A loud bark of disbelief escaped Harry. People looked at him, and he lowered his voice, “The Agency does.”
“Is that an order, then?” The voices were shouting so loudly Carole had to read his lips to understand his reply.
“Someone will get back to you on that.” Harry stood up and shoved a neat straw hat onto his head, glaring. “So much for women’s liberation, right? You want a man’s job, you want to sleep around, but when it comes to priorities you’re Mother Earth following the Pope’s agenda?” He leaned down, hissing into her face, “You’re little more than an assassin! You don’t get to have a conscience!” Straightening up, Harry smoothed his pale suit jacket. “Pay for your own lunch. Someone will contact you about this, so don’t go far.”
AGENTS HAD CONTACTED her after that, more often to discuss her condition than her assignments. The line-up had included several women who’d undergone the procedure and claimed to be comfortable with their choice. Of the four women claiming that philosophy, Carole believed only one. It didn’t matter anyway. None of those women had voices in their heads. They had the freedom to choose their own destiny, and suffer their own choices. The voices didn’t like her attitude, and they called in the black dreams to reinforce their philosophy on the sanctity of life. They showed her a variety of horrible ways to die if one didn’t believe that life was sacred.
The last months had been increasingly difficult. Carole’s body had been hijacked, and it demanded plenty of good food and sleep, both hard to come by in her line of work. The outside world still seemed too far away. Focusing on her assignments, while the voices lectured and paraded horrors for disobedience before her, took almost more effort than she had to give now. Sitting on the cot, in the middle of the Egyptian desert with gritty sand clogging her nose, Carole decided she wouldn’t argue with this pleasant agent. With hands resting on robed knees, the man waited patiently for her to reply. Maybe she could find enough clean food and take naps now and then if she took a sabbatical. The thought appealed to her.
“It is getting difficult to fit through tunnels. How long before I can come back?”
The agent’s white teeth grinned through a black beard. “Oh, you’ll hear from us soon enough. You’ve got the makings of a lifer. Where do you want to go?”
Carole shrugged. “I could stay here.” She slept well in the desert.
The agent laughed. “That’s a good one. You could call your baby Sandy. It would certainly be his first meal. Nah, go stateside, good medical care if you need it. How about San Diego? Plenty of sunshine, but not so much sand.”
“Okay,” Carole agreed.
The agent rose. “Good luck with the baby; and your code word is sand. Appropriate, huh? You’ll probably still be flossing it out of your teeth six months from now.”
A MILITARY AIRCRAFT took Carole directly from Cairo into Guantanamo. Late arriving, an airman tossed her canvas bag at her. She caught it, wrapping the strap over her shoulder, ignoring his mortified look as his gaze fell on her belly. She swung the bag to rest against her back, and adjusted her jacket to disguise the large pregnant bulge. It hardly made her frail.
The airman recovered. “Can you run, Private? That’s your boat to Miami on the dock. The next one doesn’t leave until next Thursday.” Over on the docks, marines were loosening the moorings on a boat. Carole rushed down the plane’s metal steps and ran the short runway, heading for the wharf. She could feel the baby rocking around inside her, like a fat fish in a little aquarium. Boots pounding the pavement, she timed her steps. It was effortless to make the boat before it pulled away, but sensing the airman watching behind her, she didn’t dare run too fast. Passing a column of marines, the familiar posture of a tall dark one caught her attention. Carole looked at Lincoln the same time he looked in her direction. Without breaking stride she kept running. There was nothing to be said. She didn’t belong with the Pact, but something made her raise her hand in a smart salute. He didn’t respond, so he either held a grudge or hadn’t recognized her. Carole jumped onto the deck of her boat just as it pushed away from the dock. In the distance, Lincoln led the Pact in the direction of the barracks without a backward glance for her.
THE COMPLICATIONS OF civilian life struck Carole before she boarded the commercial jet out of Miami. Standing in Terminal D of the Miami airport, for the first time ever Carole was completely free. It was surprising to find that she didn’t particularly care for this type of freedom. According to her ticket it would be necessary to change planes in Dallas, Chicago, and Boston before arriving in San Diego. The sense of that eluded her, and Carole triple checked her ticket before standing in line to question the airline staff directly. A tanned Miami blonde gave her a slow once over as she curtly informed, “It’s correct. That’s economy fare for you.”
