Chapter 11 #3
“I touched the oven by accident, taking out some cookies. They weren’t even good.”
“Ain’t possible to make a bad batch of cookies.”
“Two dozen turned into one giant cookie, and the edges burned.”
“One big cookie sounds good to me. I always liked ‘em crispy. That wasn’t too frivolous, though?”
“It was a special occasion. I’ve gotten better. I’ll have to bake some if we can find the stuff for it…” she trails off, noticing too late how quiet and wispy her voice has become and how close they still are.
Her shoulder leans against his, their hands still lingering together like magnets. He shies away from physical touch as much as he can, so it’s a surprise he’s allowing it. Even more confusing when she’s convinced something’s wrong.
“There’s nothing here,” he says softly, lifting the baby’s hand with a finger. “No scars, no marks. She’s all brand new. Wonder how long that’ll last.”
“Probably not long.”
Not in this world. Not anymore. She’s lucky she made it this far, and the baby in her belly will be lucky if it sees the world at all. It’s still difficult to accept that something so innocent is in the line of fire, and all they have to do to earn that is to be born.
“Wyatt, can I ask you something?” she tries, figuring it’s now or never if she wants to get to the bottom of his sudden change in behavior.
At least he’s held down by a baby and can’t escape.
“Never,” he jokes.
“Is there something wrong…” She pauses, spying a book about the Washington mountains peeking out from his bag on the ground.
“For you to read up on it a bit, if you want,” he says, following her gaze. “All I know are the legends and ghost stories.”
“Oh, really? Like what?”
“Too many to count. Still not as many as the Blue Ridge out east, though. There’s a reason that place has the most folklore of all the mountain ranges. It’s older than bones, you know?”
She blinks. “Older than bones?”
“Mhmm. Those peaks existed long before we crawled outta the muck and grew legs. All those massive mountains out west ain’t got nothing on Appalachia in terms of time on this earth.”
“So of course, it’s infested with fairy tale creatures?” She smiles.
“Exactly.”
“I dunno, still sounds worth a visit to me.”
“Me too.”
She ducks her head, feeling foolish for having worried that he might be ditching them soon. Still doesn’t know why he’s been in a mood, but maybe she overreacted. She’s so traumatized by her past that she assumes one wrong move on her part might tumble this house of cards.
“What were you gonna ask?” he tries.
“Nothing. Forget it. I’ve been in my head a lot this week, that’s all.”
“You’re not the only one.”
“How do we make it stop?”
“Don’t know that we can.”
“Well, that’s depressing,” she says sarcastically.
“You’re telling me. Guess we live with it.” He pulls out a package of crackers from his bag, offering it to her. “Salty.”
He’s reading about a place they talked about seeing together, and thought ahead to pack the only food she can eat. For now, she has to believe it all means he isn’t completely done with her yet.
* * *
Jeff gives them the address to the house he left behind so they can take the ultrasound machine before departing for an early start.
She worries about that baby and his ability to keep them both safe alone. They’ll be okay, she tells herself, watching Samantha bounce in the backpack as they get smaller and smaller.
And then the child cries.
Not a soft sound but a screaming wail. No telling why, but the noise carries.
Jeff stops to soothe her. Taking her out of the pack to bounce on his shoulder, only to get knocked over by a runner.
Then another blows past the treeline.
And another.
They’re a whole parking lot away by now, and Addison watches in horror as a small herd descends on them. She covers Emma’s eyes with one hand, and the other grabs Wyatt by the back of his shirt in a reflexive grip as he moves to help.
“It’s too late,” she hisses, refusing to let the fabric go. “If you go out there, you won’t come back.”
He glares at her, but she’s right, and they both know it. She doesn’t let go until he moves into the building and shuts the door. Even then, she only re-grips to clutch his arm instead.
She pulls Emma against her while Wyatt doubles over, hands on his knees as he tries to process what’s happening. Addison doesn’t let go of him. Might collapse if she does and needs to know he’s still here instead of racing into the fray.
