
She grabs onto my wrists and presses back against my chest, her eyes squeezed shut. Sweat drips down her face, and she lets out a high-pitched wail that morphs into a shriek.
The sound goes on for longer than anyone should have to be in pain.
And then she collapses against me, sobbing and trembling, and I see a small head slip out of her body.
“Good work, dearie!” Mrs. Malloy says, looking very relieved. “The second one will be easier.” She lifts the tiny infant, cuts the umbilical cord, and wraps it in a small, hand-knitted blanket.
Isabel reaches out. “Let me see my baby… please?”
Mrs. Malloy gives me a concerned look and then hands the small bundle to Iz. “She’s a beautiful little girl, but she’s an angel now.”
I can feel another contraction take over Isabel’s body, less than a minute from the last! She closes her eyes and then cries out as she bears down, her whole body shaking. Another head appears.
“Good girl! We’re almost done now, and this last part shouldn’t hurt.” Mrs. Malloy wraps up the second baby and lays it in Isabel’s other arm. “Perfect little boy, God rest his soul.”
For a moment, the clouds part, and a ray of late-afternoon sunlight falls across us.
“Her name is Soleil,” Isabel says. “And his name is Lucas. I want you to bury them by the outcropping of rocks where they will be in the sunshine.”
Tears stream down my cheeks. “Okay, Iz. I will.” I stare into the small faces and then run my fingertip across the girl’s tiny chin. “She has your eyes.”
Isabel picks up the boy’s little hand. “And he has your fingers.”
Mrs. Malloy lets out a soft sigh as she attends to the afterbirth. “They are beautiful babies.”
Isabel collapses against me, still holding the twins in her arms. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save them, Diego. I tried as hard as I could.” Her eyes flutter shut.
I wrap my arms around all three of them and lean my head against Isabel’s. She’s asleep in a matter of seconds, but I lie there on the bed as the
light fades, her feverish body pressed against mine, and cry.
When the room is dark, I carefully get up, tuck the blankets in around Isabel, and tiptoe into the kitchen to talk with Mrs. Malloy.
The next morning, I get up at first light and get dressed. It’s still raining, but that can no longer deter me. I take the small bundles from the kitchen, stop by the garage to get a shovel, and then hike over to the point. Huge boulders loom above the swollen stream twenty meters below, and from here, you can see for miles.
I set the tiny bundles down and begin digging.
And after I finish, I sit down on the rocks overlooking the stream, rain soaking through my clothes, and stare up into the stormy sky, angry at the whole damn universe.
Just this once, let me do the right thing and save her.
I head back to the cabin, change my clothes, and throw some things in a backpack. Mrs. Malloy pushes a bowl of oatmeal across the table to me. “Eat. It may be the last hot food you see for a while.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can, Molly. Thank you for staying.”
She hands me a sandwich wrapped in a hankie. “For later. We’ll be fine, Diego. We have everything we need, and Seamus will be over to check on us as soon as the rain lets up.”
“I can’t thank you enough… for last night and for…”
“Go. And come back soon. She needs you, Diego.” She motions with her head toward the bedroom. “But don’t leave without saying goodbye. You owe her that.”
I sit down on the bed next to Isabel and run my hand across her feverish face, frightened by how frail she looks. “Hey, beautiful. I came to say goodbye.”
Her eyes flicker open. “You said you’d never leave me, Captain America.”
“I have to, Iz.”
She turns away.
“But I’ll be back. I promise. Wait for me. Please. Say you’ll wait for me.”
Her eyes fill with tears, and then she looks up at me. “I miss the twins. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to—”
I take her in my arms. “It’s not your fault, Iz. And it doesn’t matter now. All I care about is you getting well.” I stroke her hair. “Once you’re better, we can always try again.”
She lets her head fall against my shoulder. “I think I would like that.”
“Me too.” I place her gently back down on the bed and then adjust the pillow. “I’m going to be gone for a few days, maybe even a week, but Mrs. Malloy will stay with you until I get back.”
She takes my hand, her pallid skin hot to the touch. “Please don’t go.”
I smile at her through my tears. “I have to, hun. I have to try and get help.” I stand up, but she holds onto my hand.
“I’ll never see you again.”
“Don’t say that, Iz.” I bend over and kiss her on the forehead. “I will always come for you.”
She squeezes my hand. “Don’t take too long.”
I kiss her palm, and then steal one last look at the only woman I’ve ever loved—and force myself to walk out the door.
I use the spare key to turn the deadbolt, put it back underneath the third stair, and then pull the hood up on my poncho and jog out into the downpour, feeling exhausted and morose. I stop at the graves and place a small, fuzzy futbol next to each pile of stones and then start hiking down the mountain.
The freezing rain continues all morning, reminding me just how screwed up things have gotten: it’s December, months past when the snow usually starts, and we’ve had nothing but torrential rain.
Somewhere there must be one horrendous drought.
At the bottom of the ravine, I stop to get a drink, still frustrated that all my plans to handle an emergency turned out to be so useless. The SUV has a full tank, plus I have forty gallons of gasoline in the garage. But even with snow cables on, I couldn’t get the car to go ten feet without sinking up to the axles in mud.
