Justin Cronin - The Twelve

The first pain arrived, like a late train roaring into the station, on an afternoon in late September of warm Texas sunshine and a high blue sky. Amy was in the courtyard, watching the children play; in another few minutes the bell would sound, summoning them inside to finish their lessons, and Amy would return to the kitchen to help make dinner. An island of rest in the midst of the day’s never-ending rhythm of tasks done and, just as swiftly, undone; always, when lunch was concluded and the dishes put away and the children set loose to burn off the morning’s accumulated antsiness, Amy followed them outside and took up a position at the edge of the playground that was near enough for her to enjoy the bright energy of their activity while not so close as to allow the children to draw her in. These were her favorite thirty minutes of the day, and Amy had just closed her eyes and tilted her face to receive the warm rays of the early autumn sun when the pain hit: a powerful clenching in her midriff that caused her to bend sharply at the waist, stagger forward, and exhale a soft cry of shock that even in the busy hubbub of the courtyard could not fail to go unnoticed.

“Amy? Are you all right?”

The image of Sister Catherine—pale, long-faced, irises as blue as cornflowers—came into Amy’s focus. The sweat was pouring off her; her hands and feet had turned to cold jelly. Everything below her waist seemed to have lost some essential density; in another moment Amy would, literally, melt to the ground. Part of her wanted to vomit while another part refused, creating an internal stalemate that rendered her unable to speak.

“Maybe you better sit down. You’re white as a ghost.”

Sister Catherine steered her to a bench against the wall of the orphanage—a distance of twenty feet that could have been a mile. By the time they reached it, Amy couldn’t have taken another step without collapsing. With a bustle of concern, Sister Catherine left her, then returned with a cup of water, which she pressed into Amy’s hand. Activity on the playground seemed to have proceeded without interruption, but Amy could sense that some of the children were watching her. The pain had dissipated into a more general nausea but not the feeling of weakness. She felt both hot and cold. More sisters had crowded around, all speaking in hushed, earnest voices, questioning Sister Catherine. Amy didn’t want the water but everyone was insistent. She took a small sip.

“I’m sorry,” she managed to say. “One minute I was perfectly fine…”

“Over here, Sister,” Catherine said, waving toward the doors to the orphanage. “Come quickly.”

The small crowd parted as Sister Peg strode forward. The old woman studied Amy with a pinched expression that managed to seem both worried and irritated at the same time.

“Well? Will somebody tell me what happened here or will I have to guess?”

“I don’t know,” said Sister Catherine. “She just… collapsed.”

The playground had been brought to a standstill. All the children were staring at her now. Amy looked for Caleb, but her view was blocked by Sister Peg. She couldn’t recall a time when she’d ever felt ill; she understood the principle but had never experienced the reality. Almost worse than the pain was the embarrassment. It made her want to say something, say anything, to get everyone to stop looking at her.

“Amy? Is that what happened?”

“I just felt dizzy. My stomach hurt. I don’t know what it was.”

The old woman pressed her palm to Amy’s forehead. “Well, I don’t think you have a fever.”

“It was probably something I ate. I’m sure if I sit here another minute I’ll be okay.”

“She doesn’t look good,” Sister Catherine chimed in, and the others nodded. “Honestly, Amy, I thought you were going to pass out.”

A general murmuring ensued. No, she didn’t look good, not good at all. Could it be the flu? Something worse? If it was something the girl had eaten, would they all become sick, too?

Sister Peg allowed the group its moment of conjecture, then brought them to silence with a raised hand. “I don’t see a reason to take chances. Off to bed with you, Amy.”

“But I’m really feeling much better. I’m sure I’ll be all right.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, thank you. Sister Catherine, will you assist her to the dormitory?”

Catherine helped her to her feet. She felt a little unsteady, and her stomach wasn’t quite what it should be. But the worst of it had passed. Catherine led her into the building and up the stairs to the room where all the sisters slept, except for Sister Peg, who, being in charge, had quarters of her own. Amy undressed and got into bed.

“Can I do anything else?” Sister Catherine was drawing the shades.

“I’m fine.” Amy did her best to smile. “I think I just need to rest a bit.”

Standing at the foot of the cot, Catherine regarded her for a moment. “You know what this could be, don’t you? A girl your age.”

Your age . If Sister Catherine only knew, thought Amy. Yet Amy also understood what the woman was suggesting. The idea took her by surprise.

Sister Catherine smiled with sympathy. “Well, if it is, you’ll know soon enough. Believe me, we’ve all been through it.”

Making Amy promise to call her if she needed anything, Catherine made her departure. Amy leaned back on her cot and closed her eyes. The afternoon bell had rung; downstairs, the children would be filing in for their lessons, smelling of sun and sweat and fresh afternoon air, some of them, perhaps, wondering what all the fuss on the playground had been about. Surely Caleb would be worried about her; Amy should have told Sister Catherine to say something to the boy. She’s just tired. She was feeling out of sorts. She’ll be right as rain in a jiff, you’ll see .

And yet: A girl your age . Was it possible? All the sisters complained about the “ordeal,” as they called it; it was a common joke of the orphanage that living in such tight quarters, everybody menstruated at the same time, making one week of every four a nightmare of bloody rags and quick tempers. For a hundred years Amy had lived in complete innocence of these basic facts; even now she could not have said she understood the phenomenon completely, but she grasped the gist. You bled, not a lot but some, and this would be uncomfortable, extending over a period of days. For a while Amy had regarded the prospect with horror, but over time this feeling had yielded to a fierce, almost biological yearning, and the fear that none of this would ever happen to her, that this door of human belonging would always stay closed and she would live in a child’s body forever.

She checked: no, she wasn’t bleeding. If Sister Catherine was correct, how long before it started? She wished she’d taken the opportunity to ask Catherine more. How much blood would there be, how much pain, how would she feel different? Though in her case, Amy reasoned, nothing would quite be the same. Maybe it would be worse; maybe it would be better; maybe it would never happen at all.

She would have liked to be a woman. To see it reflected in another’s eyes. For her body to know what her heart already did.

A scratchy mewing interrupted her train of thought. Of course Mouser would come to check on her. The old gray cat ambled to her bedside. A pitiful sight he was—eyes fogged with cataracts, fur matted and tacky, his tail dragging with age. “Did you come to look in on me? Did you, boy? Well, come here.” Amy lifted him from the floor, leaned back on her cot, and balanced him on her chest. She ran her hands through his coat; he replied in kind, butting his head against her neck. The sun is out, why are you in bed? He circled three times before settling down on her chest, loudly purring. It’s fine. You sleep. I’ll be right here .