Directed to a second line, Carole waited another half hour. A grey haired woman with polished red fingernails shared, “There is a direct flight into San Diego, if you would care to upgrade to First Class. It’s the only available seat.” With several small paychecks in her back pocket, and a grand total of $10 in cash, Carole didn’t think that option possible. Clad in her ever present camouflage pants and olive green T-shirt, she suspected the elderly woman knew that too. She patted Carole’s hand. “I’ll make sure you get seats in the bulkhead, it’s more leg room in your condition. None of your flights offer meals, but you can get juice and peanuts. The flight attendants will give you as much as you want. Just ask.”
EIGHT HOURS LATER, Carole stood inside Hopkins International Airport in Cleveland, Ohio, watching an October snowstorm blow across the runway. Both Dallas and Chicago and many bags of peanuts were under her belt. Boston had mysteriously given way to a flight into Cleveland due to unseasonable weather. Carole studied her ticket stub curiously, certain the bad weather centered over the Great Lakes, and unable to comprehend the logic behind the unscheduled stop. Military life now seemed more efficient than the voices had ever given it credit for. Wind rocketed against the glass wall, occasionally a colorful autumn leaf stuck before being swiped away by fat wet flakes of snow. Outside airplanes waited at gates, but all flights had been cancelled for the night. Destitute travelers lined up at payphones attempting to book hotel rooms. Tossing her duffel over a shoulder, Carole went in search of food. The hijacker straining against her T-shirt wanted food right now, and that fat fish refused to be ignored.
THE STORM LASTED into the night, though the snow turned to rain. Yellow vested linemen trudged through the dark to tend to airplanes. Stretched out on the floor with her pregnant stomach in the air, Carole sensed workers struggling through the cold rain outside. Wishing she could be outside with them, instead of listening to the laments of fellow travelers making sleep impossible, she gave up and opened her eyes. People slumped on seats surrounding her weren’t the only ones complaining, the hijacker wanted to eat again. The cafeteria had closed hours ago, and rice and orange juice had consumed eight of her ten dollars already, even another orange juice would cost more than two dollars. Rising to her feet, Carole went in search of food, hoping to find a kindly flight attendant with access to those lovely little foil packets of peanuts.
BY DAWN THE storm gave way to a beautiful autumn morning. Streaks of pink appeared across the sky and planes were taxiing down the runway. Carole had a seat at her gate, a free carton of orange juice in hand and a paper bag in her lap filled to the top with packets of nuts. A brochure about flight attendant school had been helpfully jammed into the bag too. Zipped inside her duffel were half a dozen of the best apples she’d ever seen, donated for free by a pretzel vendor who looked freakily like her old nemesis from the orphanage, Sister Mary Josephine. Some people were very nice, Carole decided. Biting into an apple, she sighed with pleasure. It tasted as good as it looked.
A flight attendant called her zone. Carole held the apple between her teeth as she rose to her feet, clutching her bag of food and the duffel. Fellow passengers stared, and Carole tugged her T-shirt to hide her bare belly peekin
g out beneath it. The airplane took off a half hour later. Sitting in her window seat with plenty of leg room, thanks to the woman in Miami, Carole watched the outline of the Great Lake below her. Something about the light reflecting off the water appealed to her, but it soon disappeared into a view of endless flatlands. Sliding the shade on the sunny window down, she rested her head against it and closed her eyes. Ignoring the awful smell of airplane air and the somersaulting movements of the frolicking alien inside her, she tried to get some sleep.
