The Woodlands (#1 THE WOODLANDS SERIES) (COMPLETE)

18. PRE-MATURE

Clara was getting more sleepy and sluggish every day. She waddled around during our exercise as best she could, but she struggled to keep up. I had noticed that other women, who looked like Clara, were disappearing from the lines. One day they were there, straining under the weight of their giant, bulging stomachs. The next day they were gone. They didn’t return. There were always new girls to take their place, though. We all wound our way through the roped-off courses like a deformed caterpillar. The line of girls compressing and expanding when one bumped into another.

Despite her exhaustion, Clara continued to radiate that aura of faith. I don’t know what she was hoping for, what gave her any hope at all. I knew for certain, she wasn’t going to get it. She was too sweet and trusting. I didn’t want to break the bubble that she had surrounded herself with. The one that let her believe she had any claim on the child she was carrying. Well, that’s not exactly true, sometimes I did. Sometimes, I wanted to take a giant, gleaming pin and pierce it, watch it explode, covering her in the dripping truth. I wanted to make her see the world the way it really was, cruel, unfair, and devoid of hope. But, knowing her, it would only strengthen her resolve.

*****

One day they took me to exercise and left Clara alone in her room. I couldn’t help but turn my head in worry as I left her. If they had taken her out of exercise, soon they would be taking her from me. Selfishly, I was concerned about being on my own.

When I returned, I relaxed in relief to see her still sitting in her bed, eyes on the wall. She winked at me, as my attendant roughly ‘helped’ me onto my bed. This one was old and huge, her uniform barely stopping bits and pieces of her from billowing out. The staff kept changing now. When the large woman left, Clara started rubbing her belly again, a habit that disgusted me.

“You know they won’t let you keep that thing, right?” I spat. She seemed so naive sometimes. Or caught up in her own world and I felt the cruel need to dent it, since I couldn’t join her there. She couldn’t be as strong as she seemed.

“I know,” she said and, for a moment, a small crack opened in her positive armor. But then that light appeared from within, and she beamed at me. “I’ve thought of a name.”

I pursed my lips. A name? That was insane! I couldn’t comprehend her love for this child. I couldn’t stand it. Why name it? I knew the name I would give mine. Leech. This thing that had intruded into my body was as unwelcome as it was detested.

She ignored my incredulous look. “Hessa after my father, if it’s a boy. Rosa if it’s a girl.”

“Don’t name that thing after me,” I snapped. I turned and looked at the wall. I felt wretched and angry. Most of the time I felt like Clara was crazy, that she floated around on a cloud that I couldn’t puncture or dissipate despite my attempts. Other times, she made me feel deficient, like there was something wrong with me for not feeling affection for this thing I was carrying.

She snapped back at me, her face seeming older, worn. She slammed her fist down on her thigh. “I know you don’t understand it, Rosa, but I love this baby. I am her mother. That is a strong bond. My love is MY choice, don’t ruin it.” Her voice ran out at the end of her sentence and she started to pant, struggling to catch her breath. Each word seemed harder and harder to expel, like she was pushing them out and they were backing up in her throat.

I was taken aback, my body stiffening from the short attack. Over the last few weeks, I had snapped at her many times, mocked her even. But she had always been this impenetrable source of hope, a light shining from inside her. She never stooped to my level, no matter how much I pushed her. I felt terrible for upsetting her, but for me, I didn’t feel anything other than the need to escape this nightmare. I was about to open my mouth and say something else rude when she screamed—a scream that tore through me, rumbling and echoing throughout the room and into the hall. Something was not right. Panic penetrated me, and something else, guilt. I prayed it was not my taunting that had brought her here.