by Stephen Cox
‘Well, it would depend, wouldn’t it?’ She was a little distracted, measuring out the dried fruit. ‘On what they liked.’
They talked about boys’ interests and girls’, men’s clothes and women’s clothes, and how silly it was so many jobs had no women in them, and Cory explained inters: those of his people who were neither male nor female until they became adult. Gene and Molly tried to hide their shock that a male teacher had chosen to become female to bear a baby; they hadn’t much enthusiasm for continuing that discussion.
Tomorrow Gene would drag in a big pine tree and fill the house with the smell of needles and resin. ‘White Christmas’ played on the radio, as it had in her childhood. Close to midnight, Molly checked on Cory to find him standing at the window in the dark, wrapped in his coverlet and peeking out behind the drapes.
‘Cory, it’s late.’
‘No snow Mom-Mom. When come?’
‘Well, it’s coming, and when it does, there’ll be plenty to go around.’
He looked at her with moist velvet eyes. ‘Teachers did snow science, made in big room.’ Nowhere on Cory’s home-world saw ice, except for the tips of the tallest mountains, and a little sea ice at the poles.
Frozen puddles excited him, and he’d drawn the frost on the twigs like silver feathers. ‘Look-look . . .’ He hauled himself up onto the inner sill so that his whole body was pressed against the window.
So much for security, if anyone was out in the woods. So much for keeping warm. Molly squeezed next to him and saw the white flakes begin to drift down. Memories hit her: making angels in the snow, kissing a boy, Gene holding her arm and skating under a perfect Moon . . .
‘So exciting,’ Cory whooped. ‘Sledge-and-snowballs-and-angels . . .’
Molly drew the chair over to the window, and with a tug, got him to sit on her lap. Wrapped together, they watched winter feather the night sky . . .
The world could still burn with magic, even if you didn’t believe in the old man with the beard.
She held on tight to Cory and felt the beating of his heart.
*
Molly stirred from deep, dreamless sleep to the sound of someone gasping and the sidelight on. ‘Cory?’ She was instantly awake, but it was Gene standing above her, leaning his forehead against the wall and groaning – her Gene, who hated a fuss . . .
He kneaded his gut with one hand. ‘Jeez, Molly,’ he gasped, ‘it’s like I swallowed a live rat . . .’
He’d complained of stomach pains earlier that night but she’d thought it was all that raw cookie mix. She’d dosed him up and sent him to bed early.
‘Where?’ she asked. ‘Show me.’ And when he turned, his hand was clenching the lower right-hand side of his belly. He was pale and sweating.
Professional Molly took command. ‘Might be your appendix,’ she guessed. ‘Let me feel . . .’
‘Jeez,’ he said, holding her away. He was unsteady on his feet, weaving a little.
‘No playing around. I’ll call an ambulance.’ She jumped out of bed and ran to the window. Crooked Street was inches deep in snow and it was still falling. Should she drive him herself?
He made an odd gasping sound, then retched. ‘What about Cory?’ he croaked, and the floor dropped away beneath her. How could she take Cory to the hospital? He’d be too frightened – and where could she hide him? Should she send Gene on his own? But they might operate straight away. The thought made her sick. Everyone in the hospital knew there were a couple of staff who couldn’t be relied on to have steady hands at Christmas.
‘I’ll go on my own,’ he said through gritted teeth, but she was shaking her head.
‘In sickness and in health,’ she said. ‘I’ll call now.’
Downstairs, she gave brisk orders on the phone: she needed an ambulance right now.
‘Thank goodness it’s you, Nurse Myers,’ said the dispatcher. ‘Can you bring him in?’
‘That would be difficult . . .’
‘We’re stretched so thin – half the staff are down with flu; we’ve two drivers out sick. And one ambulance crashed on the Bradleyburg Road.’
‘I’ve an elderly neighbour who can’t be left alone,’ she said, the first lie that came to her. ‘I won’t be able to come straight away.’
‘We’ll be with you as soon as we can, Mrs Myers. But if someone could run Mr Myers up here and let us know . . .’