CAROLE MOVED INTO an apartment above a row of aged shops. Located near the naval base in San Diego, the easy walking distance to a farmer’s market and the waterfront sold her on it. The rent was cheap, and the tattoo parlor below an unexpectedly quiet neighbor. Most of the other apartments on the street were abandoned and boarded up. Homeless people gathered in the alley behind the row of half empty shops. They, too, were surprisingly quiet neighbors. Carole napped, ran, and ate. The bulk of her meager funds went to food. Using the bread recipe her father had given her, she made a fresh loaf each day and converted slices into French toast for dinner almost every evening. Long ago she’d memorized the expensive ingredients, but pressing her hand over the neatly written piece of paper provided a pleasure deeper than mere food could offer. How much of the memory of him had been real? Since meeting Ted, Carole suspected it had all been real. She kept the fraying yellowed page safe between two pieces of glass, right in the middle of the kitchen counter next to a stack of newspapers that she tried to ignore.
The newspaper collection began when a homeless lady traded one for a piece of maple sugar candy. Hardly a fair deal, especially since the newspaper had been six months old. But Carole had seen the woman picking through a dumpster behind the drugstore, so she’d agreed. She knew what it felt like to crave clean food. Later, fingering her way through a library book on organic gardening, Carole reached into her bag for a pear. Spotting the newspaper, she spread it open on her lap. Six-month-old current events unfolded before her, and she read quickly. Perusing the personal ads, she spotted an advertisement from a couple seeking a baby to adopt. Lisa and Tom listed a toll-free number and asked for a chance to love your baby. Rubbing her stomach, Carole considered it. The thought of foster care drifted through her mind, and she shivered. Not foster care. A family, a real family, with a mother and father who would be there. Strangely, the voices didn’t protest. The idea took root.
AFTER THAT, ON market days Carole picked up the local newspaper too. A pile of them now sat on the kitchen counter, next to the cutting board with today’s fresh bread. She kept the papers folded neatly, open to personal ads on adoption. Bob and Linda. Alice and Frank. John and Cindy. Mostly she tried to ignore them. How can you choose a family by a name? Carole stirred a pot of barley soup, opened the tiny oven door, and lifted out the day’s bread. Depositing the pan on the cutting board, she made up her mind and reached into the pile of newspapers. Pulling out a random one, she chose Mark and Melissa. The voices said nothing about it, busy droning on about paint chips on a windowsill they wanted cleaned out. Taking a pencil, Carole circled the names and memorized the phone number. She’d find a payphone and call them after the holiday weekend. Monday. The voices still said nothing, and Carole picked up two worn green potholders, dumping her bread from the pan to cool. The choice made.
WALKING HOME ON Thanksgiving Day, a homeless man approached her, wearing what appeared to be his entire wardrobe and a red ski cap. He offered Carole a turkey sandwich. She gave him a bag of red grapes she’d just purchased, and sat with him while he ate both the grapes and the sandwich.
“I’m an outsidie,” he told her cryptically. “I’m just an outsidie.”
“Me too,” she said. The man appeared to have taken up residence on a concrete porch with years of colorful old gum stuck to it. Carole settled into the abandoned entryway with him and leaned against a deteriorating old door. Peeling paint broke off where she touched, and she brushed red and green chips off her clothes. The man spoke in a side conversation to someone, though just the two of them rested in the doorway. Carole opened her paper sack and extracted a small container. She began to eat the vegetable and rice mixture with her fingers. Her companion felt his jacket pockets for a few moments and produced a mangled fork.
“More civilized,” he told her.
Carole hid a faint smile by sticking her nose in the food and sniffing in the savory scent. A whiff of red pepper shot up her nose, producing a violent sneeze. Sitting cramped on cold concrete, it rocked roughly through her body. She felt a faint popping sensation deep inside her, it didn’t hurt, but she knew her water had broken. She watched as it leaked through her trousers, a bit trickled a path down her leg, dampening her sock. The reality of having a baby seemed as far away as the rest of the world, despite the inevitable evidence. Turning towards the homeless man who also seemed far away, she asked, “Do you hear voices?”
“Just yours,” he replied. “I’m not crazy. Hey, you’re having a baby.”
“Not until December,” she insisted. She’d done the math.
“It’s Thanksgiving.”
“I know,” Carole said.
“I think that means its November.”
“I know its November.” Her damp sock felt warm in her shoe. The man next to her watched the wet stain spreading down her leg, as he popped grapes into his mouth.
