For Blood & Glory

by Cassandra Hendricks

  Thunder ripped through the air and lightning crackled, sending fluorescent streamers across the sky and illuminating something in her peripheral. A boat? The opportunity may never come again. Arms extended, she shot forward with all the strength she could muster. Kicking. Kicking. Until something happened. What happened? Wait. It was pain. Yes, she had felt a sharpness in her abdomen, the memory of which struck with a fierceness. Recalling the tumultuous assault that had taken place in her womb made her eyes squinch and fists ball as she succumbed to a state of panic all over again. Her babies were coming—that’s what it was, and unless she figured something out quickly, she would be giving birth right there in the middle of the ocean. Then it dawned on her. There was no ocean. No assault. Only silence now, and that incessant beeping.

  Eyes widened, she shot up. That was a mistake. A razor-sharp pain sliced through her abdomen, sending her into near delirium. Howling, she threw her head back and rocked, praying for the pain to subside. What’s happened? A few minutes passed before the pain became tolerable. When it did, she wasted no time feeling for her stomach—gingerly this time, only to find her movements impeded by what felt like wires and long tubing snaking into her veins. What? Gasping, moist hands slid frantically over her middle. Fabric, endless fabric. Frustrated, she grabbed fists full, tore them off and felt a gown. She slid her hand through an opening and reached in, fully anticipating the tight, smooth, fullness of her belly, but it was gone. In its stead—a long, rough incision that spanned across the width of what was now a gelatinous pouch that stung like a thousand bee stings when touched.

  A searing heat flashed across her skin and her mouth went desert-dry as she fell back on elbows that threatened to give way. This can’t be. She was losing her battle with consciousness when a door swung open, and a female silhouette walked through.

  “Oh, you scared me,” Owl-eyed, the woman placed a hand over her chest. “I’m sorry. My name’s Natalie; I’m your nurse. Um—don’t move— I’ll be right back with your doctor.”

  Lyrica stared wide-eyed as the door shut again. Soon, an entourage entered and light flooded the four walls.

  “Hello. I’m Dr. Mark Witherspoon.” A tall male with a broad brow, chiseled face and dark hair stepped forward, making the introduction. “Other members of the hospital staff are here as well, along with Officer Cleary.” He gestured in the direction of a mousy, unassuming human. She nodded.

  Amazing. They look and sound just like us. Old English—I speak Old English. Lyrica tried to respond, but her words were inaudible, barely rising above a whisper. Confused, she clutched her throat.

  “Your throat may feel a little irritated. We had to insert a tube down your airway. Swallow a few times. Can you state your name?”

  She swallowed. “My babies—where are they?” Her voice wasn’t hers. This one was broken and did not deliver the urgency that she’d intended.

  “We will get to that, I promise. We just need some preliminary information. What is your name?” He repeated.

  My name. They want me to identify myself. THINK. What was the name they gave me? Her mind careened. Oh—Lyrica swallowed. “Samantha York. Where am I?”

  The doctor answered, “A group of students found you floating near the Boston Harbor and called the paramedics. You’re in St. Magdalene’s Hospital, in Boston.”

  “So I am on the blue planet, and all of you speak English?”

  The group exchanged glances, and Lyrica suddenly remembered how important it was for her to blend in. “You’re in America, if that’s what you’re asking. And yes, English is the official language here. Do you need an interpreter?”

  “No,” Lyrica answered.

  Pens emerged as several members of the entourage began furiously taking notes. Someone handed the doctor an illuminated device. “How are you feeling, Ms. York?”

  “My babies. Where are they?”

  “Just a moment.” He retrieved a small light from his coat pocket and waltzed over to her. As he drew closer, Lyrica could see hard lines form around his thin mouth as he pressed his lips. Icy blue eyes stared intensely into hers.

  Why aren’t they handing me my babies?

  A faint perfumed smell wafted under her nose as he leaned over and flashed her eyes.

  “What are you doing?” Lyrica shrank.

  “Try to stay still,” he whispered, slight impatience evident in his tone. She remained still as he repeated his test and scribbled something on the device. “Can you please spell your full name?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Your name. Spell it for me.”