They flinch as a group with every scream and plea for help until all she can do is bury her face in his shoulder to keep from staring at the carnage.
It’s over as quickly as it started, leaving nothing but birds chirping outside the window and the groan of shuffling rotters, as if Jeff and his daughter were never there at all.
* * *
When they reach the house again, Emma is the first one through the door to scoop up the cat and cry into its fur.
“What if…what if the same thing happens to…” she hiccups, her face red and her tears triggering more of Addison’s.
What if this new baby cries and gets them all killed?
What if she never makes it out of childbirth?
What if Emma is left alone with her brother or sister?
“I’ll do everything I can to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Addison says, knowing she can’t promise a damn thing.
Wyatt, however, has no such problem with making promises.
“Not gonna happen. Not a fucking chance,” he barks, more than a little aggressively.
Dumping out a plethora of books onto the coffee table.
“We got Grey’s Anatomy, Field Medic’s Guide, What To Expect, and about a dozen other things in here.
Your Momma’s gonna be fine. Your sister is, too. That’s all there is to it.”
His tone is far too firm for Emma to appreciate it as reassurance. He starts pacing the room, talking out loud, more to himself than to them.
“We’ve got some time left to get through these.
Need the ultrasound machine. Find a hospital for supplies.
Best case scenario, you have this baby the old-fashioned way, and it all goes fine, but we need to be prepared for everything.
Make sure we know what to do if something goes wrong.
Make damn sure we know how to keep her quiet when she’s here. ”
Keep her quiet so she doesn’t scream and get them all killed is what he’s saying.
“Any ideas on that last part?” she says.
“Not yet. But we’ll figure something out. What happened back there is never, ever happening with us. Never.”
His words are still sharp and angry, though she can tell it’s not at them. They’ve been hit with an image of what their future could look like if they’re unlucky enough to be wandering the street with a crying baby, and that’s knocked them all for a loop.
Addison and Emma cope by going quiet, but Wyatt’s default reaction is agitation. That has to run its course. She’s only grateful that it can without worrying that it might redirect their way.
When a particularly hard cramp hits her like a tidal wave, she winces. Emma gives her the most panicked look as if the worst is about to happen right this second.
In the wake of tragedy, the baby she’s carrying tumbles and turns, begging for attention.
“It’s okay,” she forces a smile. “It’s normal. I felt the same while I carried you.”
Emma nods, pressing her hand to Addison’s flat belly, searching for flutters or kicks that aren’t there.
Wyatt’s pacing has stalled. He watches them tentatively, nervous when he shouldn’t be. She knows he’s curious about this baby. He asked her more than once if she’s doing somersaults yet.
She shakes her head. “Not yet. Still too early for acrobatics.”
Emma’s hand drops away, and she aims for the cat again, scooping it up to sit on her lap near the window, the two of them searching through the curtains as if danger might break through the treeline at any moment.
Addison takes up one end of the sofa with a hard exhale, the weight of the last few hours lying heavy on her heart now that they have a moment to breathe. Slowly, and with a resigned hitch in his movements, Wyatt joins her an arm’s length apart.
In the silence of the room, she desperately wants to be closer to him. Her desire for a connection to drown out the horrific mental images she can’t seem to shake burns strongly enough that she nearly scoots over in search of contact, though she somehow curbs that action at the last second.
It’s only then, while she’s struggling with her own self-restraint to avoid seeking comfort, that he reaches a hand out between them, palm up, waiting in limbo for her to take it.
She glances at his face, finding his stare fixed on the wall ahead. Maybe he fears she’ll see how affected he’s been the moment their eyes lock.
With a tilt of her head, her hand slips into his, slow and gentle, her fingers curling around his palm while his thumb brushes the smallest wave along her skin.
“We’ll be alright. I promise,” he tells her, confident despite the circumstances.
Promises are dangerous, but that coveted two-letter word, we, allows her to believe him.