Not soon enough, thought Molly. She picked up the phone and dialled Dr Jarman, but there was no reply; she tried Rosa Pearce, but the phone rang out there too.
Slowly, painfully, Gene was trying to get himself down the stairs; she dropped the phone and ran up to help him. ‘Don’t drink anything,’ she told him. ‘They may need to operate.’
Still the phone didn’t ring – and then an alien howl echoed down the stairwell. ‘What wrong? What wrong?’ Cory was hurtling too fast down the stairs, grabbing the banister when he slipped.
‘Look, Dad’s sick, but it will be fine,’ Molly said.
‘Don’t-die-don’t-die-don’t-die,’ he gabbled, then something in his own language.
‘I don’t need you to come,’ Gene said, his face flushed a very odd colour.
‘Cory, Dad just has to go to the hospital,’ Molly said, stroking his ear, and right there, under the decorations, flashes of pain and darkness and grief filled the air as Cory relived the death of his mother.
‘Cory come too,’ he announced. ‘Hide so okay. Dad be-okay?’
‘No, someone will stay with you. That’s fine.’
‘Pleeeese wanna go!’ he said, picking up her stress. ‘Dad be-okay?’
Gene stroked Cory’s ear.
People say things in fever, Molly thought. They say things under anaesthetic. Whatever might slip out, at least I can explain them away.
The pain of Cory’s mother dying washed over them again, even stronger: flashes of white light and incoherent thoughts pouring off him in fear and confusion. His inner eyelids were clamped shut; he was having a panic attack. She knelt beside Gene and hugged Cory.
She couldn’t leave him alone like this, but these flowing nightmares? Half the hospital would know something was up.
‘Cory, I’ll stay with you. This looks bad, but it’s common, and Earth medicine’s great at dealing with this,’ she said.
The phone was still silent.
For a moment, she stood at the window watching the snow fall. There was really nothing else for it; they needed somebody, and fast. Molly made her decision, marched for the phone and rang the Hendersons. The phone rang, minute after minute. She was ready to hang up and try Diane when Roy answered with a grunt.
‘Roy, it’s Molly.’ She fiddled with the phone cord. ‘Gene has appendicitis – it’s serious.’
Roy was barely awake, but he managed, ‘Uh . . . uh . . . okay, so what do you need?’
‘The ambulance is taking for ever. And . . .’ Think Molly, think! She needed an excuse. ‘Roy, it’s like Meteor Day – I’m getting flashbacks. I can see the town on fire. I don’t think I can drive. My hands are shaking too badly.’
‘I’ll bring the truck. Fifteen minutes.’
She looked out of the hall window and saw the snow floating down, clogging roads and bridges. Seventeen long minutes passed before Roy’s truck rumbled up in front of the door.
‘Cory,’ Molly said, ‘upstairs, now. Hide.’
He looked wounded at her tone, but in a moment, he was gone.
A fist hammered at the door and Molly opened it without checking, crying, ‘Roy, thank goodness . . . !’
Roy came straight in. ‘Where is he?’
Suspended between them, they walked Gene, cussing and sweating with the pain, to the truck.
‘Jump in the back,’ Roy said, but Molly was shaking.
‘I can’t – I just can’t. It’s like the sirens are
going,’ she said. ‘If I faint, I’ll just get in the way.’
Through her fear, she knew Roy was looking at her; she could see the doubt on that big honest face.
‘She’s right, Roy, she’s not up to it. Molly, stay,’ Gene groaned.
Roy gave her a long hard look before swinging up into the cab and turning the key.
‘Love you,’ Gene managed, and then they were off, vanishing into the fast-falling snow.
Molly wondered if this was the right call. A burst appendix could mean serious infection and Gene deserved her by his side. But the thought of Cory in the hospital . . .
The cold was prickling on her skin when she finally closed the door.
She rang the ambulance service to report that Gene was en route, then went to find Cory, who had his face pressed to the big bedroom window. He trusted his hiding too much.
‘Dad not die,’ Cory begged, still broadcasting distress.