  Lyrica’s eyes darted from one human to the next. A small army of blue smocks and dangling name tags surrounded her. She discerned there were only a few “Generals” in the room. All of them hung on her every word. “What do you mean spell my name? Answer my question.”

  “Hold on, Ms. York,” a General interjected—a slender human with thin, brown hair and a long white coat whose name tag read “Dr. Kessel.” “We need you to remain calm. I understand you want answers, but we can’t give them to you if you’re yelling.”

  Her jaw clenched.

  Dr. Witherspoon trained cold, calculating eyes on Lyrica, cleared his throat and carefully articulated his next words. “Listen, when they found you, you were unconscious, sick, severely dehydrated, and in labor. Due to the circumstances, we had no choice but to perform a C-section—it was the best decision for your sake and for the sake of your children. As I’m sure you are aware, triplets are rare. Even under optimal conditions, there are certain risks involved. Unfortunately for you, there were some complications. One child made it. The others did not.”

  What did he say? Her eyes scanned the others in the room, searching for a dissenter. Someone to shut up this male. He made no sense. “I do not think you understand my request. I want my children, and I want them now.” Now that’s the voice she was looking for.

  “She isn’t getting it,” someone whispered.

  “Hi, my name is Jennifer Ochella.” A short, plump female emerged from the bunch. “I am the resident Grief Counselor.” Despite her empathetic look, her voice sounded authoritative. Another General.

  “Grief Counselor? Why would I require counseling for grief?” Trembling with anger, she sprung from her bed, causing the beeping box attached to a long pole to come crashing down. There was no end to the pain she now felt in her abdomen, except this time the pain ran much deeper than physical. As she ripped line after line from her body, the pain seemed to lessen, as did the beeping. Before she detached them all, a couple of members of the blue army rushed her, arresting any further movement, whereupon she screamed as she tried to wriggle free.

  “We need you to calm down, or we will have to put you in restraints,” ordered Doctor Witherspoon.

  Lyrica froze, and in that instant, was overcome by the full implications of what they were trying to tell her. Two of my children are gone.

  Overwhelmed, she grabbed fists full of her hair and pulled, trying desperately to wake up from this nightmare. But there was no nightmare. This was real. A sudden wave of nausea hit her; she leaned over and dry heaved.

  Witherspoon barked again. “Get her a bucket.”

  Within seconds, someone tucked what looked like a grey, oblong trough under her chin. Meanwhile, fingers tugged at her hair, gathering it into a ball behind her neck as the bitter taste of bile drizzled from her lips. With her stomach now completely devoid of its contents, she slowly straightened up. The room spun, and she steadied herself against the bedrail, willing herself to remain conscious. Relying, in part, on the bite of the cold, hard steel within her grip.

  The next few minutes were a blur. As she was ushered back to bed, the doctor droned on about being responsible for any broken equipment. There were other voices as well; foreign tongues to her ears. Gazing above their heads, Lyrica recognized a round device mounted on the wall. A clock. The time read exactly 9 o’clock when the blue army fell in line, picking up the fallen equipment and
the discarded sheets. They scurried around like mice; their lips moved, but her brain could only clearly make out the thumping of the hands of the clock and the roar of that unceasing screaming inside her head. Amidst her daze, her lines were reattached to the machine at her bedside.

  Turning to the doctors, Lyrica quietly inquired, “My babies. Males or females?”

  Dr. Kessel answered, “Two girls. One boy.”

  Fresh tears stung her eyes and warmed her cheeks as they tumbled down her face. “Tote them to me, please.”

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor continued. “The children that passed away are currently undergoing autopsies.”

  “Autopsies?” She searched their faces. “What is that?”

  Dr. Witherspoon opened his mouth. Dr. Kessel interjected. “It’s just a way for us to find out what went wrong.”

  Lyrica studied her and the realization dawned. “You are carving my babies? You have no right! I—I didn’t authorize that,” she stammered.

  “It’s standard procedure in cases such as these,” said Dr. Witherspoon.