“I think you’re having a baby in November,” he pointed out. “It’s a long walk to the hospital. You’d better get going.”
Heaving herself to her feet Carole arched her back, rubbing a painful spot at the base of her spine. Fine, if it wanted to come a bit early, just fine. She wondered if Mark and Melissa would mind if the baby had already been born, and wished she’d called today. The homeless man patted his knee nervously, watching her. She told him, “I’m not sick. I’m just having a baby.”
“Don’t have it here!” he protested.
“I’m not. I’m having it in my apartment. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.” Picking up her bag, a bit more fluid gushed down her pant leg. How embarrassing, like wetting herself. She’d seen this in black dreams. Shoving the thought of black dreams out of her mind, she focused on the fact that having a baby was a completely natural act, even a couple weeks early. The voices agreed with that assessment.
“Commonplace. Normal. Not unusual.” What did the voices know about normal? That thought made her uneasy. On the second flight of stairs, Carole paused, placing a hand on her belly, a whisper of fear ghosting through her. What if this baby heard the voices? What if it saw black dreams too? She shuddered, and more water spilled out of her, splashing on the concrete steps.
She whispered a prayer, “Dear God, please don’t let my baby have this, please.” Ignoring the approval of the voices encouraging prayer, she worried. What would Mark and Melissa do if the baby they adopted heard voices? Would they give it to foster care?
Carole pushed open the door of her apartment and unpacked her bag of groceries: milk, cheese, sunflower seeds, and perfect green grapes. She passed an hour cleaning the tiny rooms, ignoring the voices along with the drops of water dripping in her wake. The apartment was small, just three tiny rooms including the bathroom. Old and worn, the furnished apartment could never really reach much level of cleanliness, but it had come with such old furniture and kitchen supplies that almost all of it was useable. It didn’t have the modern synthetics and plastics that made the voices frantic and caused shivers to run up her spine. After a few days devoted to scraping old paint away, she’d only tossed out one plastic tablecloth and a pair of polyester sheets, replacing them with natural fabrics. Carole methodically emptied a dresser drawer, tossed clean towels in it, and put a stack of cloth diapers beside it. After considering for a time, she pulled the drawer free and sat it on her bed.
Then she sat on the bed and waited. The pain wasn’t as bad as she’d seen in her black dreams. After reassuring her it was normal, the voices had nothing more to say about her baby or childbirth and never a
word about Mark and Melissa. Closing her eyes, Carole allowed herself to do the forbidden, to revisit her time with Ted. The touch of his heart haunted her. Running her fingertips over her own chest she missed him so much it hurt. The pain from her heart eventually moved down to encompass her stomach, and then wrapped arms around her back and increased so that it took her breath away. She panted, trying to recoup between contractions, and tried not to think.
SOMEONE WAS SCREAMING, and in the back of her mind Carole knew it was her. The pain was so big, she didn’t know if it was supposed to be like this. What if something was wrong? Oh God, what if something is wrong with the baby? With Ted’s baby? Not Ted’s baby! Mark and Melissa’s baby! The screaming got louder.
It was dark outside, and her mouth felt desert dry, skydiving-with-her-mouth-open dry, swallowing sand dry. Water, there was no water. There was only pain. The screams came through her desiccated throat and made it raw.
“Hush, girl. It’s supposed to hurt like that. It’s what a baby costs.”
Carole opened her eyes and a grizzled dirty face hovered far too close. She turned her head away and closed her eyes. She sensed an old man nearby too, sitting in the corner of the tiny bedroom. There was nothing she could do, and a wave of new pain took her.
Opening her eyes again, Carole saw that the old woman remained, grinning a mostly toothless grin at her.
“I think something is wrong,” she whispered.
The old woman shook her head. “What’s your name, dearie?”
“Carole.”
“I’m Anne, but on the street my friends call me Happy. I’ve had six babies and thought I was going to die with every one of them—you’re perfectly normal. A wee bit young though, there’s no father then?” Anne, in her checkered housecoat with a purple rabbit’s foot on a chain around her neck, looked disapproving.
Heartless A Shieldmaiden's Voice: A Covenant Keeper Novel Page 11