The Birthing House

Conrad saw sketches of the house, the unsmiling women on the porch. His scalp began to crawl. He sat up straight and seriously considered bolting from the room, the house. But he couldn't just leave her here.

'Who are you? Where's Nadia?'

'Runsaway.'

'Nadia ran away?'

'Nah-dee run . . . away.'

'I don't understand. Nadia, are you Nadia, or are you telling Nadia to run away?'

'All-ma.'

'All ma? All mothers? Are you someone's mother?'

'All-ma not runsaway. All-ma stay.'

Then he understood. Not all-ma. Alma. A name. Someone named Alma was speaking through Nadia. Where had he heard this before? Something from the past week. Then he knew. The woman in the room. She had been rocking her arms. Ohhmma take care of behbee . . .

Oh. Holy. Fuck. This was not right.

'You are Alma? Alma, what about Nadia?'

'Nah-dee not fit. Nah-dee betray.'

'What? Why - how did Nadia betray Alma?'

'All-mommas give a life . . . if she wan haff a life.'

'Why?'

'To haff a life she must gif a life. Life . . . circle begins and end on-on-on same ssss-sphere. In betwee the juuur-nee from one side t'other, circle provides. For we each owes a life.'

'No.' He did not like the sound of that, or any of it. She sounded like Greer Laski, like an idiot child. 'Nadia must stay. Alma cannot stay.'

'Once long time house full of womans and behbees. But long time now circle . . . circle of this houses belong only t'Alma.'

'This house belongs to me,' he said. 'And I don't want you to stay, Alma. I want Nadia to stay.' But he was too shaken to say this with any real force or conviction.

'Alma not runsaway.' Her lips were trembling, sneering. 'Alma stay.'

'Why?'

'Alma tur . . .'

'What?'

'Alma turn.'

'Alma turn for what?'

Alma - Nadia - looked up at him, her lips pulled back in a sickening and false grin. 'Docca no! Alma behbee no take away,' she said. 'Docca never never never taken Alma behbee away!'

Her eyes were black, murderous. Her hand lifted slowly from her side and hovered in the air between them. He leaned back. She reached out until her fingertips began to tickle his throat.

Conrad slapped her face. It had been building inside and then his hand just moved. Immediately Nadia and the thing inside her recoiled, started blinking and coughing, and then she was crying. Softly, then louder, then softly.

'Nadia? Nadia, wake up. Wake up, wake up--'

'Chessie behbee mine,' the girl croaked in Alma's voice. Then her voice changed through her next words, reverting to Nadia's softer tone. 'No one, no, I won't let them take my baby away.'

'I know, it's okay, Nadia, we're okay,' he said. Nadia was back, shivering all over, cold when he put his hands on her arms. Maybe it was a nightmare. Maybe she had been talking in her sleep. But he didn't believe that. He had an idea who Alma was. He'd seen her before. Touched her . . .

He held her until her breathing slowed and she slumped over, going limp in his arms. He rested her back on the pillows. He was too stunned to think through their situation, and eventually he gave up the fight and fell asleep.

It was not restful or lasting.

'Conrad. Conrad, wake up!' She was hissing like an old woman.

'Uhn . . . hm.'

'Someone's here.'

'Uh-uh.' He had been so far down, where there are no dreams at all. He just wanted to sleep forever. 'Is jus' Steve . . . took care him.'

She shook him hard. 'Conrad! Someone was here.'

He came around again. 'At the door?'

'No.' Nadia clutched the skin over his ribs, pinching into him. 'She was here. Not sixty seconds ago. In the room. Standing at the foot of the bed.'

'Nadia, don't.' Now he was awake. He sat up and faced her in the dark and saw the whites of her eyes. She made a tiny whining sound, like Alice when she was waiting to be let out into the backyard. 'You were dreaming. I didn't hear anything.'

'No. Conrad, no.' He could feel the dry heat of her breath on his ear. 'Same as the one in the window. She was tall, with dark black hair. She was wearing black clothes and her skin was white. When she moved - oh, God. She just stood there staring at me. I could - oh, Jesus, I heard her neck cracking in the dark.'

Conrad swallowed. 'How long?'

'She was there when I opened my eyes. I've been frozen waiting for her to leave for almost an hour.'

'Did you see her leave?'

'Yes.'

'Did you hear her leave?'

'No.'

'If you didn't hear her . . . her footsteps . . . she's not real, is she?'

Nadia pointed to the foot of the bed. 'There.'

He could not see past the frame where their feet had piled up the blankets, kicking them off in the heat. He sat forward on his knees, one hand lingering on the girl as he focused on the shape. A low, guttural sound rose from the end of the bed, followed by two, then three faint clicks on the wood floor.

'No--' Conrad lunged forward. 'Leave us alone!'

Nadia turned the switch on the lamp and screamed.

The dark shape lunged up, then scrabbled back, growling. Conrad fell on to his stomach. Alice barked at the two of them, as startled as they were. Nadia scrambled out of bed and fell to the floor. Alice panicked and fled the room.

'Stop it!' Conrad said. 'It's just Alice.' The adrenaline washed away, leaving a tired anger behind. 'Fuck.'

'I can't take this.' Her knees were tucked into her chest, one leg sideways. Sitting in the corner, she appeared at that moment like an ugly, misbehaving child and he barely suppressed the urge to smack her again for scaring him.

'God damn it, Nadia.'

'I saw her.'

'You had a bad dream.' He forced himself to lower his voice, lest he raise Steve Bartholomew again. 'You thought you saw something, and you did. My dog, Alice, who is now scared shit-less on top of being cut to hell. So please. Before the police decide to lock us both up.'

But Nadia was still shaking her head. 'No. There was a woman.'

Conrad stared at her, telling himself that there must be another explanation, even though he knew it was a lie.

'I'm sorry. Get back in bed. I need to check your bandages.'

'You don't believe me?'

'It doesn't matter--'

'Then what the fuck is that?' Her arm shot out, pointing.

'What? I don't--'

He walked to the doorway.

It was lying on the floor, center to the doorframe as if it had been delivered. Of course he recognized it; it had come from his kitchen. He picked up the knife. It was the long serrated one, the thin blade that came to an almost needle-like point made for cutting fish. Tied to the handle was a thin yellow ribbon laced through a scrap of yellow paper.

On the yellow paper, in a fine and femininely looped script, four words in black ink . . .

other mother must go

31

'It's your wife,' Nadia said. 'She came home. I need to leave.'

He was still holding the knife, reading the four words over and over. Jo's handwriting? He didn't think so, but it still made him feel sick just holding it. He set the knife on the dresser, wishing for it to disappear. Nadia had gotten to her feet and was bent over in pain. He knew that if she had the strength she would have bolted.

'Don't do that.' He rushed to her side and tried to maneuver her back into bed. 'Not in the middle of the night. Let's think about this.'

'I need to go home.' But she sat down, winced, and leaned back into the bank of pillows he was arranging for her.

'It's not Jo,' he said. 'Why would Jo do this?'

'What do you mean, why? Because she's trying to send us a message? Because she's crazy? How should I know, she's your wife!'