I take one last look at the rocky outcrop and then continue down into the canyon.
I hike for an hour in the pouring rain, and when I get to the bottom of the ravine, I realize that the stream is too high to cross.
Shit.
I end up wasting an hour searching for a tree to push over, and then another hour backtracking up the canyon, trying to find a place where I can jump across—and every minute feels like a lifetime.
Wait for me, Iz.
I finally find a narrow section of the stream where I can jump from boulder to boulder, but the icy torrent is deep and fast moving in between the huge stones, and if I slip and fall, it will be all over.
If I don’t get across soon, it won’t matter anyway.
At least the damn rain has stopped. I take a run for it and vault over to the first rock, but my backpack is heavier than I anticipated, and its momentum nearly pushes me into the cold water. I balance on the slippery boulder and take off the pack, and then load the essentials into a small daypack and put that on. I heave the backpack over to the opposite bank, but it lands short and is quickly swept downstream.
Shit. There goes my clothes and sleeping bag.
I manage to cross to the opposite side, but not without landing waist-deep in the icy current and being forced to scramble up the muddy bank on my hands and knees. I peel off my jeans and attempt to wring them out, shivering the whole time. I consider starting a fire, but I don’t want to waste any more daylight, so I put my pants back on, change into dry socks, and hike up the other side of the ravine, the cold, damp cotton chafing against my skin.
By the time I get down to the highway, my mud-caked clothes are almost dry, but the light is fading fast. I start trudging down the cracked asphalt, trying to guess how far I am from town.
Maybe seven or eight miles?
An hour later, I see a sign: “Aerie Town: 21 miles.”
It’s going to take me all night.
I’m getting a blister on my heel from the wet boots, so I sit down in front of a burned-out Walmart and dig out my last pair of dry socks. I don’t have any idea what phase of the moon it is, or if it will even matter with all the cloud cover, but now that I’ve stopped moving, I’m freezing.
Where is everyone?
I could hole up in the Walmart for the night, but I decide to keep going—and just hope that the weather holds. I take out Mrs. Malloy’s sandwich and then put on my daypack and start walking. The wind kicks up, and the charred pages from a catalog blow across the empty highway. One snags on my ankle, and I pick it up and stare into the happy face of a chubby baby. I stuff the paper into my pocket and continue on, unable to get the image of that first shovel of damp earth on hand-knit blankets out of my head.
Why did she have to have Isabel’s beautiful green eyes?
I’m going to see those tiny faces in my nightmares for the rest of my life.
Ten minutes later, it starts raining again. I pull up the hood of my bright yellow poncho and keep walking. As the subdued light fades to black, the miles go by in a slow, soggy monotony—alarmingly hot skin and pale, hollow cheeks pushing me forward.
And then I see headlights.
The memory of the incident at the gate fills me with dread, and I consider hiding.
What if it’s a carload of looters? Or worse?
“Or it could be my last chance to save Isabel.” I reach inside my poncho and check the gun, and then stand out in the road and wave my arms.
The massive SUV stops ten feet away, the headlights blinding me. A male voice calls out in the rain. “Who are you?”
“I need a doctor. My fiancé is sick and needs antibiotics or she’ll die.”
“Put your hands up where we can see them.”
I do as I’m told, convinced that if they were murderers, they would have just run over me.
“What’s your name, sir?”
I let out a sigh of relief at the honorific.
They must be military.
“Diego Nadales. I need help. Please.” I lower my hands. The SUV inches forward and stops next to me, the huge engine loud in the rainy dark.
Someone shines a flashlight in my face. “Shitty night to be out walking, Mr. Nadales.”
“Tell me about it.”
The light goes off. “Hand over your weapon and get in.”
I stare into the passenger-side window at two men in white shirts and ties. “I don’t have anything except food and wet socks.”
The driver leans over to get a better look at me. “If you want to save that woman of yours, I suggest you follow orders, sir.”
I hold up my hands again. “Okay, okay. I have a sidearm. But I want it back when this is over.”
The guy riding shotgun snorts. “Yeah, and I want to ball Miss America. Get in.”
After I hand over the gun, I duck into the backseat and toss my stuff into the cavernous rear. The moment I shut my door, the lock engages. Warm air buffets my face as I rub my hands together in front of the heater vent. “Thank you.”
The guy in the front seat turns around. “Actually, we’ve been looking for you, Mr. Nadales.”
“You have?” I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice.
“I’m Mr. Johnson,” he says and then gestures toward the driver, a guy who appears to be just out of diapers. “And this is Mr. Smith. We work for the government.”
Oh, shit.
Mr. Smith glances over the seat at my muddy boots, and then meets my eyes, his mouth tight with a fake smile. “Mr. Nadales.” He puts the car in drive and makes a U-turn.
“Where are you taking me?” Panic leaks out of my voice.
Mr. Smith accelerates hard into the downpour. “To get a doctor, sir. Just relax. We’ll be there soon.”
I sit back and look around. The inside of the SUV is immaculate: black leather seats that still smell new and an expensive-looking GPS system that is bigger than my computer.
“Nice wheels you have. Where’d you get the gas?”
“That’s classified, sir.”