‘Roy’s a great driver and it’s a good hospital,’ Molly said, reassuring him. ‘Come on, let’s get under the quilt and warm up, shall we?’ She held him tight, repeating over and over, as much for her as him, ‘He’ll be all right.’
‘Don’t go,’ Cory moaned, ‘don’t go – everyone died and left me. Everyone.’ The tumult poured off him, confusion and sadness so strong her tears came.
‘Dad won’t die,’ she said firmly, trying to feel it. ‘We won’t leave you, Cory. It will be fine.’ Please, let it be fine . . .
*
Christmas Eve at the hospital, with Amber Grove under a thick blanket of snow, with a morning sky that promised more. There was an old joke: if nurses make bad patients, they make worse relatives of patients.
She’d finally got hold of Rosa, who had come straight over, and as soon as she got to the ward, Molly reassured herself that the staff were competent, the doctors sober and the dressings clean.
Gene lay on the bed, wincing as he tried to sit up.
‘Don’t move, you idiot,’ she said. She sat beside him and held his hand as if she was holding him up. Her Gene, her rock, her love.
‘They gave me some stuff and I’m not sure which way is up,’ Gene said, trying a smile. ‘How’s . . . ?’ He looked around, but this was an open ward with no privacy. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine,’ she said.
‘Roy was nosy,’ he said, ‘but I think I calmed him down.’
‘Okay,’ she said. She itched to look at Gene’s notes, but she probably shouldn’t.
‘Feels like they’ve cut a slit you could post a letter in,’ he said.
‘Don’t feel you have to talk,’ she said. For the first time, she dared to think it would be all right.
Gene had little to say and they couldn’t talk about Cory. Her feelings about the hospital were horribly complicated: work and pride and death and children and hope all tied up together. She couldn’t see any way she could return to work while they had their secret son.
She stayed as long as she could, but time was rushing by and soon she would have to relieve Rosa, who was on duty later.
After saying goodbye, Molly rushed back out into the cold. She was halfway across the parking lot, walking on fresh snow to avoid the ice and puffing white breath as she fumbled for the car key, when she realised Roy was striding towards her. She hadn’t noticed his truck.
Warmth for her neighbour rose in her. ‘Roy, you’re a lifesaver! Thank you so much . . .’ Then she caught his gaze and began to falter.
He stood in hat and scarf with his shoulders hunched, but his eyes were cold. ‘I guess you won’t tell me what’s really going on.’
Inwardly, Molly tensed. ‘Roy . . .’
‘Gene was sick, that much was true. But your hands were as steady as a surgeon’s.’
‘It’s not like that,’ she said. ‘I had a panic attack. I could’ve come off the road . . .’
‘We mind our own business, Janice and me, but you’re up to something and I want to know what it is.’
She was off-centre, with Gene’s illness and Cory’s distress and no sleep. She didn’t want to have this conversation anywhere, let alone in a cold parking lot.
‘We’re not hiding anything . . .’
‘I thought it was draft-dodgers,’ Roy butted in, like he was saying ‘dead skunks’, ‘what with Doc Jarman and Sister Pearce at the house at all hours. Sick draft-dodgers. But it’s been months, and draft-dodgers just get a bus across the border.’
What could she say?
‘Or maybe you got into drugs: that would explain the doctor. But Gene hates that stuff. And’ – he was trying to find the words and Molly flushed, feeling humiliated – ‘and Gene says you’re sober.’ He raised a hand to scratch an ear under the woollen hat.
‘Mental illness isn’t neat and tidy,’ she said. ‘Roy, you’ve been a great friend in tough times . . .’
‘Few weeks back, Janice and Diane got to drinking. They joked you stole a baby.’
She put out a hand to steady herself on the icy car.
‘It’s crazy, but today, it makes a lot of sense,’ Roy went on. She couldn’t meet his gaze anymore, but she had to: the rules of good lying. ‘Why wouldn’t you come with Gene? Because you had a hidden child. Rosa Pearce turns up at the crack of dawn and you’re away to the hospital, no problem.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I didn’t steal a baby!’ To do that to another mother, to rip out their heart for my own need . . . ?
