Sophie Littlefield - Rebirth

The woman finally looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time. In her expression Sammi saw a combination of pity and contempt. “Not right now,” she muttered, “but a month or two from now, you’ll be in there with her tossing your cookies like all the rest of them.”

It was only when Mrs. Henderson opened the door to Sammi’s new room that she noticed what she’d missed before: that spiral tattoo on the woman’s wrist, the same one the guards had who’d attacked the library, the ones who’d burned the place down and killed everyone.

What the hell kind of place was this? Sammi had started to shake right after Mrs. Henderson said the thing about getting pregnant, but she’d tried to hide it. Every time she thought things couldn’t get any worse, it somehow got worse. She wanted answers, but she wouldn’t get them from this woman. Maybe, in the morning, she could ask her roommate.

Mrs. Henderson gave her a tiny flashlight, the kind you’d get on a key chain at the dollar store. Sammi swept it across the objects in the room: two twin beds, a single dresser, drapes drawn tight. A pair of flip-flops tucked neatly under the other bed, where a sleeping figure lay facing the wall. Mrs. Henderson pointed to the towels folded neatly on a chair, to the plastic bucket that she called a “potty,” and told her not to sleep through the breakfast bell because there wouldn’t be a second one.

Then she told Sammi not to wake her new roommate, whose name was Roan.

R-O-A-N- she spelled it before she left.

Sammi went to her new bed, suddenly more exhausted than she ever remembered being, and ran a hand over the blanket. Cotton, rough-knit-like the cheap ones they had back at the Grosbeck Academy in the nurse’s office, where Sammi had gone only once, when she got her first period in the middle of Spanish and she had to wait for her mom to come with a change of clothes and a sanitary pad. Her mom had surprised her by taking her out of class for the rest of the day, and they’d gone to the best restaurant in town and her mother had ordered Sammi one Shirley Temple after another and a glass of pinot blanc for herself, twisting it by the stem rather wistfully.

Go with them, Sammi.

Sammi shut down the thought as fast as she could but it hadn’t been fast enough. A little had gotten in, the memory that could only lead to others and, inevitably, make her face the loss that was bigger than her whole life. Her mother in the nice restaurant that day, after the lunch crowd had come and gone, bars of sunlight making their slow way across the white tablecloth. Her mother smelled of Kenzo Flower, her favorite perfume, and she’d worn a soft green jacket and one of the silver necklaces that her friend Dulcette was always making after her husband ran off. She had carefully lined her eyes with a deep shade of purple-on another woman it might have been garish but on her beautiful auburn-haired mother it was just right, exotic without being too out-there. Men noticed her mother. Even her father-Sammi had memories from when she was really little, back when they were still getting along, her father catching her mother reaching into the tall cabinets for a platter or a cookbook, up on her toes, and he would run his big hands over her waist, her hips and pull her to him like he couldn’t believe his luck.

But that had been a lot of years ago. They hadn’t been in love for a long time. Her dad was in the office most nights, and he left before she got up in the morning. Honestly, when he moved away, it wasn’t like she saw him much less. Those weekends at his place-the giant charred burgers he made for her, “Sammi style” he called them, dripping with provolone and crisscrossed with bacon, even though she hadn’t eaten anything like that since she got to high school and had to force herself to eat even half…the awful pink satin comforter he’d bought for her even though pink hadn’t been her favorite color since she kindergarten-those had been awkward, for sure.

But what she wouldn’t give for one more.

CASS RUBBED AT HER EYES. IN THE DARK NO ONE could see the way her face got blotchy when she cried. No one would be able to tell that her fine pale hair was matted to her forehead with sweat, or that she scratched long furrows in the tender skin of her wrists, a nervous habit that summoned just enough pain to keep her mind from spinning out of control.

Ruthie had wedged herself in the crook of Cass’s arm. The bed was narrow, but usually she could sleep easily with Ruthie next to her. Tonight was different. Tonight, Ruthie was restless and couldn’t seem to get close enough. As Cass lay awake trying not to cry, Ruthie burrowed and flailed and sighed and whispered half words, caught between sleep and waking.

Just as Cass had decided that she might as well get up, maybe sit in the straight-backed desk chair pulled up to the window and stare out at the moon for a while, she felt Ruthie’s eyelashes flutter against her neck.

“Shh, shh,” she whispered automatically, wrapping Ruthie in her arms and rubbing her back. She’d always been able to soothe Ruthie back to sleep, but now her daughter fought her, wiggling and pushing her away. “Mama.”

Cass froze, then leaned up on her elbow so she could look at her daughter’s face in the moonlight. Ruthie’s voice, even though she’d heard it now half a dozen times, even though she rejoiced at its return, still seemed fraught with dark enchantment. Ruthie’s eyes were open but unfocused, and she reached for Cass’s arm and held on, her little fingers digging in tight. Cass stroked her cheek, and found it hot and damp.

“What is it, Babygirl?”

“Help Smoke.” Ruthie’s eyelids fluttered shut and she rolled over and pushed her fist against her mouth, but when Cass grabbed her hands she came willingly, burrowing back into Cass’s arms.

Cass barely dared speak, her heart thudding and her mouth suddenly dry. “What did you say, Ruthie?”

“Help him, Mama.”

Then she seemed to relax, her body going limp. After a moment she yawned, a long, luxurious yawn, and in seconds she was asleep again, tucked up against Cass. It was almost as though the words had fought their way out and, now that Ruthie had finally spoken them, she was able to rest.

Cass lay very still for a long time, her mind racing. Once before, Ruthie had insisted she help, but she hadn’t been able to, that time. Devin was dying, Devin might well be dead already, and there was nothing Cass could do about it, nothing she had done about it, besides give his mother false hope, besides leaving them behind and being relieved by that.

Now Ruthie was insisting again. Ruthie knew something was wrong. Ruthie knew Smoke needed help. Call it a sixth sense, or intuition, a gift or a curse-it didn’t matter. Ruthie knew things and she saw things, and there was no way for her to un-know or un-see them.

Moments ticked by, Cass barely remembering to breathe, as Ruthie’s command took on the shape of a plan, risky and costly and inevitable.

Finally, Cass slipped out of the bed. The nightgown they’d given her was too small. The fabric was stretchy and thin, and molded itself to her ass and thighs as she tucked the covers back around Ruthie, shivering in the cold night air. It would be far more practical to change back into the clothes she had been wearing earlier-but as she thought through her next moves she decided to wear the nightgown.

She knelt on the cold synthetic tile floor and trailed her fingertips through Ruthie’s soft hair and hummed very softly, decorating the edges of her daughter’s dreams with her voice, a faint soundtrack that would linger and soothe her fears if she woke up before Cass returned.

Dor slept a few feet away, his arm up over his head, his hands fisted. He did not snore. He barely appeared to breathe, but Cass saw his chest rise and fall very slowly in the light from a glowing digital clock on the nightstand.