  “Maybe we should give her something to calm her down,” whispered Dr. Kessel.

  Just as the heated exchange reached its pinnacle, another voice emerged—calm and soothing. An apparent attempt to rescue the dying conversation. Lyrica recognized the voice as belonging to Natalie, the Human who initially introduced herself as her nurse. Now that the room was illuminated, the short, middle-aged strawberry-blonde was revealed. Petite, yet ample about the chest. Her hair was swept in a ponytail and it framed a round, freckled face with large eyes and small, thin lips.

  “Ms. York, I'm so sorry.” She exchanged glances with the doctors as she approached Lyrica’s bedside. “I know this is a lot to take in. What you need to remember is that our job is to help you get better—we’re here to help.” Her voice was comforting, and unlike the others, she made direct eye contact when she spoke. “You probably don’t realize that you’ve been here for several days now—today being the fourth. We had to make decisions promptly.” She took Lyrica’s hand, cupping it between hers. “Of course, we can bring your child—that is, if you’re ready.” She took her wire spectacles off and rubbed them with the edge of her smock, looking to the doctors for approval. Dr. Kessel looked willing. Dr. Witherspoon begrudgingly nodded.

  “I am ready,” Lyrica whispered.

  Natalie put her spectacles back on. “I’ll go get her.” She offered a reassuring half-smile before scurrying out of the room.

  “Is there anything we can do for you? Someone we could call?” asked Grief Counselor.

  Lyrica held her gaze. “No.”

  “Well, we’re going to give you some time to relax,” she said, glancing momentarily at Dr. Witherspoon.

  “Yes,” he said. “You need to eat as well. Do you have any allergies that we should be aware of?” The group resumed their note-taking.

  “No.”

  One of the generals spoke up—the Officer. “I know you’re dealing with quite a bit right now, so I’m going to head out,” she said. “But when you begin to feel better, I have some questions for you. Just typical paperwork, that's all.” Upon leaving, she abruptly turned around. “I do have one question for you now. That is, if you don’t mind.”

  Lyrica remained silent.

  “Do you recall how you ended up in the bay? When you came in, you didn’t look like you were dressed for a swim.”

  “I do not recall,” she said. Images flooded her mind again. Her sister dying in her arms, letting go of Durant, then water. Cold, salty water.

  “Go ahead and relax, Ms. York. We can continue talking later.” Officer turned to Dr. Witherspoon. “How long do you think she’ll be here?” she whispered.

  “You’ve got time. We’re waiting for some lab results to come back, and she needs time to heal.”

  “Okay, I’ll be back,” Officer replied on her way out.

  Moments later, Natalie returned with a smile. “Here she is, such a gorgeous girl.” She rolled a squeaky, metal-framed bassinet into the room. Carefully, she scooped up a swaddled baby and handed her over to Lyrica. “She’s got some lungs on her too.”

  The generals convened, then the doctor announced their departure. “Alright, let’s go.” The room quickly emptied. Only the nurse remained.

  Lyrica felt as if she were having an out of body experience. The duality of love and pain broiling within her soul paralyzed her. It was unlike anything she'd encountered before. In her arms, she felt the movement of the single most beautiful creature she'd ever laid eyes on, and she belonged to her. Yet, her heart ached as she tried to cope with the loss of beloved and irreplaceable souls. For the first time in her life, she felt numb. Twisted. Inconsolable. She wanted to grieve but couldn’t. To do so would require her to confront her circumstances and to acknowledge their permanence within the universe. She wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

  Instead, she focused on the child within her arms. This is to whom I owe a responsibility now. The baby’s pecan-colored skin was smooth and buttery, and her features delicate as wildflowers. The baby’s dark eyes searched and stopped when they met Lyrica's and an overwhelming sense of connection beset her. She brought her child close and buried her nose in the small space between the child's cheeks and neck. Sniffing, she delighted in the soft, powdery, natural scent of her baby's skin and hair. The child responded by intertwining her tiny fingers into her mother's locks. Lyrica smiled, unraveling her strands. Kissing the child’s forehead, she whispered, “You are all I have now. I promise to make sure nothing ever happens to you.” She turned to the nurse, who appeared moved.