‘Or maybe the kid’s a runaway, although we’ve never seen anything. It sure is a mystery.’
Draft-dodgers or drugs or you stole a child . . . ‘Everything’s just so square and solid and safe for you, Roy. You don’t know what it’s like to lose your mind: to sit and look at a bottle of pills and wonder what dying feels like. I can’t cope with people in the house . . . It’s like they’re right in my head, pulling me apart . . .’
‘I don’t buy it,’ Roy said, and it was like a door was being slammed shut. ‘I’ve known you sick and well, Molly, as God is my witness. I knew you in the depths, I saw you in the valley of the shadow. This isn’t it. I’ve got better things to do than spy, but I’ll tell you, I’ve heard things in the woods. Weird things.’
She thought, I could tell him the truth. Roy, who supported the war and the President. Roy who might phone the FBI. And, if he did, they’d have to flee, she’d have to take Cory, and Gene with his gut cut open. She’d drive, but where first? The farm or the border?
Roy waited.
‘Well, I hear things too,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry you don’t understand it, Roy. I’m grateful you turned out last night, you know how much we really appreciate that.’
‘I don’t know what you’ve dragged Gene into,’ Roy said, solid as a mountain, ‘but I don’t want you in the house or near my kids, Molly, not until you’re straight with me.’
‘You don’t get to tell Janice what to do,’ she said, hot and angry.
‘She agrees with me.’
That’s why Janice had been so distant those last weeks, finding excuses to keep her away from the twins.
Molly left the car unlocked and turned to walk back to the hospital. She had to call Rosa, in case Roy came to the house. But first she had to talk to Gene, to warn him. Each breath hung ominous in the air.
*
It was an odd, subdued Christmas Day. Molly and Cory missed Gene desperately and she promised herself they would do Christmas again, properly, when he was home. After lunch, the staff got him to a phone, although he was guarded, in case the FBI were listening in. Cory pressed his head to the handset and wiggled silent tentacles, sending his Earth Dad silent love.
That evening, Molly couldn’t sleep. She walked quietly up the stairs and looked in on Cory and for a moment, all her fears and doubts vanished. It was her son’s first Christmas and there he was, safe and well.
; There was a furious rapping on the door, not the code, shave and a haircut, two bits, but Cory didn’t stir.
Molly came down the stairs at a run as whoever it was banged again. When she got to the door there was more rapping and a voice called from the other side, ‘It’s Roy. I know you’re in there.’
‘I’m coming,’ she called, frightened by his anger. She wanted to use the chain, but should she signal he wasn’t a friend? In the end, she just opened the door and stood as firm as she could.
His coat was open, as if he’d just thrown it on, and his head bare. He was carrying a big torch, and something in the other hand, a book. His face was blazing with fury. She’d seen him angry before, but not like this.
‘I’m coming in,’ he said.
‘It’s late—’
‘You’ve dragged my boy into your lies so we can talk here or inside, up to you, but you’re gonna talk.’
A cold wind blew a flurry of snow into her face. ‘I don’t understand,’ she tried, even knowing that the game was up.
‘You’ve dragged Chuck into this and made him lie for you,’ Roy growled.
It was like her body decided before her brain had. She stepped a little back, he came in and she shut the door.
He thrust what he was carrying into her hand: the astronomy book with all the photographs, his ‘just-because’ present; Cory loved that book. She flipped open the front cover to where they’d signed it.
‘Who’s Cory?’ Roy demanded. ‘Why won’t my son tell me? What are you hiding, Molly?’
She was scared, but she suddenly realised Roy was too: overcome with fear for his children. She could understand that.
‘Do you want a drink?’
He grabbed her and she gasped. ‘Don’t you dare touch me,’ she said, wriggling free.
‘Who is this Cory and why does he call Chuck his brother? No more lies!’ He pulled out a letter and waved it.
She looked at the familiar big letters and the whole picture coalesced. She held out her hand. ‘Let me read this, please. I swear, Roy, we didn’t want Chuck involved – we didn’t even know he was.’