Future Home of the Living God(76)

“At what? Trees? Because I’m not going to shoot a tree.”

“Okay,” says Eddy. “Maybe we should go to the shooting range.”

I carefully set the rifle down on the cement floor.

“Look at me, Eddy. I am filled with new life. I’m not shooting anything or killing anyone. I’ve already done that.”

“Done that? What do you mean?”

Eddy puts his arms around my shoulders. I tell him about the escape, about Tia Jackson, about Orielee, about her death. To tell what happened makes it all so vivid that I hear myself crack, then sob as though I’m broken, which I think is true. Only a broken human could do what I did. Eddy holds me to his chest.

“Don’t cry, my girl,” he says. “It was you and your baby or that nurse, no choice. You did what you had to do.”

“I tell myself that, but it still feels like murder.”

Eddy coughs delicately. “In their eyes, it will be seen as a crime. They might come after you, so we’ll have to make you a new identity. Luckily, I know someone in tribal governance.”

I throw myself at him, hug him, and he hugs me back.

“How would you like to be Mary Potts again?”

“It sounds wonderful.”

“We’ll get right on it,” he says.

I hesitate, but ask anyway.

“Were you ever in a situation like I was in? Where you had to kill someone?”

“No. I’m not a soldier. What you did was combat and most people train for that. I’m out of my league too. I’m trying to be a leader and it doesn’t come naturally. I’m trying to act normal. Is it working?”

“Sometimes.”

“Good enough.”

“So Eddy. How are the sacred women doing? And the babies?”

“Good . . . they’re all fine.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“No of course about this, Eddy. Mom says that babies aren’t surviving. Probably mothers too. And from what I saw my friend go through, I believe her.”

“Sweetie will tell you it’s all due to her saint. She says Saint Kateri is watching over women in a special way.”

“You’re lying,” I say.

“I’m keeping hope alive,” says Eddy.

“I am looking for a miracle, so I’m going to find Sweetie. I want a ride to the pilgrimage rock tomorrow, please? That’s where I need to pray.”

Eddy says he’ll drive us there, early in the morning, but I’ve got to cover myself up thoroughly.

“Drones never stay long, but you can’t be careful enough. Bring a blanket.”

Eddy says that he’ll even pray, in his own fashion.

“In your own fashion? Prayer is just prayer, Eddy. You make it sound fancy.”

“No, I do have a fashion. When I pray, I really get right down there with Mother Earth,” says Eddy. “I prostrate myself.”



Sure enough, the next morning, when we get to the stone and the statue, surrounded by well-watered sod, right out of the truck Eddy throws himself on the ground. Sweetie and I step over him and kneel on the trampled grass before the statue. I keep my blanket around me.

“He says he’s praying, but he just wants to take a nap,” she whispers.

We cross ourselves and raise our eyes to the saint. Kateri is a nicely made statue, expensive bronze, not some cast-resin piece. Her face is mobile, gentle, but not sweet or anemic like most Virgin Marys. Kateri is grounded and shrewd. She fixes us with a critical, assessing look as if she is deciding whether we are worth her intercession. I bow my head and pray. I throw myself into the prayer. As I pray, I feel something lift out of me, as though atoms of dread have an actual weight, as though fear was fine sand in my blood. I don’t get an answer from Kateri, not in so many words. When Eddy helps me up my knees are numb, my heart is drained. For the first time in weeks, I am not afraid.

Then something flickers around me, a tiny bird, clicking and whirring. And a transparent oval floats past my clasped fingers.

“Keep your head down.”

Eddy is behind me, folding my blanket around me, leading me back to the car.

“Stay hunched over,” he whispers, “like you’re really old.”

I do as he says and keep the blanket around me as I fall stiffly into the car. I already know what’s happened. I’ve been seen.



November 18

You haven’t dropped into birth position yet. But you are heavy as a little brick, a strong little baby. I could have you now and you could probably make it outside in the world even without a NICU. I prepare for you to tell me you are on your way, but I don’t know exactly what to wait for—which twinge, kick, premonition. Sera says that I will know when I feel labor start. Isn’t that always the way women are supposed to know things, by “knowing” things? She’s always close by, always in the house, so that I feel her presence way too much. We were already on each other’s nerves. It gets worse. The cleaning is almost constant. You’d think after Mom saved me and helped Tia have her baby, she’d get a pass. I try, but one day irritation spills over. Mom is only doing her normal superthorough kitchen job. But I just can’t stand the grating sound she makes scraping bits of charred food off the inside of a pot.