  “I’m sorry, this is just such a beautiful moment. How about I take a picture for you? I’ll send it to your email.”

  “I do not understand.”

  Natalie eyebrows furrowed. “Watch, I’ll show you.” She pulled a device from her back pocket and pointed in Lyrica’s direction.

  Lyrica sat up immediately and whisked her baby away from it.

  “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you,” she said, a hand outstretched. “It’s a phone, see? I was just going to take a picture.” She held the phone in the air. “Nothing more.”

  “And it does what?”

  With raised eyebrows, the nurse answered. “It sort of, memorializes a moment so you can always remember it. Watch. I promise, it will not hurt you or your baby. Just…hold still.” The woman pointed the device in her direction again, and Lyrica heard a snapping sound that made her flinch.

  “See?” said Natalie. “Look.” She turned the device around and brought it to her.

  Lyrica studied it, amazed to see herself and her baby. She looked a mess. Her mane was a thick mass of tangles, her ebon skin dry and white with ash and her dark brown eyes looked sullen—tired.

  “Beautiful. I keep this handy just for capturing special moments like this one.” Natalie smiled, pulling away.

  “Thank you.”

  “Where are you from?” asked Natalie.

  “I am from Los Angeles.”

  Natalie nodded, but she didn’t look convinced. Lyrica decided to switch topics. Gently, she stroked her baby’s curls. They were soft as feathers. “She’s healthy?”

  “Absolutely. Healthy as can be. I’ve always wanted one of those little cuties myself.” Natalie said with a faint smile. “I guess it just wasn’t in the cards.” She adjusted her spectacles and moved toward a small wooden table Lyrica hadn’t even noticed until now. “You know, we’ve got some items for you here—compliments of the hospital.” Lifting a black bag off the table, she held it up for display. “It’s filled with wipes and formula. Diapers too.” She put the black bag down and flashed a red package that Lyrica supposed were the diapers. “And, I have a little bit of a surprise.” Grinning, she picked up a clear package from off the table and wiggled it in the air. “Ta-dah! Layettes. Believe it or not, I managed to scrounge up a few. Aren’t they cute?” She walked over to Lyrica so she could get a glimpse. They were white with floral
detailing.

  “They’re lovely. Thank you.”

  It was clear that Natalie was doing everything in her power to make her feel comfortable, but that last look the nurse shot her put Lyrica on edge. Maybe her questions were too elementary. She made a mental note not to ask anymore. Lyrica repositioned herself as to hold her baby comfortably. “May I ask, where are my things?”

  “You mean your backpacks?” She tilted her head, scratched it and put a hand on her hip.

  “Some imbecile forgot to mark them and left them in one of our lockers, but don’t worry, I was here when you came in. I recognized them. They’re over there.” She nodded in the direction of a long wooden cabinet in the corner of the room. “In the closet. It’s a good thing they’re waterproof, because your stuff would’ve been ruined.”

  “You went through my bags?”

  “Technically, we only went through one. We couldn’t get the other open. Sorry, we weren’t trying to intrude. We were just looking for some sort of ID, that’s all. Everything else was left undisturbed. By the way, where did you get those bags from? They’re pretty cool.”

  “I—my parents gave them to me.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, my boyfriend could definitely use something like that on his next camping trip, that’s for sure.” She took a step back. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No.”

  Natalie reached for a long rectangular device hanging on the side of her bed and placed it on the portable table. “Alright, well if you need me, just push this button on the remote, and this old lady will be here lickety-split.” The device was filled with pictured buttons. “Oh, and it um, controls the TV too.” She picked it up, pointing to a flat device mounted on the wall in front of her. Suddenly, the device lit up and a woman spoke.

  Startled, Lyrica leaned forward. It didn’t appear that the thin man with the heavy jaw or the red-haired woman with the perfect teeth were speaking to her.

  “What a wild week of weather we’ve had, wouldn’t you say Heather?”