Future Home of the Living God(53)



Noon. Sera brings our lunch trays. Two of them. One tray contains our food. The other tray is covered. She says, “Hide all of this and look at it later.” She gives me a piece of paper, which I slip into my bra. Then she swiftly kisses me, holding my face a moment in her cool, winter-mom hands. As she leaves, I feel her fade from me. Under the green towel on one of the trays, there is a hammer, a sort of folding cane, and a tiny old-fashioned tape recorder with an actual tape in it. So Sera and Glen, to go vintage. There are also four Power Bars. What these things have to do with our escape, I can’t tell. But Spider Nun quickly unscrews the heat vent, I put them in, and we divide the food onto two trays. We eat every bite—a mushy spaghetti with indeterminate meat in the sauce. Powdered milk. Congealed cornstarch pudding, butterscotch or maybe just scorched. After our check, I go into the bathroom and read the note from Sera. You can eat this, says the last line, it’s sweet rice paper and the ink is nontoxic! I want to laugh, but I do eat the escape instructions, and they’re pretty tasty.

Spider Nun and I sleep away the afternoon. I wake once and look over at her face, so pure in repose. Her forehead is like a river stone, moon warm, shining with light. I am so anxious that I cannot sleep and so I watch the sky deepen. The sun goes down, fiercely, casting radiance from the west into the eastern sky, where it edges the clouds with a blaze of gold lace.

Dear baby, I want you to see this world, supernal, lovely. I want this world to fill your eyes.

We take turns, one sitting by the door and listening to the noise in the hallway, the other weaving the rope. The one by the door stands up when someone’s coming, and the weaver hides the rope. If it looks as though someone might come in the door, the lookout jumps into bed and the weaver pretends to sleep, too. This happens about a dozen times tonight and helps to keep us awake. The night is long, though, and writing this also helps me to stay alert. Also, if I’m falling asleep I panic trying to think of what we will do once we are really out of here.

I have a pretty good idea what would happen to us if we stayed. They would take you. They would study you. And as for me, I would first have to survive your delivery, and plenty of women do not. They die during anesthesia, I think, especially if, like Agnes Starr, they make trouble. But even if I did survive your delivery, I might not be set free. There are rumors. Early on, we heard about Womb Volunteers, but maybe there were not enough of them and so there is talk of a female draft now. I’ve overheard snippets of conversation. Women are being forced to try and carry to term a frozen embryo from the old in-vitro clinics. That or be inseminated with sperm from the old sperm banks. I don’t know whether to believe these things, but here I am.

Thinking.

Evolution starts: a miracle. Evolution stops: a miracle. Life follows the pattern of the vastness all around us. The universe is expanding and contracting in timeless time. The earth 4.5 billion years old, the sun due to supernova and swallow us. And then contract again. Well, that’s what I think, and I am obviously only a lay observer of the great mystery, the simple why, which no scientist can answer any better than me.

We get our rope to what seems long enough, almost. We fork the end so there are two long, tough ribbons of rope to fasten to the leg of the bed. Then we practice the knot, over and over, with variations, until we can do it with our eyes closed and are sure it won’t slip.



October 19

Our last day in the hospital. In the morning, we sleep as long as we can, preparing for the night. Later, Spider Nun rips four or five long, thick strips from a stolen hospital gown. She is going to use the gown to make a bundle, the contents of her suitcase. I will use my backpack for my own few things—the books, your blankets and newborn clothes. My jeans and Phil’s shirt I’ll wear underneath the robe. I’ll wear the jacket I brought, but carry the shoes in the pack. My sticky green elf booties will be perfect for walking down the wall. We manage to choke down our lunch. Everything goes well, no hitches. We even take a nap. Yes, everything goes perfectly until the nurses are about to change shifts. Then Orielee comes in.

Even though I tell her that the Slider did all of this today, she writes down everything, our vitals, the works. She extracts blood, does cheek swabs, cuts our hair again and tucks the strands into little envelopes. She tidies everything up on the tray and she is about to leave when she glances down at the heating vent, focuses, and frowns at it thoughtfully.

“Orielee, can I ask you something?” I want to distract her, but she refuses to hear me.

“Hey!”

She stares still more intently at the heating vent, then gets up, walks over, and creakingly kneels down to peer inside. Spider Nun and I get out of bed. Orielee pants to her feet and turns to us. Just the fact that we are standing there, stupidly panicked, confirms everything. Her face is neutral, she isn’t letting on what she will do, but as Orielee walks away from us to the door she gives that mirthless little gurgle, her laugh. As soon as she does, Spider Nun springs behind her and lightly swings that strap of cloth torn from her hospital gown over Orielee’s head. She jerks it tight, from behind, so quickly that Orielee’s feet go out from under her and she is down, sitting on the floor, her center of gravity tipping her back as Spider Nun twists the material. Tighter. Tighter. Orielee’s face flushes to a deep red. She throws up her hands, flailing them around to grab Spider Nun, who is on her knees behind Orielee, still twisting.

“Fucksake! Little help?” says my roommate through gritted teeth. She flashes her eyes at me. Her thin arms are straining to contain the big woman’s energetic bucking.

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