Sisters in the Wind(57)

“I’m here. You’ve got this.”

“Lucy’s praying,” she said, before a long, deep groan filled the room.

“Help is on the way,” I said. “Missus and Jennifer are coming.”

I repeated the prayer. Diego joined in after the second iteration, exclaiming, “Amen!”

A stampede of footsteps raced upstairs, growing louder until halting in the doorway. Jennifer squatted behind Emily. Missus wedged between Diego and me, planting herself in front of the scared teen while cooing as if to the baby.

Jennifer stared at her wristwatch as she spoke. “We’ve practiced this, Emily. Remember? Deep, cleansing breaths.”

As she demonstrated, Diego matched the pattern. They inhaled so deeply it felt like a vacuum of oxygen in the room. Then, they all panted, “He, he, he, he, hoo,” before expelling everything held in their lungs.

Emily mimicked her two breathing coaches while squeezing their hands.

“Contractions are two minutes apart,” Jennifer told Missus.

Their shared look of alarm shook me.

“We need to get Emily downstairs,” Missus announced.

I dragged Diego out of the way. We pressed together in a corner of the bedroom. Mister and both sons surrounded Emily. Their movements were similar to how we had hoisted her from the hammock earlier that day.

Although Bruce was younger and shorter than his dad and his brother, he was clearly the strongest. He picked Emily up. Mister led the way out of the room. Allen, Jennifer, and Missus followed Bruce.

Diego ran after them. And since he gripped my arm, I went too.

By the time we reached the kitchen, someone had placed a twin-sized mattress on top of the dining table. Emily was propped up in a reclining position with Missus seated behind her. Their backs were to us.

Allen and Bruce blocked Diego’s path to the head of the table, where Jennifer remained between Emily’s bent knees. Mister had called 911 and was narrating the situation to the person on the other end of the line.

“Ambulance is on the way,” he announced.

“Why aren’t they taking her to the hospital?” Tonya asked behind me.

Lexi answered. “She might deliver before arriving at the hospital. It would be better to be here than in a car. Safer for an ambulance to transport her.”

My earlier calmness in the initial chaos had been a temporary fluke. Diego and I held on to each other. Both of us shaking. Neither able to speak.

Missus spoke to Emily soothingly, almost like cooing to a baby. Everything was going to be okay. Yes indeed. Jennifer’s voice, the most delicate thing about her, seemed to have gained volume and gravitas. She spoke with authority.

They’ve done this before, I realized. Emily was in good hands.

Fifteen minutes later, her baby boy was born just as the EMTs arrived. With all the sirens and flashing lights, it was as if Emily’s son was the grand marshal of a parade.

Missus rode in the ambulance with Emily and the baby. Jennifer drove her own car and Allen followed in his truck. Mister stayed with us. He retrieved a jug of hard cider for anyone who wanted to toast to the mother and child.

“To Emily and her baby. To their health and lifelong happiness.” Mister’s voice cracked. He emptied his glass of cider.

The rest of us gulped our drinks and stared at each other.

It was a strange mixture of extreme emotions. Giddy relief bubbled throughout our bodies. Terror barely contained at the periphery. Surreal disbelief that we’d experienced what we had just experienced.

I was the one who voiced what needed to be said.

“What the fuck.”

Everyone laughed. No one had ever heard me swear.

Such an odd night of firsts and lasts.

My first kiss. A baby’s first cries. My first drink of alcohol that wasn’t church wine. My first time saying the f-word.

And the last time we ever saw Emily or her baby.





THE LIAR


APRIL 2009

My ride drives away.

“I told your friends you didn’t need a lift anymore.” The liar is full of herself.

“How did you know.” My voice is a flat tire on a deserted road.

I looked down at my arms. My sweatshirt sleeves are pushed up. My right forearm is a list of names tattooed in black ink. One for each of my sisters. Stacy, Tonya, Lexi, Joy, Emily. My other arm has just one name. Devery. It almost forms a bracelet around my left wrist with my first tattoo. It’s mostly covered by my dad’s watch.

“C’mon. I’ll tell you back in the hotel.” She nudges my elbow. “I have a room too. Not a fancy suite. I didn’t get a rich fairy godmother like you did.”

We glance at each other. A ballcap and sunglasses shield her identity from the security cameras. Her planning skills have improved. The satisfied grin hasn’t changed.

My high school track coach warned me to never look back in a race.

For the few seconds you’re distracted, you leave a blind spot for your competition to pass you on the other side. Keep your eyes on the prize, Smith.

It’s why I notice the tribal cop leaving the lobby restroom three seconds before the liar does. It’s enough time to fall to my knees, raise both hands, and shout.

“I bombed the diner! My name is Lucy Dolce Smith. I bombed the Pleasant Diner on January ninth.”

As my foster sister stalks away, she says, “You bitch.”